“It is a fancy of mine,” he said, smiling, “to say goodbye to you all here. You see that there is nothing in this room which is not really the product of Japan. Here I feel, indeed, as though I had crossed the seas and were back under the shadow of my own mountains. Here I feel, indeed, your host, especially as I am going to distribute my treasures.”
He took a picture from the wall and turned with it to the Duke.
“Duke,” he said, “this engraving is a rude thing, but the hand which guided the steel has been withered for two hundred years, and no other example remains of its cunning. Mr. Haviland,” he added, stepping to his writing table, “this lacquered shrine, with its pagoda roof, has been attributed to Kobo-Daishi, and has stood upon the writing table of seven emperors. Sir Edward, this sword, notwithstanding its strange shape and gilded chasing, was wielded with marvellous effect, if history tells the truth, a hundred and thirty years ago by my great-grandfather when he fought his way to the throne. Sir Charles, you are to go into Parliament. Some day you will become a diplomat. Some day, perhaps, you will understand our language. Just now I am afraid,” he concluded, “this will seem to you but a bundle of purple velvet and vellum, but it is really a manuscript of great curiosity which comes from the oldest monastery in Asia, the Monastery of Koya-San.”
He turned to the Duchess.
“Duchess,” he said, “you see that my tapestries have already gone. They left yesterday for Devenham Castle. I hope that you will find a place there where you may hang them. They are a little older than your French ones, and time, as you may remember, has been kind to them. It may interest you to know that they were executed some thirteen hundred and fifty years ago, and are of a design which, alas, we borrowed from the Chinese.”
The Prince paused for a moment. All were trying to express their thanks, but no one was wholly successful. He waved their words gently aside.
“Lady Grace,” he said, turning to the statuette of Buddha in a corner of the room and taking from its neck a string of strange blue stones, “I will not ask you to wear these, for they have adorned the necks of idols for many centuries, but if you will keep them for my sake, they may remind you sometimes of the color of our skies.”
Once more he went to his writing table. From it he lifted, almost reverently, a small bronze figure,—the figure of a woman, strongly built, almost squat, without grace, whose eyes and head and arms reached upwards.
“Miss Penelope,” he said, “to you I make my one worthless offering. This statuette has no grace, no shapeliness, according to the canons of your wonderful Western art. Yet for five generations of my family it has been the symbol of our lives. We are not idol worshippers in Japan, yet one by one the men of my race have bent their knee before this figure and have left their homes to fight for the thing which she represents. She is not beautiful, she does not stand for the joys and the great gifts of life, but she represents the country which to us stands side by side with our God, our parents, and our Emperor. Nothing in life has been dearer to me than this, Miss Penelope. To no other person would I part with it.”
She took it with a sudden hysterical sob, which seemed to ring out like a strange note upon the unnatural stillness of the room. And then there came a thing which happened before its time. The door was opened. Inspector Jacks came in. With him were Dr. Spencer Whiles and the man who a few days ago had been discharged from St. Thomas’ Hospital. Of the very distinguished company who were gathered there, Inspector Jacks took little notice. His eyes lit upon the form of the Prince, and he drew a sigh of relief. The door was closed behind him, and he saw no way by which he could be cheated of his victory. He took a step forward, and the Prince advanced courteously, as though to meet him. The others, for those few seconds, seemed as though they had lost the power of speech or movement. Then before a word could be uttered by either the Inspector or the Prince, the door was opened from the outside, and a man came running in,—a man dressed in a shabby blue serge suit, dark and thin. He ran past the Inspector and his companions, and he fell on his knees before his master.
“I confess!” he cried. “It was I who climbed on to the railway car! It was I who stabbed the American man in the tunnel and robbed him of his papers! The others are innocent. Marki, who brought the car for me, knew nothing. Those who saw me return to this house knew nothing. No man was my confidant. I alone am guilty! I thought they could not discover the truth, but they have hunted me down. He is there—the doctor who bandaged my knee. I told him that it was a bicycle accident. Listen! It was I who killed the young American Vanderpole. I followed him from the Savoy Hotel. I dressed myself in the likeness of my master, and I entered his taxi as a pleasant jest. Then I strangled him and I robbed him too! He saw me—that man!” Soto cried, pointing to the youth who stood at the Inspector’s left hand. “He was on his bicycle. He skidded and fell through watching me. I told my master that I was in trouble, and he has tried to shield me, but he did not know the truth. If he had, he would have given me over as I give myself now. What I did I did because I love Japan and because I hate America!”
His speech ended in a fit of breathlessness. He lay there, gasping. The doctor bent forward, looking at him first in perplexity and afterwards in amazement. Then very slowly, and with the remnants of doubt still in his tone, he answered Inspector Jacks’ unspoken question.
“He is the image of the man who came to me that night,” he declared. “He is wearing the same clothes, too.”
“What do you say?” the Inspector whispered hoarsely to the youth on his other side. “Don’t hurry. Look at him carefully.”
The young man hesitated.
“He is the same height and figure as the man I saw enter the taxi,” he said. “I believe that it is he.”
Inspector Jacks stepped forward, but the Prince held out his hand.
