“It is my life’s work,” Mr. Sabin faltered.
“Your life’s work,” the man said slowly, “should be with us.”
“God knows why I ever——”
The man stretched out a white hand, which gleamed through the semi-darkness. Mr. Sabin stopped short.
“You very nearly,” he said solemnly, “pronounced your own death-sentence. If you had finished what you were about to say, I could never have saved you. Be wise, friend. This is a disappointment to you; well, is not our life one long torturing disappointment? What of us, indeed? We are like the waves which beat ceaselessly against the sea-shore, what we gain one day we lose the next. It is fate, it is life! Once more, friend, remember! Farewell!”
Mr. Sabin was left alone, a martyr to his thoughts. Already it was past the hour for Knigenstein’s visit. Should he remain and brave the storm, or should he catch the boat-train from Charing Cross and hasten to hide himself in one of the most remote quarters of the civilised world? In any case it was a dreary outlook for him. Not only had this dearly cherished scheme of his come crashing about his head, but he had very seriously compromised himself with a great country. The Emperor’s gracious letter was in his pocket—he smiled grimly to himself as he thought for a moment of the consternation of Berlin, and of Knigenstein’s disgrace. And then the luxury of choice was suddenly denied him; he was brought back to the present, and a sense of its paramount embarrassments by a pealing ring at the bell, and the trampling of horse’s feet in the street. He had no time to rescind his previous instructions to Foo Cha before Knigenstein himself, wrapped in a great sealskin coat, and muffled up to the chin with a silk handkerchief, was shown into the room.
The Ambassador’s usually phlegmatic face bore traces of some anxiety. Behind his spectacles his eyes glittered nervously; he grasped Mr. Sabin’s hand with unwonted cordiality, and was evidently much relieved to have found him.
“My dear Souspennier,” he said, “this is a great occasion. I am a little late, but, as you can imagine, I am overwhelmed with work of the utmost importance. You have finished now, I hope. You are ready for me?”
“I am as ready for you,” Mr. Sabin said grimly, “as I ever shall be!”
“What do you mean?” Knigenstein asked sharply. “Don’t tell me that anything has gone amiss! I am a ruined man, unless you carry out your covenant to the letter. I have pledged my word upon your honour.”
“Then I am afraid,” Mr. Sabin said, “that we are both of us in a very tight place! I am bound hand and foot. There,” he cried, pointing to the grate, half choked with a pile of quivering grey ashes, “lies the work of seven years of my life—seven years of intrigue, of calculation, of unceasing toil. By this time all my American inventions, which would have paralysed Europe, are blown sky high! That is the position, Knigenstein; we are undone!”
Knigenstein was shaking like a child; he laid his hand upon Mr. Sabin’s arm, and gripped it fiercely.
“Souspennier,” he said, “if you are speaking the truth I am ruined, and disgraced for ever. The Emperor will never forgive me! I shall be dismissed and banished. I have pledged my word for yours; you cannot mean to play me false like this. If there is any personal favour or reward, which the Emperor can grant, it is yours—I will answer for it. I will answer for it, too, that war shall be declared against France within six months of the conclusion of peace with England. Come, say that you have been jesting. Good God! man, you are torturing me. Why, have you seen the papers to-night? The Emperor has been hasty, I own, but he has already struck the first blow. War is as good as declared. I am waiting for my papers every hour!”
“I cannot help it,” Mr. Sabin said doggedly. “The thing is at an end. To give up all the fruits of my work—the labour of the best years of my life—is as bitter to me as your dilemma is to you! But it is inevitable! Be a man, Knigenstein, put the best face on it you can.”
The utter impotence of all that he could say was suddenly revealed to Knigenstein in Mr. Sabin’s set face and hopeless words. His tone of entreaty changed to one of anger; the veins on his forehead stood out like knotted string, his mouth twitched as he spoke, he could not control himself.
