The Yellow Crayon E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

E. Phillips Oppenheim (1866-1946) was an internationally renowned author of mystery and espionage thrillers. His novels and short stories have all the elements of blood-racing adventure and intrigue and are precursors of modern-day spy fictions. 1924’s „The Wrath to Come” is one of his novels that are „fascinating extrapolations of the political dangers that faced Europe and America in the first half of the twentieth century”. This novel is very occasionally mentioned as being the weird book that seems to predict WWII. Written in the lull between the two great wars it postulates a German/Japanese alliance and the main plot revolves around Britain trying to shanghai America into foreign intrigue. The novel is extremely exciting reading and Oppenheim keeps the action moving along swiftly, as he always did.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER XLI

CHAPTER XLII

CHAPTER XLIII

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’OPÉRA, 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.

CHAPTER II

“This is the luggage porter, sir,” Duson announced. “He is prepared to answer any questions.”

The man took out his book. Mr. Sabin, who was sitting in an easy-chair, turned sideways towards him.

“The Duchess of Souspennier was staying here last week,” he said. “She left, I believe, on Thursday or Friday. Can you tell me whether her baggage went through your hands?”

The man set down his hat upon a vacant chair, and turned over the leaves of his book.

“Guess I can fix that for you,” he remarked, running his forefinger down one of the pages. “Here we are. The Duchess left on Friday, and we checked her baggage through to Lenox by the New York, New Haven & Hartford.”

Mr. Sabin nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “She would probably take a carriage to the station. It will be worth another ten dollars to you if you can find me the man who drove her.”

“Well, we ought to manage that for you,” the man remarked encouragingly. “It was one of Steve Hassell’s carriages, I guess, unless the lady took a hansom.”

“Very good,” Mr. Sabin said. “See if you can find him. Keep my inquiries entirely to yourself. It will pay you.”

“That’s all right,” the man remarked. “Don’t you go to bed for half-an-hour, and I guess you’ll hear from me again.”

Duson busied himself in the bed-chamber, Mr. Sabin sat motionless in his easy chair. Soon there came a tap at the door. The porter reappeared ushering in a smart-looking young man, who carried a shiny coachman’s hat in his hand.

“Struck it right fust time,” the porter remarked cheerfully. “This is the man, sir.”

Mr. Sabin turned his head.

“You drove a lady from here to the New York, New Haven & Hartford Depot last Friday?” he asked.

“Well, not exactly, sir,” the man answered. “The Duchess took my cab, and the first address she gave was the New York, New Haven & Hartford Depot, but before we’d driven a hundred yards she pulled the check-string and ordered me to go to the Waldorf. She paid me there, and went into the hotel.”

“You have not seen her since?”

“No, sir!”

“You knew her by sight, you say. Was there anything special about her appearance?”

The man hesitated.

“She’d a pretty thick veil on, sir, but she raised it to pay me, and I should say she’d been crying. She was much paler, too, than last time I drove her.”

“When was that?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“In the spring, sir,–with you, begging your pardon. You were at the Netherlands, and I drove you out several times.”

“You seem,” Mr. Sabin said, “to be a person with some powers of observation. It would pay you very well indeed if you would ascertain from any of your mates at the Waldorf when and with whom the lady in question left that hotel.”

“I’ll have a try, sir,” the man answered. “The Duchess was better known here, but some of them may have recognised her.”

“She had no luggage, I presume?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“Her dressing-case and jewel-case only, sir.”

“So you see,” Mr. Sabin continued, “it is probable that she did not remain at the Waldorf for the night. Base your inquiries on that supposition.”

“Very good, sir.”

“From your manners and speech,” Mr. Sabin said, raising his head, “I should take you to be an Englishman.”

“Quite correct, sir,” the man answered. “I drove a hansom in London for eight years.”

“You will understand me then,” Mr. Sabin continued, “when I say that I have no great confidence in the police of this country. I do not wish to be blackmailed or bullied. I would ask you, therefore, to make your inquiries with discretion.”

“I’ll be careful, sir,” the man answered.

Mr. Sabin handed to each of them a roll of notes. The cabdriver lingered upon the threshold. Mr. Sabin looked up.

“Well?”

“Could I speak a word to you–in private, sir?”

Mr. Sabin motioned Duson to leave the room. The baggage porter had already departed.

“When I cleaned out my cab at night, sir, I found this. I didn’t reckon it was of any consequence at first, but from the questions you have been asking it may be useful to you.”

Mr. Sabin took the half-sheet of note-paper in silence. It was the ordinary stationery of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, and the following words were written upon it in a faint delicate handwriting, but in yellow pencil:–

Sept. 10th.

