21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “It has been long enough,” she exclaimed. “I have had seven months of it.”

  “And I,” he answered, “seven years. Take care of yourself and remember, I shall want you in a week.”

  CHAPTER XI

  THE FRUIT THAT IS OF GOLD

  Table of Contents

  At precisely the hour agreed upon Harcutt and Densham met in one of the ante-rooms leading into the “Milan” restaurant. They surrendered their coats and hats to an attendant, and strolled about waiting for Wolfenden. A quarter of an hour passed. The stream of people from the theatres began to grow thinner. Still, Wolfenden did not come. Harcutt took out his watch.

  “I propose that we do not wait any longer for Wolfenden,” he said. “I saw him this afternoon, and he answered me very oddly when I reminded him about to-night. There is such a crowd here too, that they will not keep our table much longer.”

  “Let us go in, by all means,” Densham agreed. “Wolfenden will easily find us if he wants to!”

  Harcutt returned his watch to his pocket slowly, and without removing his eyes from Densham’s face.

  “You’re not looking very fit, old chap,” he remarked. “Is anything wrong?”

  Densham shook his head and turned away.

  “I am a little tired,” he said. “We’ve been keeping late hours the last few nights. There’s nothing the matter with me, though. Come, let us go in!”

  Harcutt linked his arm in Densham’s. The two men stood in the doorway.

  “I have not asked you yet,” Harcutt said, in a low tone. “What fortune?”

  Densham laughed a little bitterly.

  “I will tell you all that I know presently,” he said.

  “You have found out something, then?”

  “I have found out,” Densham answered, “all that I care to know! I have found out so much that I am leaving England within a week!”

  Harcutt looked at him curiously.

  “Poor old chap,” he said softly. “I had no idea that you were so hard hit as all that, you know.”

  They passed through the crowded room to their table. Suddenly Harcutt stopped short and laid his hand upon Densham’s arm.

  “Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Look at that! No wonder we had to wait for Wolfenden!”

  Mr. Sabin and his niece were occupying the same table as on the previous night, only this time they were not alone. Wolfenden was sitting there between the two. At the moment of their entrance, he and the girl were laughing together. Mr. Sabin, with the air of one wholly detached from his companions, was calmly proceeding with his supper.

  “I understand now,” Harcutt whispered, “what Wolfenden meant this afternoon. When I reminded him about to-night, he laughed and said: ‘Well, I shall see you, at any rate.’ I thought it was odd at the time. I wonder how he managed it?”

  Densham made no reply. The two men took their seats in silence. Wolfenden was sitting with his back half-turned to them, and he had not noticed their entrance. In a moment or two, however, he looked round, and seeing them, leaned over towards the girl and apparently asked her something. She nodded, and he immediately left his seat and joined them.

  There was a little hesitation, almost awkwardness in their greetings. No one knew exactly what to say.

  “You fellows are rather late, aren’t you?” Wolfenden remarked.

  “We were here punctually enough,” Harcutt replied; “but we have been waiting for you nearly a quarter of an hour.”

  “I am sorry,” Wolfenden said. “The fact is I ought to have left word when I came in, but I quite forgot it. I took it for granted that you would look into the room when you found that I was behind time.”

  “Well, it isn’t of much consequence,” Harcutt declared; “we are here now, at any rate, although it seems that after all we are not to have supper together.”

  Wolfenden glanced rapidly over his shoulder.

  “You understand the position, of course,” he said. “I need not ask you to excuse me.”

  Harcutt nodded.

  “Oh, we’ll excuse you, by all means; but on one condition—we want to know all about it. Where can we see you afterwards?”

  “At my rooms,” Wolfenden said, turning away and resuming his seat at the other table.