“You have made up your mind,” he cried. “Very well! Russia has bought you, very well! If Lobenski has bribed you with all the gold in Christendom you shall never enjoy it! You shall not live a year! I swear it! You have insulted and wronged our country, our fatherland! Listen! A word shall be breathed in the ears of a handful of our officers. Where you go, they shall go; if you leave England you will be struck on the cheek in the first public place at which you show yourself. If one falls, there are others—hundreds, thousands, an army! Oh! you shall not escape, my friend. But if ever you dared to set foot in Germany——”
“I can assure you,” Mr. Sabin interrupted, “that I shall take particular care never to visit your delightful country. Elsewhere, I think I can take care of myself. But listen, Knigenstein, all your talk about Russia and playing you false is absurd. If I had wished to deal with Lobenski, I could have done so, instead of with you. I have not even seen him. A greater hand than his has stopped me, a greater even than the hand of your Emperor!”
Knigenstein looked at him as one looks at a madman.
“There is no greater hand on earth,” he said, “than the hand of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Germany.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“You are a German,” he said, “and you know little of these things, yet you call yourself a diplomatist, and I suppose you have some knowledge of what this means.”
He lifted the lamp from the table and walked to the wall opposite to the door. Knigenstein followed him closely. Before them, high up as the fingers of a man could reach, was a small, irregular red patch—something between a cross and a star. Mr. Sabin held the lamp high over his head and pointed to the mark.
“Do you know what that means?” he asked.
The man by his side groaned.
“Yes,” he answered, with a gesture of abject despair, “I know!”
Mr. Sabin walked back to the table and set down the lamp.
“You know now,” he said coolly, “who has intervened.”
“If I had had any idea,” Knigenstein said, “that you were one of them I should not have treated with you.”
“It was many years ago,” Mr. Sabin said with a sigh. “My father was half a Russian, you know. It served my purpose whilst I was envoy at Teheran; since then I had lost sight of them; I thought that they too had lost sight of me. I was mistaken—only an hour ago I was visited by a chief official. They knew everything, they forbade everything. As a matter of fact they have saved England!”
“And ruined us,” Knigenstein groaned. “I must go and telegraph. But Souspennier, one word.”
Mr. Sabin looked up.
“You are a brave man and a patriot; you want to see your country free. Well, why not free it still? You and I are philosophers, we know that life after all is an uncertain thing. Hold to your bargain with us. It will be to your death, I do not deny that. But I will pledge the honour of my country, I will give you the holy word of the Emperor, that we will faithfully carry out our part of the contract, and the whole glory shall be yours. You will be immortalised; you will win fame that shall be deathless. Your name will be enshrined in the heart of your country’s history.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head slowly.
“My dear Knigenstein,” he said “pray don’t misunderstand me. I do not cast the slightest reflection upon your Emperor or your honour. But if ever there was a country which required watching, it is yours. I could not carry your pledges with me into oblivion, and there is no one to whom I could leave the legacy. That being the case, I think that I prefer to live.”
Knigenstein buttoned up his coat and sighed.
“I am a ruined man, Souspennier,” he said, “but I bear you no malice. Let me leave you a little word of warning, though. The Nihilists are not the only people in the world who have the courage a
nd the wit to avenge themselves. Farewell!”
Mr. Sabin broke into a queer little laugh as he listened to his guest’s departing footsteps. Then he lit a cigarette, and called to Foo Cha for some coffee.
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE HEART OF THE PRINCESS
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When Wolfenden opened his paper on Saturday morning, London had already drawn a great breath, partly of relief partly of surprise, for the black head-lines which topped the columns of the papers, the placards in the streets, and the cry of the newsboys, all declared a most remarkable change in the political situation.
“THE GERMAN EMPEROR EXPLAINS!
THERE WILL BE NO WAR!
German Consul ordered Home!
No Rupture!”
