Mysterious Mr. Sabin - ebook

Contents

I. A SUPPER PARTY AT THE "MILAN"

II. A DRAMA OF THE PAVEMENT

III. THE WARNING OF FELIX

IV. AT THE RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR'S

V. THE DILEMMA OF WOLFENDEN

VI. A COMPACT OF THREE

VII. WHO IS MR. SABIN?

VIII. A MEETING IN BOND STREET

IX. THE SHADOWS THAT GO BEFORE

X. THE SECRETARY

XI. THE FRUIT THAT IS OF GOLD

XII. WOLFENDEN'S LUCK

XIII. A GREAT WORK

XIV. THE TEMPTING OF MR. BLATHERWICK

XV. THE COMING AND GOING OF MR. FRANKLIN WILMOT

XVI. GENIUS OR MADNESS?

XVII. THE SCHEMING OF GIANTS

XVIII. "HE HAS GONE TO THE EMPEROR!"

XIX. WOLFENDEN'S LOVE-MAKING

XX. FROM A DIM WORLD

XXI. HARCUTT'S INSPIRATION

XXII. FROM THE BEGINNING

XXIII. MR. SABIN EXPLAINS

XXIV. THE WAY OF THE WOMAN

XXV. A HANDFUL OF ASHES

XXVI. MR. BLATHERWICK AS ST. ANTHONY

XXVII. BY CHANCE OR DESIGN

XXVIII. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

XXIX. "IT WAS MR. SABIN"

XXX. THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-STORM

XXXI. "I MAKE NO PROMISE"

XXXII. THE SECRET OF MR. SABIN'S NIECE

XXXIII. MR. SABIN TRIUMPHS

XXXIV. BLANCHE MERTON'S LITTLE PLOT

AXXXV. LITTLE GAME OF CARDS

XXXVI. THE MODERN RICHELIEU

XXXVII. FOR A GREAT STAKE

XXXVIII. THE MEN WHO SAVED ENGLAND

XXXIX. THE HEART OF THE PRINCESS

XL. THE WAY TO PAU

XLI. MR. AND MRS. WATSON OF NEW YORK

XLII. A WEAK CONSPIRATOR

XLIII. THE COMING OF THE "KAISER WILHELM"

XLIV. THE GERMANS ARE ANNOYED

XLV. MR. SABIN IN DANGER

XLVI. MR. WATSON IS ASTONISHED

XLVII. A CHARMED LIFE

XLVIII. THE DOOMSCHEN

XLIX. MR. SABIN IS SENTIMENTAL

L. A HARBOUR TRAGEDY

LI. THE PERSISTENCE OF FELIX

LII. MRS. JAMES B. PETERSON, OF LENOXCHAPTER I

A SUPPER PARTY AT THE “MILAN.”

“To all such meetings as these!” cried Densham, lifting his champagne glass from under the soft halo of the rose-shaded electric lights. “Let us drink to them, Wolfenden–Mr. Felix!”

“To all such meetings!” echoed his vis-à-vis, also fingering the delicate stem of his glass. “An excellent toast!”

“To all such meetings as these!” murmured the third man, who made up the little party. “A capital toast indeed!”

They sat at a little round table in the brilliantly-lit supper-room of one of London’s most fashionable restaurants. Around them were the usual throng of well dressed men, of women with bare shoulders and flashing diamonds, of dark-visaged waiters, deft, silent, swift-footed. The pleasant hum of conversation, louder and more unrestrained as the hour grew towards midnight, was varied by the popping of corks and many little trills of feminine laughter. Of discordant sounds there were none. The waiters’ feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet, the clatter of plates was a thing unheard of. From the balcony outside came the low, sweet music of a German orchestra played by master hands.

As usual the place was filled. Several late-comers, who had neglected to order their table beforehand, had already, after a disconsolate tour of the room, been led to one of the smaller apartments, or had driven off again to where the lights from the larger but less smart Altoné flashed out upon the smooth, dark waters of the Thames. Only one table was as yet unoccupied, and that was within a yard or two of the three young men who were celebrating a chance meeting in Pall Mall so pleasantly. It was laid for two only, and a magnificent bunch of white roses had, a few minutes before, been brought in and laid in front of one of the places by the director of the rooms himself. A man’s small visiting-card was leaning against a wineglass. The table was evidently reserved by some one of importance, for several late-comers had pointed to it, only to be met by a decided shake of the head on the part of the waiter to whom they had appealed. As time went on, this empty table became the object of some speculation to the three young men.