  Densham had made no attempt whatever to join in the conversation. Once his eyes had met Wolfenden’s, and it seemed to the latter that there was a certain expression there which needed some explanation. It was not anger—it certainly was not envy. Wolfenden was puzzled—he was even disturbed. Had Densham discovered anything further than he himself knew about this man and the girl? What did he mean by looking as though the key to this mysterious situation was in his hands, and as though he had nothing but pity for the only one of the trio who had met with any success? Wolfenden resumed his seat with an uncomfortable conviction that Densham knew more than he did about these people whose guest he had become, and that the knowledge had damped all his ardour. There was a cloud upon his face for a moment. The exuberance of his happiness had received a sudden check. Then the girl spoke to him, and the memory of Densham’s unspoken warning passed away. He looked at her long and searchingly. Her face was as innocent and proud as the face of a child. She was unconscious even of his close scrutiny. The man might be anything; it might even be that every word that Felix had spoken was true. But of the girl he would believe no evil, he would not doubt her even for a moment.

  “Your friend,” remarked Mr. Sabin, helping himself to an ortolan, “is a journalist, is he not? His face seems familiar to me although I have forgotten his name, if ever I knew it.”

  “He is a journalist,” Wolfenden answered. “Not one of the rank and file—rather a dilettante, but still a hard worker. He is devoted to his profession, though, and his name is Harcutt.”

  “Harcutt!” Mr. Sabin repeated, although he did not appear to recollect the name. “He is a political journalist, is he not?”

  “Not that I am aware of,” Wolfenden answered. “He is generally considered to be the great scribe of society. I believe that he is interested in foreign politics, though.”

  “Ah!”

  Mr. Sabin’s interjection was significant, and Wolfenden looked up quickly but fruitlessly. The man’s face was impenetrable.

  “The other fellow,” Wolfenden said, turning to the girl, “is Densham, the painter. His picture in this year’s Academy was a good deal talked about, and he does some excellent portraits.”

  She threw a glance at him over her gleaming white shoulder.

  “He looks like an artist,” she said. “I liked his picture—a French landscape, was it not? And his portrait of the Countess of Davenport was magnificent.”

  “If you would care to know him,” Wolfenden said, “I should be very happy to present him to you.”

  Mr. Sabin looked up and shook his head quickly, but firmly.

  “You must excuse us,” he said. “My niece and I are not in England for very long, and we have reasons for avoiding new acquaintances as much as possible.”

  A shade passed across the girl’s face. Wolfenden would have given much to have known into what worlds those clear, soft eyes, suddenly set in a far away gaze, were wandering—what those regrets were which had floated up so suddenly before her. Was she too as impenetrable as the man, or would he some day share with her what there was of sorrow or of mystery in her young life? His heart beat with unaccustomed quickness at the thought. Mr. Sabin’s last remark, the uncertainty of his own position with regard to these people, filled him with sudden fear; it might be that he too was to be included in the sentence which had just been pronounced. He looked up from the table to find Mr. Sabin’s cold, steely eyes fixed upon him, and acting upon a sudden impulse he spoke what was nearest to his heart.

  “I hope,” he said, “that the few acquaintances whom fate does bring you are not to suffer for the same reason.”

  Mr. Sabin smiled and poured himself out a glass of wine.

  “You are very good,” he said
. “I presume that you refer to yourself. We shall always be glad that we met you, shall we not, Helène? But I doubt very much if, after to-night, we shall meet again in England at all.”

  To Wolfenden the light seemed suddenly to have gone out, and the soft, low music to have become a wailing dirge. He retained some command of his features only by a tremendous effort. Even then he felt that he had become pale, and that his voice betrayed something of the emotion that he felt.

  “You are going away,” he said slowly—“abroad!”

  “Very soon indeed,” Mr. Sabin answered. “At any rate, we leave London during the week. You must not look upon us, Lord Wolfenden, as ordinary pleasure-seekers. We are wanderers upon the face of the earth, not so much by choice as by destiny. I want you to try one of these cigarettes. They were given to me by the Khedive, and I think you will admit that he knows more about tobacco than he does about governing.”

  The girl had been gazing steadfastly at the grapes that lay untasted upon her plate, and Wolfenden glanced towards her twice in vain; now, however, she looked up, and a slight smile parted her lips as her eyes met his. How pale she was, and how suddenly serious!

  “Do not take my uncle too literally, Lord Wolfenden,” she said softly. “I hope that we shall meet again some time, if not often. I should be very sorry not to think so. We owe you so much.”

