CHAPTER I

It was late summer-time, and the perfume of flowers stole into the

darkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced its

way through a chink in the blind, and stretched across the floor in

strange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur of bees

and many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower beds, resting

for a while on the clematis which had made the piazza a blaze of purple

splendour. And inside, in a high-backed chair, there sat a man, his arms

folded, his eyes fixed steadily upon vacancy. As he sat then, so had he

sat for a whole day and a whole night. The faint sweet chorus of glad

living things, which alone broke the deep silence of the house, seemed

neither to disturb nor interest him. He sat there like a man turned to

stone, his forehead riven by one deep line, his straight firm mouth set

close and hard. His servant, the only living being who had approached

him, had set food by his side, which now and then he had mechanically

taken. Changeless as a sphinx, he had sat there in darkness and in

light, whilst sunlight had changed to moonlight, and the songs of the

birds had given place to the low murmuring of frogs from a lake below

the lawns.

At last it seemed that his unnatural fit had passed away. He stretched

out his hand and struck a silver gong which had been left within his

reach. Almost immediately a man, pale-faced, with full dark eyes and

olive complexion, dressed in the sombre garb of an indoor servant, stood

at his elbow.

“Duson.”

“Your Grace!”

“Bring wine--Burgundy.”

It was before him, served with almost incredible despatch--a small

cobwebbed bottle and a glass of quaint shape, on which were beautifully

emblazoned a coronet and fleur-de-lis. He drank slowly and deliberately.

When he set the glass down it was empty.

“Duson!”

“Your Grace!”

“You will pack my things and your own. We shall leave for New York this

evening. Telegraph to the Holland House for rooms.”

“For how many days, your Grace?”

“We shall not return here. Pay off all the servants save two of the most

trustworthy, who will remain as caretakers.”

The man’s face was as immovable as his master’s.

“And Madame?”

“Madame will not be returning. She will have no further use for her

maid. See, however, that her clothes and all her personal belongings

remain absolutely undisturbed.”

“Has your Grace any further orders?”

“Take pencil and paper. Send this cablegram. Are you ready?”

The man’s head moved in respectful assent.

“To Felix,

“No 27, Rue de St. Pierre,

“Avenue de L’Opera, Paris.

“Meet me at Sherry’s Restaurant, New York, one month to-day, eleven

p.m.--V. S.”

“It shall be sent immediately, your Grace. The train for New York leaves

at seven-ten. A carriage will be here in one hour and five minutes.”

The man moved towards the door. His master looked up.

“Duson!”

“Your Grace!”

“The Duc de Souspennier remains here--or at the bottom of the lake--what

matters! It is Mr. Sabin who travels to New York, and for whom you

engage rooms at the Holland House. Mr. Sabin is a cosmopolitan of

English proclivities.”

“Very good, sir!”

“Lock this door. Bring my coat and hat five minutes before the carriage

starts. Let the servants be well paid. Let none of them attempt to see

me.”

The man bowed and disappeared. Left to himself, Mr. Sabin rose from his

chair, and pushing open the windows, stood upon the verandah. He leaned

heavily upon his stick with both hands, holding it before him. Slowly

his eyes traveled over the landscape.

It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him stretched

the gardens--Italian in design, brilliant with flowers, with here and

there a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn. A yew hedge bordered

the rose-garden, a fountain was playing in the middle of a lake. A

wooden fence encircled the grounds, and beyond was a smooth rolling

park, with little belts of pine plantations and a few larger trees here

and there. In the far distance the red flag was waving on one of the

putting greens. Archie Green was strolling up the hillside,--his pipe

in his mouth, and his driver under his arm. Mr. Sabin watched, and the

lines in his face grew deeper and deeper.

“I am an old man,” he said softly, “but I will live to see them suffer

who have done this evil thing.”

He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than was

usual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a charmingly

furnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung dead in their

vases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty. Slowly he

threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze furniture, examining

as though for the first time the beautiful old tapestry, the Sevres

china, the Chippendale table, which was priceless, the exquisite

portraits painted by Greuze, and the mysterious green twilights and

grey dawns of Corot. Everywhere treasures of art, yet everywhere the

restraining hand of the artist. The faint smell of dead rose leaves hung

about the room. Already one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness as

though the genius of the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon

his stick, and his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectful

voice came to him from the other room.

