CHAPTER VIII

“I regret,” Mr. Sabin said to Felix as they sat side by side in the

small coupe, “that your stay in this country will be so brief.”

“Indeed,” Felix answered. “May I ask what you call brief?”

Mr. Sabin looked out of the carriage window.

“We are already,” he said, “on the way to England.”

Felix laughed.

“This,” he said, “is like old times.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

“The system of espionage here,” he remarked, “is painfully primitive. It

lacks finesse and judgment. The fact that I have taken expensive rooms

on the Campania, and that I have sent many packages there, that my

own belongings are still in my rooms untouched, seems to our friends

conclusive evidence that I am going to attempt to leave America by that

boat. They have, I believe, a warrant for my arrest on some ridiculous

charge which they intend to present at the last moment. They will not

have the opportunity.”

“But there is no other steamer sailing to-morrow, is there?” Felix

asked.

“Not from New York,” Mr. Sabin answered, “but it was never my intention

to sail from New York. We are on our way to Boston now, and we sail in

the Saxonia at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“We appear to be stopping at the Waldorf,” Felix remarked.

“It is quite correct,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Follow me through the hall

as quickly as possible. There is another carriage waiting at the other

entrance, and I expect to find in it Duson and my dressing-case.”

They alighted and made their way though the crowded vestibules. At

the Thirty-fourth Street entrance a carriage was drawn up. Duson was

standing upon the pavement, his pale, nervous face whiter than ever

under the electric light. Mr. Sabin stopped short.

“Felix,” he said, “one word. If by any chance things have gone wrong

they will not have made any arrangements to detain you. Catch the

midnight train to Boston and embark on the Saxonia. There will be

a cable for you at Liverpool. But the moment you leave me send this

despatch.”

Felix nodded and put the crumpled-up piece of paper in his pocket.

The two men passed on. Duson took off his hat, but his fingers were

trembling. The carriage door was opened and a tall, spare man descended.

“This is Mr. Sabin?” he remarked.

Mr. Sabin bowed.

“That is my name,” he admitted, “by which I have been generally called

in this democratic country. What is your business with me?”

“I rather guess that you’re my prisoner,” the man answered. “If you’ll

step right in here we can get away quietly.”

“The suggestion,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “sounds inviting, but I am

somewhat pressed for time. Might I inquire the nature of the charge you

have against me?”

“They’ll tell you that at the office,” the man answered. “Get in,

please.”

Mr. Sabin looked around for Felix, but he had disappeared. He took out

his cigarette-case.

“You will permit me first to light a cigarette,” he remarked.

“All right! Only look sharp.”

Mr. Sabin kept silence in the carriage. The drive was a long one. When

they descended he looked up at Duson, who sat upon the box.

“Duson,” he said, and his voice, though low, was terrible, “I see that I

can be mistaken in men. You are a villain.”

The man sprung to his feet, hat in hand. His face was wrung with

emotion.

“Your Grace,” he said, “it is true that I betrayed you. But I did it

without reward. I am a ruined man. I did it because the orders which

came to me were such as I dare not disobey. Here are your keys, your

Grace, and money.”

Mr. Sabin looked at him steadily.

“You, too, Duson?”

“I too, alas, your Grace!”

Mr. Sabin considered for a moment.

“Duson,” he said, “I retain you in my service. Take my luggage on board

the Campania to-morrow afternoon, and pay the bill at the hotel. I shall

join you on the boat.”

Duson was amazed. The man who was standing by laughed.

“If you take my advice, sir,” he remarked, “you’ll order your clothes

to be sent here. I’ve a kind of fancy the Campania will sail without you

to-morrow.”

“You have my orders, Duson,” Mr. Sabin said. “You can rely upon seeing

me.”

The detective led the way into the building, and opened the door leading

into a large, barely furnished office.

“Chief’s gone home for the night, I guess,” he remarked. “We can fix up

a shakedown for you in one of the rooms behind.”

“I thank you,” Mr. Sabin said, sitting down in a high-backed wooden

chair; “I decline to move until the charge against me is properly

explained.”

“There is no one here to do it just now,” the man answered. “Better make

yourself comfortable for a bit.”

“You detain me here, then,” Mr. Sabin said, “without even a sight of

your warrant or any intimation as to the charge against me?”

“Oh, the chief’ll fix all that,” the man answered. “Don’t you worry.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

In a magnificently furnished apartment somewhere in the neighbourhood of

Fifth Avenue a small party of men were seated round a card table piled

with chips and rolls of bills. On the sideboard there was a great

collection of empty bottles, spirit decanters and Vichy syphons. Mr.