  There was an added warmth in those last few words, a subtle light in her eyes. Was she indeed a past mistress in all the arts of coquetry, or was there not some message for him in that lowered tone and softened glance? He sat spellbound for a moment. Her bosom was certainly rising and falling more quickly. The pearls at her throat quivered. Then Mr. Sabin’s voice, cold and displeased, dissolved the situation.

  “I think, Helène, if you are ready, we had better go,” he said. “It is nearly half-past twelve, and we shall escape the crush if we leave at once.”

  She stood up silently, and Wolfenden, with slow fingers, raised her cloak from the back of the chair and covered her shoulders. She thanked him softly, and turning away, walked down the room followed by the two men. In the ante-room Mr. Sabin stopped.

  “My watch,” he remarked, “was fast. You will have time after all for a cigarette with your friends. Good-night.”

  Wolfenden had no alternative but to accept his dismissal. A little, white hand, flashing with jewels, but shapely and delicate, stole out from the dark fur of her cloak, and he held it within his for a second.

  “I hope,” he said, “that at any rate you will allow me to call, and say goodbye before you leave England?”

  She looked at him with a faint smile upon her lips. Yet her eyes were very sad.

  “You have heard what my inexorable guardian has said, Lord Wolfenden,” she answered quietly. “I am afraid he is right. We are wanderers, he and I, with no settled home.”

  “I shall venture to hope,” he said boldly, “that some day you will make one—in England.”

  A tinge of colour flashed into her cheeks. Her eyes danced with amusement at his audacity—then they suddenly dropped, and she caught up the folds of her gown.

  “Ah, well,” she said demurely, “that would be too great a happiness. Farewell! One never knows.”

  She yielded at last to Mr. Sabin’s cold impatience, and turning away, followed him down the staircase. Wolfenden remained at the top until she had passed out of sight; he lingered even for a moment or two afterwards, inhaling the faint, subtle perfume shaken from her gown—a perfume which reminded him of an orchard of pink and white apple blossoms in Normandy. Then he turned back, and finding Harcutt and Densham lingering over their coffee, sat down beside them.

  Harcutt looked at him through half-closed eyes—a little cloud of blue tobacco smoke hung over the table. Densham had eaten little, but smoked continually.

  “Well?” he asked laconically.

  “After all,” Wolfenden said, “I have not very much to tell you fellows. Mr. Sabin did not call upon me; I met him by chance in Bond Street, and the girl asked me to supper, more I believe in jest than anything. However, of course I took advantage of it, and I have spent the evening since eleven o’clock with them. But as to gaining any definite information as to who or what they are, I must confess I’ve failed altogether. I know no more than I did yesterday.”

  “At any rate,” Harcutt remarked, “you will soon learn all that you care to know. You have inserted the thin end of the wedge. You have established a visiting acquaintance.”

  Wolfenden flicked the end from his cigarette savagely.

  “Nothing of the sort,” he declared. “They have not given me their address, or asked me to call. On the contrary, I was given very clearly to understand by Mr. Sabin that they were only travellers and desired no acquaintances. I know them, that is all; what the next step is to be I have not the faintest idea.”

  Densham leaned over towards them. There was a strange light in his eyes—a peculiar, almost tremulous, earnestness in his tone.

  “Why should there be any next step at all?” he said. “Let us all drop this ridiculous business. It has gone far enough. I have a presentiment—not altogether presentiment either, as it is based upon a certain knowledge. It is true that these are not ordinary people, and the girl is beautiful. But they are not of our lives! Let them pass out. Let us forget them.”

  Harcutt shook his head.

  “The man is too interesting to be forgotten or ignored,” he said. “I must know more about him, and before many days have passed.”

  Densham turned to the younger man.

  “At least, Wolfenden,” he said, “you will listen to reason. I tell you as a man of honour, and I think I may add as your friend, that you are only courting disappointment. The girl is not for you, or me, or any of us. If I dared tell you what I know, you would be the first to admit it yourself.”

  Wolfenden returned Densham’s eager gaze steadfastly.