“In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have your

coat and hat here.”

Mr. Sabin looked up.

“I am quite ready, Duson!” he said.

* * * * *

The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass. On

the way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him. In the car

he sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking steadfastly

out of the window at the dying day. There were mountains away westwards,

touched with golden light; sometimes for long minutes together the train

was rushing through forests whose darkness was like that of a tunnel.

Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent to these changes. The coming of night did

not disturb him. His brain was at work, and the things which he saw were

hidden from other men.

Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.

“You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served. The

restaurant car will be detached at the next stop.”

“What of it?” Mr. Sabin asked calmly.

“I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is thirty

hours since you ate anything save biscuits.”

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

“You are quite right, Duson,” he said. “I will dine.”

In half-an-hour he was back again. Duson placed before him silently a

box of cigarettes and matches. Mr. Sabin smoked.

Soon the lights of the great city flared in the sky, the train stopped

more frequently, the express men and newspaper boys came into evidence.

Mr. Sabin awoke from his long spell of thought. He bought a newspaper,

and glanced through the list of steamers which had sailed during the

week. When the train glided into the depot he was on his feet and ready

to leave it.

“You will reserve our rooms, Duson, for one month,” he said on the way

to the hotel. “We shall probably leave for Europe a month to-morrow.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You were Mrs. Peterson’s servant, Duson, before you were mine!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have been with her, I believe, for many years. You are doubtless

much attached to her!”

“Indeed I am, sir!”

“You may have surmised, Duson, that she has left me. I desire to ensure

your absolute fidelity, so I take you into my confidence to this extent.

Your mistress is in the hands of those who have some power over her. Her

absence is involuntary so far as she is concerned. It has been a great

blow to me. I am prepared to run all risks to discover her whereabouts.

It is late in my life for adventures, but it is very certain that

adventures and dangers are before us. In accompanying me you will

associate yourself with many risks. Therefore--”

Duson held up his hand.

“I beg, sir,” he exclaimed, “that you will not suggest for a moment my

leaving your service on that account. I beg most humbly, sir, that you

will not do me that injustice.”

Mr. Sabin paused. His eyes, like lightning, read the other’s face.

“It is settled then, Duson,” he said. “Kindly pay this cabman, and

follow me as quickly as possible.”

Mr. Sabin passed across the marble hall, leaning heavily upon his stick.

Yet for all his slow movements there was a new alertness in his eyes and

bearing. He was once more taking keen note of everybody and everything

about him. Only a few days ago she had been here.

He claimed his rooms at the office, and handed the keys to Duson, who by

this time had rejoined him. At the moment of turning away he addressed

an inquiry to the clerk behind the counter.

“Can you tell me if the Duchess of Souspennier is staying here?” he

inquired.

The young man glanced up.

“Been here, I guess. Left on Tuesday.”

Mr. Sabin turned away. He did not speak again until Duson and he were

alone in the sitting-room. Then he drew out a five dollar bill.

“Duson,” he said, “take this to the head luggage porter. Tell him to

bring his departure book up here at once, and there is another waiting

for him. You understand?”

“Certainly, sir!”

Mr. Sabin turned to enter his bed-chamber. His attention was attracted,

however, by a letter lying flat upon the table. He took it up. It was

addressed to Mr. Sabin.

“This is very clever,” he mused, hesitating for a moment before opening

it. “I wired for rooms only a few hours ago--and I find a letter. It is

the commencement.”

He tore open the envelope, and drew out a single half-sheet of

note-paper. Across it was scrawled a single sentence only.

“Go back to Lenox.”

There was no signature, nor any date. The only noticeable thing about

this brief communication was that it was written in yellow pencil of a

peculiar shade. Mr. Sabin’s eyes glittered as he read.

“The yellow crayon!” he muttered.

Duson knocked softly at the door. Mr. Sabin thrust the letter and

envelope into his breast coat pocket.