“Our neighbours,” remarked Wolfenden, “are running it pretty fine. Can you see whose name is upon the card, Densham?”

The man addressed raised an eyeglass to his left eye and leaned forward. Then he shook his head, he was a little too far away.

“No! It is a short name. Seems to begin with S. Probably a son of Israel!”

“His taste in flowers is at any rate irreproachable,” Wolfenden remarked. “I wish they would come. I am in a genial mood, and I do not like to think of any one having to hurry over such an excellent supper.”

“The lady,” Densham suggested, “is probably theatrical, and has to dress after the show. Half-past twelve is a barbarous hour to turn us out. I wonder––”

“Sh-sh!”

The slight exclamation and a meaning frown from Wolfenden checked his speech. He broke off in the middle of his sentence, and looked round. There was the soft swish of silk passing his chair, and the faint suggestion of a delicate and perfectly strange perfume. At last the table was being taken possession of. A girl, in a wonderful white dress, was standing there, leaning over to admire the great bunch of creamy-white blossoms, whilst a waiter respectfully held a chair for her. A few steps behind came her companion, an elderly man who walked with a slight limp, leaning heavily upon a stick. She turned to him and made some remark in French, pointing to the flowers. He smiled, and passing her, stood for a moment leaning slightly upon the back of his chair, waiting, with a courtesy which was obviously instinctive, until she should have seated herself. During the few seconds which elapsed before they were settled in their places he glanced around the room with a smile, slightly cynical, but still good-natured, parting his thin, well-shaped lips. Wolfenden and Densham, who were looking at him with frank curiosity, he glanced at carelessly. The third young man of the party, Felix, was bending low over his plate, and his face was hidden.

The buzz of conversation in their immediate vicinity had been temporarily suspended. Every one who had seen them enter had been interested in these late-comers, and many curious eyes had followed them to their seats. Briefly, the girl was beautiful and the man distinguished. When they had taken their places, however, the hum of conversation recommenced. Densham and Wolfenden leaned over to one another, and their questions were almost simultaneous.

“Who are they?”

“Who is she?”

Alas! neither of them knew; neither of them had the least idea. Felix, Wolfenden’s guest, it seemed useless to ask. He had only just arrived in England, and he was a complete stranger to London. Besides, he did not seem to be interested. He was proceeding calmly with his supper, with his back directly turned upon the new-comers. Beyond one rapid, upward glance at their entrance he seemed almost to have avoided looking at them. Wolfenden thought of this afterwards.

“I see Harcutt in the corner,” he said. “He will know who they are for certain. I shall go and ask him.”

He crossed the room and chatted for a few minutes with a noisy little party in an adjacent recess. Presently he put his question. Alas! not one of them knew! Harcutt, a journalist of some note and a man who prided himself upon knowing absolutely everybody, was as helpless as the rest. To his humiliation he was obliged to confess it.

“I never saw either of them before in my life,” he said. “I cannot imagine who they can be. They are certainly foreigners.”

“Very likely,” Wolfenden agreed quietly. “In fact, I never doubted it. An English girl of that age–she is very young by the bye–would never be so perfectly turned out.”

“What a very horrid thing to say, Lord Wolfenden,” exclaimed the woman on whose chair his hand was resting. “Don’t you know that dressing is altogether a matter of one’s maid? You may rely upon it that that girl has found a treasure!”

“Well, I don’t know,” Wolfenden said, smiling. “Young English girls always seem to me to look so dishevelled in evening dress. Now this girl is dressed with the art of a Frenchwoman of mature years, and yet with the simplicity of a child.”

The woman laid down her lorgnettes and shrugged her shoulders.

“I agree with you,” she said, “that she is probably not English. If she were she would not wear such diamonds at her age.”

“By the bye,” Harcutt remarked with sudden cheerfulness, “we shall be able to find out who the man is when we leave. The table was reserved, so the name will be on the list at the door.”