  “I have gone,” he said calmly, “too far to turn back. You fellows both know I am not a woman’s man. I’ve never cared for a girl in all my life, or pretended to, seriously. Now that I do, it is not likely that I shall give her up without any definite reason. You must speak more plainly, Densham, or not at all.”

  Densham rose from his chair.

  “I am very sorry,” he said.

  Wolfenden turned upon him, frowning.

  “You need not be,” he said. “You and Harcutt have both, I believe, heard some strange stories concerning the man; but as for the girl, no one shall dare to speak an unbecoming word of her.”

  “No one desired to,” Densham answered quietly. “And yet there may be other and equally grave objections to any intercourse with her.”

  Wolfenden smiled confidently.

  “Nothing in the world worth winning,” he said, “is won without an effort, or without difficulty. The fruit that is of gold does not drop into your mouth.”

  The band had ceased to play and the lights went out. Around them was all the bustle of departure. The three men rose and left the room.

  CHAPTER XII

  WOLFENDEN’S LUCK

  Table of Contents

  To leave London at all, under ordinary circumstances, was usually a hardship for Wolfenden, but to leave London at this particular moment of his life was little less than a calamity, yet a letter which he received a few mornings after the supper at the “Milan” left him scarcely any alternative. He read it over for the third time whilst his breakfast grew cold, and each time his duty seemed to become plainer.

  “Deringham Hall, Norfolk.

  “My dear Wolfenden,—We have been rather looking for you to come down for a day or two, and I do hope that you will be able to manage it directly you receive this. I am sorry to say that your father is very far from well, and we have all been much upset lately. He still works for eight or nine hours a day, and his hallucinations as to the value of his papers increases with every page he writes. His latest peculiarity is a rooted conviction that there is some plot on hand to rob him of
his manuscripts. You remember, perhaps, Miss Merton, the young person whom we engaged as typewriter. He sent her away the other day, without a moment’s notice, simply because he saw her with a sheet of copying paper in her hand. I did not like the girl, but it is perfectly ridiculous to suspect her of anything of the sort. He insisted, however, that she should leave the house within an hour, and we were obliged to give in to him. Since then he has seemed to become even more fidgety. He has had cast-iron shutters fitted to the study windows, and two of the keepers are supposed to be on duty outside night and day, with loaded revolvers. People around here are all beginning to talk, and I am afraid that it is only natural that they should. He will see no one, and the library door is shut and bolted immediately he has entered it. Altogether it is a deplorable state of things, and what will be the end of it I cannot imagine. Sometimes it occurs to me that you might have more influence over him than I have. I hope that you will be able to come down, if only for a day or two, and see what effect your presence has. The shooting is not good this year, but Captain Willis was telling me yesterday that the golf links were in excellent condition, and there is the yacht, of course, if you care to use it. Your father seems to have quite forgotten that she is still in the neighbourhood, I am glad to say. Those inspection cruises were very bad things for him. He used to get so excited, and he was dreadfully angry if the photographs which I took were at all imperfectly developed. How is everybody? Have you seen Lady Susan lately? and is it true that Eleanor is engaged? I feel literally buried here, but I dare not suggest a move. London, for him at present, would be madness. I shall hope to get a wire from you to-morrow, and will send to Cromer to meet any train.—From your affectionate mother,

  “Constance Manver Deringham.”

  There was not a word of reproach in the letter, but nevertheless Wolfenden felt a little conscience-stricken. He ought to have gone down to Deringham before; most certainly after the receipt of this summons he could not delay his visit any longer. He walked up and down the room impatiently. To leave London just now was detestable. It was true that he could not call upon them, and he had no idea where else to look for these people, who, for some mysterious reason, seemed to be doing all that they could to avoid his acquaintance. Yet chance had favoured him once—chance might stand his friend again. At any rate to feel himself in the same city with her was some consolation. For the last three days he had haunted Piccadilly and Bond Street. He had become a saunterer, and the shop windows had obtained from him an attention which he had never previously bestowed upon them. The thought that, at any turning, at any moment, they might meet, continually thrilled him. The idea of a journey which would place such a meeting utterly out of the question, was more than distasteful—it was hateful.