“Wait!” he ordered, and his voice was sterner than any there had ever heard him use. There was a fire in his eyes from which the man at his feet appeared to shrink.
“Soto,” the Prince said, and he spoke in his own language, so that no person in that room understood him save the one whom he addressed,—“why have you done this?”
The man lay there, resting now upon his side, and supporting himself by the palm of his right hand. His upturned face seemed to have in it all the passionate pleading of a dumb animal.
“Illustrious Prince,” he answered, speaking also in his own tongue, “I did it for Japan! Who are you to blame me, who have offered his own life so freely? I have no weight in the world. For you the future is big. You will go back to Japan, you will sit at the right hand of the Emperor. You will tell him of the follies and the wisdom of these strange countries. You will guide him in difficulties. Your hand will be upon his as he writes across the sheets of time, for the glory of the Motherland. Banzai, illustrious Prince! I, too, am of the immortals!”
He suddenly collapsed. The doctor bent over him, but the Prince shook his head slowly.
“It is useless,” he said. “The man has confessed his crime. He has told me the whole truth. He has taken poison.”
Lady Grace began to cry softly. The air of the room seemed heavy with pent-up emotions. The Prince moved slowly toward the door and threw it open. He turned towards them all.
“Will you leave me?” he asked. “I wish to be alone.”
His eyes were like the eyes of a blind man.
One by one they left the room, Inspector Jacks amongst them. The only person who spoke, even in the hall, was the Inspector.
“It was the Prince who brought the doctor here,” he muttered. “He must have known! At least he must have known!”
Mr. Haviland touched him on the arm.
“Inspector Jacks!” he whispered.
Inspector Jacks saluted.
“The murderer is dead,” he continued, speaking still under his breath. “Silence is a wonderful gift, Mr. Jacks. Sometimes its reward is greater even than the reward of action.”
They passed from the house, and
once more its air of deep silence was unbroken. The Prince stood in the middle of that strange room, whose furnishings and atmosphere seemed, indeed, so marvellously reminiscent of some far distant land. He looked down upon the now lifeless figure, raised the still, white fingers in his for a moment, and laid them reverently down. Then his head went upward, and his eyes seemed to be seeking the heavens.
“So do the great die,” he murmured. “Already the Gods of our fathers are calling you Soto the Faithful. Banzai!”
THE END
THE LOST AMBASSADOR
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
I. A Rencontre
II. A Café In Paris
III. Delora
IV. Dangerous Play
V. Satisfaction
VI. An Informal Tribunal
VII. A Double Assignation
VIII. Louis Insists
IX. A Travelling Acquaintance
X. Delora Disappears
XI. Through The Telephone
XII. Felicia Delora
XIII. Louis, Maître D’Hôtel
XIV. Louis Explains
XV. A Dangerous Impersonation
XVI. Two Of A Trade
XVII. A Very Special Dinner
XVIII. Contrasts
XIX. Wheels Within Wheels
XX. A Terrible Night
XXI. A Change Of Plans
XXII. A Formal Call
XXIII. Felicia
XXIV. A Tantalizing Glimpse
XXV. Private And Diplomatic
XXVI. Nearly
XXVII. War
XXVIII. Check
XXIX. An Unsatisfactory Interview
XXX. To Newcastle By Road
XXXI. An Interesting Day
XXXII. A Proposal
XXXIII. Felicia Hesitates
XXXIV. An Appointment With Delora
XXXV. A Narrow Escape
XXXVI. An Abortive Attempt
XXXVII. Delora Returns
XXXVIII. At Bay
XXXIX. The Unexpected
I. A RENCONTRE
Table of Contents
There was no particular reason why, after having left the Opera House, I should have retraced my steps and taken my place once more amongst the throng of people who stood about in the entresol, exchanging greetings and waiting for their carriages. A backward glance as I had been about to turn into the Place de l’Opéra had arrested my somewhat hurried departure. The night was young, and where else was such a sight to be seen? Besides, was it not amongst some such throng as this that the end of my search might come?
I took up my place just inside, close to one of the pillars, and, with an unlit cigarette still in my mouth, watched the flying chausseurs, the medley of vehicles outside, the soft flow of women in their white opera cloaks and jewels, who with their escorts came streaming down the stairs and out of the great building, to enter the waiting carriages and motor-cars drawn up in the privileged space within the enclosure, or stretching right down into the Boulevard. I stood there, watching them drive off one by one. I was borne a little nearer to the door by the rush of people, and I was able, in most cases, to hear the directions of the men as they followed their womankind into the waiting vehicles. In nearly every case their destination was one of the famous restaurants. Music begets hunger in most capitals, and the cafés of Paris are never so full as after a great night at the Opera. To-night there had been a wonderful performance. The flow of people down the stairs seemed interminable. Young women and old,—sleepy-looking beauties of the Southern type, whose dark eyes seemed half closed with a languor partly passionate, partly of pride; women of the truer French type,—brilliant, smiling, vivacious, mostly pale, seldom good-looking, always attractive. A few Germans, a fair sprinkling of Englishwomen, and a larger proportion still of Americans, whose women were the best dressed of the whole company. I was not sorry that I had returned. It was worth watching, this endless stream of varying types.