His friends rose to leave and Harcutt, making his adieux, crossed the room with Wolfenden.

“We may as well have our coffee together,” he said. “I ordered Turkish and I’ve been waiting for it ten minutes. We got here early. Hullo! where’s your other guest?”

Densham was sitting alone. Wolfenden looked at him inquiringly.

“Your friend Felix has gone,” he announced. “Suddenly remembered an engagement with his chief, and begged you to excuse him. Said he’d look you up to-morrow.”

“Well, he’s an odd fellow,” Wolfenden remarked, motioning Harcutt to the vacant place. “His looks certainly belie his name.”

“He’s not exactly a cheerful companion for a supper party,” Densham admitted, “but I like his face. How did you come across him, Wolfenden, and where does he hail from?”

“He’s a junior attaché at the Russian Embassy,” Wolfenden said, stirring his coffee. “Only just been appointed. Charlie Meynell gave him a line of introduction to me; said he was a decent sort, but mopish! I looked him up last week, met him in Pall Mall just as you came along, and asked you both to supper. What liqueurs, Harcutt?”

The conversation drifted into ordinary channels and flowed on steadily. At the same time it was maintained with a certain amount of difficulty. The advent of these two people at the next table had produced an extraordinary effect upon the three men. Harcutt was perhaps the least affected. He was a young man of fortune and natural gifts, who had embraced journalism as a career, and was really in love with his profession. Partly on account of his social position, which was unquestioned, and partly because his tastes tended in that direction, he had become the recognised scribe and chronicle of smart society. His pen was easy and fluent. He was an inimitable maker of short paragraphs. He prided himself upon knowing everybody and all about them. He could have told how much a year Densham, a rising young portrait painter, was making from his profession, and exactly what Wolfenden’s allowance from his father was. A strange face was an annoyance to him; too, a humiliation. He had been piqued that he could not answer the eager questions of his own party as to these two people, and subsequently Wolfenden’s inquiries. The thought that very soon at any rate their name would be known to him was, in a sense, a consolation. The rest would be easy. Until he knew all about them he meant to conceal so far as possible his own interest.CHAPTER II

A DRAMA OF THE PAVEMENT

The pitch of conversation had risen higher, still mingled with the intermittent popping of corks and the striking of matches. Blue wreaths of cigarette smoke were curling upwards–a delicate feeling of “abandon” was making itself felt amongst the roomful of people. The music grew softer as the babel of talk grew in volume. The whole environment became tinged with a faint but genial voluptuousness. Densham was laughing over the foibles of some mutual acquaintance; Wolfenden leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette and sipping his Turkish coffee. His eyes scarcely left for a moment the girl who sat only a few yards away from him, trifling with a certain dainty indifference with the little dishes, which one after the other had been placed before her and removed. He had taken pains to withdraw himself from the discussion in which his friends were interested. He wanted to be quite free to watch her. To him she was certainly the most wonderful creature he had ever seen. In every one of her most trifling actions she seemed possessed of an original and curious grace, even the way she held her silver fork, toyed with her serviette, raised her glass to her lips and set it down again–all these little things she seemed to him to accomplish with a peculiar and wonderful daintiness. Of conversation between her companion and herself there was evidently very little, nor did she appear to expect it. He was enjoying his supper with the moderation and minute care for trifles which denote the epicure, and he only spoke to her between the courses. She, on the other hand, appeared to be eating scarcely anything. At last, however, the waiter set before her a dish in which she was evidently interested. Wolfenden recognised the pink frilled paper and smiled. She was human enough then to care for ices. She bent over it and shrugged her shoulders–turning to the waiter who was hovering near, she asked a question. He bowed and removed the plate. In a moment or two he reappeared with another. This time the paper and its contents were brown. She smiled as she helped herself–such a smile that Wolfenden wondered that the waiter did not lose his head, and hand her pepper and salt instead of gravely filling her glass. She took up her spoon and deliberately tasted the contents of her plate. Then she looked across the table, and spoke the first words in English which he had heard from her lips–

“Coffee ice. So much nicer than strawberry!”

The man nodded back.

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