To Lucille, Duchesse de Souspennier.–

You will be at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in the main corridor at four o’clock this afternoon.”

The thin paper shook in Mr. Sabin’s fingers. There was no signature, but he fancied that the handwriting was not wholly unfamiliar to him. He looked slowly up towards the cabman.

“I am much obliged to you,” he said. “This is of interest to me.”

He stretched out his hand to the little wad of notes which Duson had left upon the table, but the cabdriver backed away.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “You’ve given me plenty. The letter’s of no value to me. I came very near tearing it up, but for the peculiar colour pencil it’s written with. Kinder took my fancy, sir.”

“The letter is of value,” Mr. Sabin said. “It tells me much more than I hoped to discover. It is our good fortune.”

The man accepted the little roll of bills and departed. Mr. Sabin touched the bell.

“Duson, what time is it?”

“Nearly midnight, sir!”

“I will go to bed!”

“Very good, sir!”

“Mix me a sleeping draught, Duson. I need rest. See that I am not disturbed until ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

CHAPTER III

At precisely ten o’clock on the following morning Duson brought chocolate, which he had prepared himself, and some dry toast to his master’s bedside. Upon the tray was a single letter. Mr. Sabin sat up in bed and tore open the envelope. The following words were written upon a sheet of the Holland House notepaper in the same peculiar coloured crayon.

“The first warning addressed to you yesterday was a friendly one. Profit by it. Go back to Lenox. You are only exposing yourself to danger and the person you seek to discomfort. Wait there, and some one shall come to you shortly who will explain what has happened, and the necessity for it.”

Mr. Sabin smiled, a slow contemplative smile. He sipped his chocolate and lit a cigarette.

“Our friends, then,” he said softly, “do not care about pursuit and inquiries. It is ridiculous to suppose that their warning is given out of any consideration to me. Duson!”

“Yes, sir!”

“My bath. I shall rise now.”

Mr. Sabin made his toilet with something of the same deliberation which characterised all his movements. Then he descended into the hall, bought a newspaper, and from a convenient easy-chair kept a close observation upon every one who passed to and fro for about an hour. Later on he ordered a carriage, and made several calls down town.

At a few minutes past twelve he entered the bar of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and ordering a drink sat down at one of the small tables. The room was full, but Mr. Sabin’s attention was directed solely to one group of men who stood a short distance away before the counter drinking champagne. The central person of the group was a big man, with an unusually large neck, a fat pale face, a brown moustache tinged with grey, and a voice and laugh like a fog-horn. It was he apparently who was paying for the champagne, and he was clearly on intimate terms with all the party. Mr. Sabin watched for his opportunity, and then rising from his seat touched him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Skinner, I believe?” he said quietly.

The big man looked down upon Mr. Sabin with the sullen offensiveness of the professional bully.

“You’ve hit it first time,” he admitted. “Who are you, anyway?”

Mr. Sabin produced a card.

“I called this morning,” he said, “upon the gentleman whose name you will see there. He directed me to you, and told me to come here.”

The man tore the card into small pieces.

“So long, boys,” he said, addressing his late companions. “See you to-night.”

They accepted his departure in silence, and one and all favoured Mr. Sabin with a stare of blatant curiosity.

“I should be glad to speak with you,” Mr. Sabin said, “in a place where we are likely to be neither disturbed nor overheard.”

“You come right across to my office,” was the prompt reply. “I guess we can fix it up there.”

Mr. Sabin motioned to his coachman, and they crossed Broadway. His companion led him into a tall building, talking noisily all the time about the pals whom he had just left. An elevator transported them to the twelfth floor in little more than as many seconds, and Mr. Skinner ushered his visitor into a somewhat bare-looking office, smelling strongly of stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Skinner at once lit a cigar, and seating himself before his desk, folded his arms and leaned over towards Mr. Sabin.

“Smoke one?” he asked, pointing to the open box.

Mr. Sabin declined.

“Get right ahead then.”

“I am an Englishman,” Mr. Sabin said slowly, “and consequently am not altogether at home with your ways over here. I have always understood, however, that if you are in need of any special information such as we should in England apply to the police for, over here there is a quicker and more satisfactory method of procedure.”

“You’ve come a long way round,” Mr. Skinner remarked, spitting upon the floor, “but you’re dead right.”

“I am in need of some information,” Mr. Sabin continued, “and accordingly I called this morning on Mr.–”

Mr. Skinner held up his hand.

“All right,” he said. “We don’t mention names more than we can help. Call him the boss.”

“He assured me that the information I was in need of was easily to be obtained, and gave me a card to you.”