Towards the end there came out two people who were becoming almost familiar figures to me. The man was one of those whose nationality was not so easily surmised. He was tall and thin, with iron-gray hair, complexion so sallow as to be almost yellow, black moustache and imperial, handsome in his way, distinguished, indescribable. By his side was a girl who had the air of wearing her first long skirt, whose hair was arranged in somewhat juvenile fashion, and whose dark eyes were still glowing with the joy of the music. Her figure, though very slim, was delightful, and she walked as though her feet touched the clouds. Her laugh, which I heard distinctly as she brushed by me only a few feet away, was like music. Of all the people who had passed me, or whom I had come across during my fortnight’s stay in Paris, there was no one half so attractive. The girl was absolutely charming; the man, remarkable not only in himself, but for a certain air of repressed emotion, which, while it robbed his features of the dignity of repose, was still, in a way, fascinating. They entered a waiting motor-car splendidly appointed, and I heard the man tell the tall, liveried footman to drive to the Ritz. I leaned forward a little eagerly as they went. I watched the car glide off and disappear, watched it until it was out of sight, and afterwards, even, watched the spot where it had vanished. Then, with a little sigh, I turned back once more into the great hall. There seemed to be no one left now of any interest. The women had become ordinary, the men impossible. With a little sigh I too aimlessly descended the steps, and stood for a moment uncertain which way to turn.
“Monsieur is looking for a light?” a quiet voice said in my ear.
I turned, and found myself confronted by a Frenchman, who had also just issued from the building and was himself lighting a cigarette. He was clean-shaven and pale, so pale that his complexion was almost olive. He had soft, curious-looking eyes. He was of medium height, dark, correctly dressed according to the fashion of his country, although his tie was black and his studs of unusual size. Something about his face struck me from the first as familiar, but for the moment I could not recall having seen him before.
“Thank you very much,” I answered, accepting the match which he offered.
The night was clear, and breathlessly still. The full yellow moon was shining in an absolutely cloudless sky. The match—an English wax one, by the way—burned without a flicker. I lit my cigarette, and turning around found my companion still standing by my side.
“Monsieur does not do me the honor to recollect me,” he remarked, with a faint smile.
I looked at him steadfastly.
“I am sorry,” I said. “Your face is perfectly familiar to me, and yet—No, by Jove, I have it!” I broke off, with a little laugh. “It’s Louis, isn’t it, from the Milan?”
“Monsieur’s memory has soon returned,” he answered, smiling. “I have been chief maître d’hôtel in the café there for some years. The last time I had the honor of serving monsieur there was only a few weeks ago.”
I remembered him perfectly now. I remembered, even, the occasion of my last visit to the café. Louis, with upraised hat, seemed as though he would have passed on, but, curiously enough, I felt a desire to continue the conversation. I had not as yet admitted the fact even to myself; but I was bored, weary of my search, weary to death of my own company and the company of my own acquaintances. I was reluctant to let this little man go.
“You visit Paris often?” I asked.
“But naturally, monsieur,” Louis answered, accepting my unspoken invitation by keeping pace with me as we strolled towards the Boulevard. “Once every six weeks I come over here. I go to the Ritz, Paillard’s, the Café de Paris,—to the others also. It is an affair of business, of course. One must learn how the Frenchman eats and what he eats, that one may teach the art.”
“But you are a Frenchman yourself, Louis,” I remarked.
“But, monsieur,” he answered, “I live in London. Voilà tout. One cannot write menus there for long, and succeed. One needs inspiration.”
“And you find it here?” I asked.
Lou
is shrugged his shoulders.
“Paris, monsieur,” he answered, “is my home. It is always a pleasure to me to see smiling faces, to see men and women who walk as though every footstep were taking them nearer to happiness. Have you never noticed, monsieur,” he continued, “the difference? They do not plod here as do your English people. There is a buoyancy in their footsteps, a mirth in their laughter, an expectancy in the way they look around, as though adventures were everywhere. I cannot understand it, but one feels it directly one sets foot in Paris.”
I nodded—a little bitterly, perhaps.
“It is temperament,” I answered. “We may envy, but we cannot acquire it.”
“It seems strange to see monsieur alone here,” Louis remarked. “In London, it is always so different. Monsieur has so many acquaintances.”
I was silent for a moment.
“I am here in search of some one,” I told Louis. “It isn’t a very pleasant mission, and the memory of it is always with me.”
“A search!” Louis repeated thoughtfully. “Paris is a large place, monsieur.”
“On the contrary,” I answered, “it is small enough if a man will but play the game. A man, who knows his Paris, must be in one of half-a-dozen places some time during the day.”
“It is true,” Louis admitted. “Yet monsieur has not been successful.”
“It has been because some one has warned the man of whom I am in search!” I declared.
“There are worse places,” he remarked, “in which one might be forced to spend one’s time.”
“In theory, excellent, Louis,” I said. “In practice, I am afraid I cannot agree with you. So far,” I declared, gloomily, “my pilgrimage has been an utter failure. I cannot meet, I cannot hear of, the man who I know was flaunting it before the world three weeks ago.”
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