Wolfenden, in common with most of his fellow-countrymen, could scarcely believe his eyes; yet there it was in plain black and white. The dogs of war had been called back. Germany was climbing down—not with dignity; she had gone too far for that—but with a scuffle. Wolfenden read the paper through before he even thought of his letters Then he began to open them slowly. The first was from his mother. The Admiral was distinctly better; the doctors were more hopeful. He turned to the next one; it was in a delicate, foreign handwriting, and exhaled a faint perfume which seemed vaguely familiar to him. He opened it and his heart stood still.
“14, Grosvenor Square,
“London, W
“Will you come and see me to-day about four o’clock? —Helène.”
He looked at his watch—four o’clock seemed a very long way off. He decided that he would go out and find Felix; but almost immediately the door was opened and that very person was shown in.
Felix was radiant; he appeared to have grown years younger. He was immaculately dressed, and he wore an exquisite orchid in his button-hole.
Wolfenden greeted him warmly.
“Have you seen the paper?” he asked. “Do you know the news?”
Felix laughed.
“Of course! You may not believe it, but it is true that I am the person who has saved your country! And I am quits at last with Herbert de la Meux, Duc de Souspennier!”
“Meaning, I suppose, the person whom we have been accustomed to call—Mr. Sabin?” Wolfenden remarked.
“Exactly!”
Wolfenden pushed an easy chair towards his visitor and produced some cigarettes.
“I must say,” he continued, “that I should exceedingly like to know how the thing was done.”
Felix smiled.
“That, my dear friend,” he said, “you will never know. No one will ever know the cause of Germany’s suddenly belligerent attitude, and her equally speedy climb-down! There are many pages of diplomatic history which the world will never read, and this is one of them. Come and lunch with me, Lord Wolfenden. My vow is paid and without bloodshed. I am a free man, and my promotion is assured. To-day is the happiest of my life!”
Wolfenden smiled and looked at the letter on the table before him; might it not also be the happiest day of his own life!
And it was! Punctually at four o’clock he presented himself at Grosvenor Square and was ushered into one of the smaller reception rooms. Helène came to him at once, a smile half-shy, half-apologetic upon her lips. He was conscious from the moment of her entrance of a change in her deportment towards him. She held in her hand a small locket.
“I wanted to ask you, Lord Wolfenden,” she said, drawing her fingers slowly away from his lingering clasp, “does this locket belong to you?”
He glanced at it and shook his head at once.
“I never saw it before in my life,” he declared. “I do not wear a watch chain, and I don’t possess anything of that sort.”
She threw it contemptuously away from her into the grate.
“A woman lied to me about it,” she said slowly. “I am ashamed of myself that I should have listened to her, even for a second. I chanced to look at it last night, and it suddenly occurred to me where I had seen it. It was on a man’s watch-chain, but not on yours.”
“Surely,” he said, “it belongs to Mr. Sabin?”
She nodded and held out both her hands.
“Will you forgive me?” she begged softly, “and—and—I think—I promised to send for you!”
They had been together for nearly an hour when the door opened abruptly, and the young man whom Wolfenden had seen with Helène in the barouche entered the room. He stared in amazement at her, and rudely at Wolfenden. Helène rose and turned to him with a smile.
“Henri,” she said, “let me present to you the English gentleman whom I am going to marry. Prince Henri of Ortrens—Lord Wolfenden.”
The young man barely returned Wolfenden’s salute. He turned with flashing eyes to Helène and muttered a few hasty words in French—
“A kingdom and my betrothed in one day! It is too much! We will see!”
He left the room hurriedly. Helène laughed.
“He has gone to find the Duchess,” she said, “and there will be a scene! Let us go out in the Park.”
They walked about under the trees; suddenly they came face to face with Mr. Sabin. He was looking a little worn, but he was as carefully dressed as usual, and he welcomed them with a smile and an utter absence of any embarrassment.
“So soon!” he remarked pleasantly. “You Englishmen are as prompt in love as you are in war, Lord Wolfenden! It is an admirable trait.”
Helène laid her hand upon his arm. Yes, it was no fancy; his hair was greyer, and heavy lines furrowed his brow.