“Go right on,” Mr. Skinner said. “What is it?”

“On Friday last,” Mr. Sabin said, “at four o’clock, the Duchess of Souspennier, whose picture I will presently show you, left the Holland House Hotel for the New York, New Haven & Hartford Depot, presumably for her home at Lenox, to which place her baggage had already been checked. On the way she ordered the cabman to set her down at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, which he did at a few minutes past four. The Duchess has not returned home or been directly heard from since. I wish to ascertain her movements since she arrived at the Waldorf.”

“Sounds dead easy,” Mr. Skinner remarked reassuringly. “Got the picture?”

Mr. Sabin touched the spring of a small gold locket which he drew from an inside waistcoat pocket, and disclosed a beautifully painted miniature. Mr. Skinner’s thick lips were pursed into a whistle. He was on the point of making a remark when he chanced to glance into Mr. Sabin’s face. The remark remained unspoken.

He drew a sheet of note-paper towards him and made a few notes upon it.

“The Duchess many friends in New York?”

“At present none. The few people whom she knows here are at Newport or in Europe just now.”

“Any idea whom she went to the Waldorf to see? More we know the better.”

Mr. Sabin handed him the letter which had been picked up in the cab. Mr. Skinner read it through, and spat once more upon the floor.

“What the h––‘s this funny coloured pencil mean?”

“I do not know,” Mr. Sabin answered. “You will see that the two anonymous communications which I have received since arriving in New York yesterday are written in the same manner.”

Mr. Sabin handed him the other two letters, which Mr. Skinner carefully perused.

“I guess you’d better tell me who you are,” he suggested.

“I am the husband of the Duchess of Souspennier,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“The Duchess send any word home at all?” Mr. Skinner asked.

Mr. Sabin produced a worn telegraph form. It was handed in at Fifth Avenue, New York, at six o’clock on Friday. It contained the single word ‘Good-bye.’

“H’m,” Mr. Skinner remarked. “We’ll find all you want to know by to-morrow sure.”

“What do you make of the two letters which I received?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“Bunkum!” Mr. Skinner replied confidently.

Mr. Sabin nodded his head.

“You have no secret societies over here, I suppose?” he said.

Mr. Skinner laughed loudly and derisively.

“I guess not,” he answered. “They keep that sort of rubbish on the other side of the pond.”

“Ah!”

Mr. Sabin was thoughtful for a moment. “You expect to find, then,” he remarked, “some other cause for my wife’s disappearance?”

“There don’t seem much room for doubt concerning that, sir,” Mr. Skinner said; “but I never speculate. I will bring you the facts to-night between eight and eleven. Now as to the business side of it.”

Mr. Sabin was for a moment puzzled.

“What’s the job worth to you?” Mr. Skinner asked. “I am willing to pay,” Mr. Sabin answered, “according to your demands.”

“It’s a simple case,” Mr. Skinner admitted, “but our man at the Waldorf is expensive. If you get all your facts, I guess five hundred dollars will about see you through.”

“I will pay that,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“I will bring you the letters back to-night,” Mr. Skinner said. “I guess I’ll borrow that locket of yours, too.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

“That,” he said firmly, “I do not part with.” Mr. Skinner scratched his ear with his penholder. “It’s the only scrap of identifying matter we’ve got,” he remarked. “Of course it’s a dead simple case, and we can probably manage without it. But I guess it’s as well to fix the thing right down.”

“If you will give me a piece of paper,” Mr. Sabin said, “I will make you a sketch of the Duchess. The larger the better. I can give you an idea of the sort of clothes she would probably be wearing.”

Mr. Skinner furnished him with a double sheet of paper, and Mr. Sabin, with set face and unflinching figures, reproduced in a few simple strokes a wonderful likeness of the woman he loved. He pushed it away from him when he had finished without remark. Mr. Skinner was loud in its praises.

“I guess you’re an artist, sir, for sure,” he remarked. “This’ll fix the thing. Shall I come to your hotel?”

“If you please,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I shall be there for the rest of the day.”

Mr. Skinner took up his hat.

“Guess I’ll take my dinner and get right to work,” he remarked. “Say, you come along, Mr. Sabin. I’ll take you where they’ll fix you such a beefsteak as you never tasted in your life.”

“I thank you very much,” Mr. Sabin said, “but I must beg to be excused. I am expecting some despatches at my hotel. If you are successful this afternoon you will perhaps do me the honour of dining with me to-night. I will wait until eight-thirty.”

The two men parted upon the pavement. Mr. Skinner, with his small bowler hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled along Broadway with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and showing his yellow teeth.