Horser was helping himself to brandy and water with one hand and holding

himself up with the other. There was a knock at the door.

A man who was still playing looked up. He was about fifty years of age,

clean shaven, with vacuous eyes and a weak mouth. He was the host of the

party.

“Come in!” he shouted.

A young man entered in a long black overcoat and soft hat. He looked

about him without surprise, but he seemed to note Mr. Horser’s presence

with some concern. The man at the table threw down his cards.

“What the devil do you want, Smith?”

“An important despatch from Washington has just arrived, sir. I have

brought it up with the codebook.”

“From Washington at this time of the night,” he exclaimed thickly. “Come

in here, Smith.”

He raised the curtains leading into a small anteroom, and turned up the

electric light. His clerk laid the message down on the table before him.

“Here is the despatch, Mr. Mace,” he said, “and here is the

translation.”

“English Ambassador demands immediate explanation of arrest of Duke

Souspennier at Waldorf to-night. Reply immediately what charge and

evidence. Souspennier naturalised Englishman.”

Mr. Mace sprang to his feet with an oath. He threw aside the curtain

which shielded the room from the larger apartment.

“Horser, come here, you damned fool!”

Horser, with a stream of magnificent invectives, obeyed the summons. His

host pointed to the message.

“Read that!”

Mr. Horser read and his face grew even more repulsive. A dull purple

flush suffused his cheeks, his eyes were bloodshot, and the veins on his

forehead stood out like cords. He leaned for several moments against the

table and steadily cursed Mr. Sabin, the government at Washington, and

something under his breath which he did not dare to name openly.

“Oh, shut up!” his host said at last. “How the devil are we going to get

out of this?”

Mr. Horser left the room and returned with a tumbler full of brandy and

a very little water.

“Take a drink yourself,” he said. “It’ll steady you.”

“Oh, I’m steady enough,” Mr. Mace replied impatiently. “I want to know

how you’re going to get us out of this. What was the charge, anyhow?”

“Passing forged bills,” Horser answered. “Parsons fixed it up.”

Mr. Mace turned a shade paler.

“Where the devil’s the sense in a charge like that?” he answered

fiercely. “The man’s a millionaire. He’ll turn the tables on us nicely.”

“We’ve got to keep him till after the Campania sails, anyhow,” Horser

said doggedly.

“We’re not going to keep him ten minutes,” Mace replied. “I’m going to

sign the order for his release.”

Horser’s speech was thick with drunken fury. “By --- I’ll see that you

don’t!” he exclaimed.

Mace turned upon him angrily.

“You selfish fool!” he muttered. “You’re not in the thing, anyhow. If

you think I’m going to risk my position for the sake of one little job

you’re wrong. I shall go down myself and release him, with an apology.”

“He’ll have his revenge all the same,” Horser answered. “It’s too late

now to funk the thing. They can’t budge you. We’ll see to that. We hold

New York in our hands. Be a man, Mace, and run a little risk. It’s fifty

thousand.”

Mace looked up at him curiously.

“What do you get out of it, Horser?”

Horser’s face hardened.

“Not one cent!” he declared fiercely. “Only if I fail it might be

unpleasant for me next time I crossed.”

“I don’t know!” Mace declared weakly. “I don’t know what to do. It’s

twelve hours, Horser, and the charge is ridiculous.”

“You have me behind you.”

“I can’t tell them that at Washington,” Mace said.

“It’s a fact, all the same. Don’t be so damned nervous.”

Mace dismissed his clerk, and found his other guests, too, on the point

of departure. But the last had scarcely left before a servant entered

with another despatch.

“Release Souspennier.”

Mace handed it to his companion.

“This settles it,” he declared. “I shall go round and try and make my

peace with the fellow.”

Horser stood in the way, burly, half-drunk and vicious. He struck his

host in the face with clenched fist. Mace went down with scarcely a

groan. A servant, hearing the fall, came hurrying back.

“Your master is drunk and he has fallen down,” Horser said. “Put him to

bed--give him a sleeping draught if you’ve got one.”

The servant bent over the unconscious man.

“Hadn’t I better fetch a doctor, sir?” he asked. “I’m afraid he’s hurt.”

“Not he!” Horser answered contemptuously. “He’s cut his cheek a little,

that’s all. Put him to bed. Say I shall be round again by nine o’clock.”

Horser put on his coat and left the house. The morning sunlight was

flooding the streets. Away down town Mr. Sabin was dozing in his

high-backed chair.