“Uncle,” she said, “believe me that I am sorry for you, though for myself—I am glad!”
He looked at her kindly, yet with a faint contempt.
“The Bourbon blood runs very slowly in your veins, child,” he said. “After all I begin to doubt whether you would have made a queen! As for myself—well, I am resigned. I am going to Pau, to play golf!”
“For how long, I wonder,” she said smiling, “will you be able to content yourself there?”
“For a month or two,” he answered; “until I have lost the taste of defeat. Then I have plans—but never mind; I will tell you later on. You will all hear of me again! So far as you two are concerned at any rate,” he added, “I have no need to reproach myself. My failure seems to have brought you happiness.”
He passed on, and they both watched his slim figure lost in the throng of passers-by.
“He is a great man,” she murmured. “He knows how to bear defeat.”
“He is a great man,” Wolfenden answered; “but none the less I am not sorry to see the last of Mr. Sabin!”
CHAPTER XL
THE WAY TO PAU
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The way to Pau which Mr. Sabin chose may possibly have been the most circuitous, but it was certainly the safest. Although not a muscle of his face had moved, although he had not by any physical movement or speech betrayed his knowledge of the fact, he was perfectly well aware that his little statement as to his future movements was overheard and carefully noted by the tall, immaculately dressed young man who by some strange chance seemed to have been at his elbow since he had left his rooms an hour ago. “Into the lion’s mouth, indeed,” he muttered to himself grimly as he hailed a hansom at the corner and was driven homewards. The limes of Berlin were very beautiful, but it was not with any immediate idea of sauntering beneath them that a few hours later he was driven to Euston and stepped into an engaged carriage on the Liverpool express. There, with a travelling cap drawn down to his eyes and a rug pulled up to his throat, he sat in the far corner of his compartment apparently enjoying an evening paper—as a matter of fact anxiously watching the platform. He had taken care to allow himself only a slender margin of time. In two minutes the train glided out of the station.
He drew a little sigh of relief—he, who very seldom permitted himself the luxury of even the slightest revelation of his feelings. At least he had a start. Then he unlocked a travelling case, and, drawing out an atlas, sat
with it upon his knee for some time. When he closed it there was a frown upon his face.
“America,” he exclaimed softly to himself. “What a lack of imagination even the sound of the place seems to denote! It is the most ignominious retreat I have ever made.”
“You made the common mistake,” a quiet voice at his elbow remarked, “of many of the world’s greatest diplomatists. You underrated your adversaries.”
Mr. Sabin distinctly started, and clutching at his rug, leaned back in his corner. A young man in a tweed travelling suit was standing by the opposite window. Behind him Mr. Sabin noticed for the first time a narrow mahogany door. Mr. Sabin drew a short breath, and was himself again. Underneath the rug his fingers stole into his overcoat pocket and clasped something cold and firm.
“One at least,” he said grimly, “I perceive that I have held too lightly. Will you pardon a novice at necromancy if he asks you how you found your way here?”
Felix smiled.
“A little forethought,” he remarked, “a little luck and a sovereign tip to an accommodating inspector. The carriage in which you are travelling is, as you will doubtless perceive before you reach your journey’s end, a species of saloon. This little door”—touching the one through which he had issued—“leads on to a lavatory, and on the other side is a non-smoking carriage. I found that you had engaged a carriage on this train, by posing as your servant. I selected this one as being particularly suited to an old gentleman of nervous disposition, and arranged also that the non-smoking portion should be reserved for me.”
Mr. Sabin nodded. “And how,” he asked, “did you know that I meant to go to America?”
Felix shrugged his shoulders and took a seat.
“Well,” he said, “I concluded that you would be looking for a change of air somewhere, and I really could not see what part of the world you had left open to yourself. America is the only country strong enough to keep you! Besides, I reckoned a little upon that curiosity with regard to undeveloped countries which I have observed to be one of your traits. So far as I am aware, you have never resided long in America.”
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