“Darned old fool,” he muttered. “To marry a slap-up handsome woman like that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts. Guess I’ll spoil his supper to-night.”

Mr. Sabin, however, was recovering his spirits. He, too, was leaning back in the corner of his carriage with a faint smile brightening his hard, stern face. But, unlike Mr. Skinner, he did not talk to himself.

CHAPTER IV

R. Sabin, who was never, for its own sake, fond of solitude, had ordered dinner for two at eight-thirty in the general dining-room. At a few minutes previous to that hour Mr. Skinner presented himself.

Mr. Skinner was not in the garb usually affected by men of the world who are invited to dine out. The long day’s exertion, too, had had its effect upon his linen. His front, indeed, through a broad gap, confessed to a foundation of blue, and one of his cuffs showed a marked inclination to escape from his wrist over his knuckles. His face was flushed, and he exhaled a strong odour of cigars and cocktails. Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin was very glad to see him, and to receive the folded sheet of paper which he at once produced.

“I have taken the liberty,” Mr. Sabin remarked, on his part, “of adding a trifle to the amount we first spoke of, which I beg you will accept from me as a mark of my gratitude for your promptness.”

“Sure!” Mr. Skinner answered tersely, receiving the little roll of bills without hesitation, and retreating into a quiet corner, where he carefully counted and examined every one. “That’s all right!” he announced at the conclusion of his task. “Come and have one with me now before you read your little billet-doux, eh?”

“I shall not read your report until after dinner,” Mr. Sabin said, “and I think if you are ready that we might as well go in. At the head-waiter’s suggestion I have ordered a cocktail with the oysters, and if we are much later he seemed to fear that it might affect the condition of the–I think it was terrapin, he said.”

Mr. Skinner stopped short. His tone betrayed emotion.

“Did you say terrapin, sir?”

Mr. Sabin nodded. Mr. Skinner at once took his arm.

“Guess we’ll go right in,” he declared. “I hate to have a good meal spoiled.”

They were an old-looking couple. Mr. Sabin quietly but faultlessly attired in the usual evening dinner garb, Mr. Skinner ill-dressed, untidy, unwashed and frowsy. But here at least Mr. Sabin’s incognito had been unavailing, for he had stayed at the hotel several times–as he remembered with an odd little pang–with Lucille, and the head-waiter, with a low bow, ushered them to their table. Mr. Skinner saw the preparations for their repast, the oysters, the cocktails in tall glasses, the magnum of champagne in ice, and chuckled. To take supper with a duke was a novelty to him, but he was not shy. He sat down and tucked his serviette into his waistcoat, raised his glass, and suddenly set it down again.

“The boss!” he exclaimed in amazement.

Mr. Sabin turned his head in the direction which his companion had indicated. Coming hastily across the room towards them, already out of breath as though with much hurrying, was a thick-set, powerful man, with the brutal face and coarse lips of a prizefighter; a beard cropped so short as to seem the growth of a few days only covered his chin, and his moustache, treated in the same way, was not thick enough to conceal a cruel mouth. He was carefully enough dressed, and a great diamond flashed from his tie. There was a red mark round his forehead where his hat had been, and the perspiration was streaming from his forehead. He strode without hesitation to the table where Mr. Sabin and his guest were sitting, and without even a glance at the former turned upon his myrmidon.

“Where’s that report?” he cried roughly. “Where is it?”

Mr. Skinner seemed to have shrunk into a smaller man. He pointed across the table.

“I’ve given it to him,” he said. “What’s wrong, boss?”

The newcomer raised his hand as though to strike Skinner. He gnashed his teeth with the effort to control himself.

“You damned blithering idiot,” he said hoarsely, gripping the side of the table. “Why wasn’t it presented to me first?”

“Guess it didn’t seem worth while,” Skinner answered. “There’s nothing in the darned thing.”

“You ignorant fool, hold your tongue,” was the fierce reply.

The newcomer sank into a chair and wiped the perspiration from his streaming forehead. Mr. Sabin signaled to a waiter.

“You seem upset, Mr. Horser,” he remarked politely. “Allow me to offer you a glass of wine.”

Mr. Horser did not immediately reply, but he accepted the glass which the waiter brought him, and after a moment’s hesitation drained its contents. Then he turned to Mr. Sabin.

“You said nothing about those letters you had had when you came to see me this morning!”

“It was you yourself,” Mr. Sabin reminded him, “who begged me not to enter into particulars. You sent me on to Mr. Skinner. I told him everything.”

Mr. Horser leaned over the table. His eyes were bloodshot, his tone was fierce and threatening. Mr. Sabin was coldly courteous. The difference between the demeanour of the two men was remarkable.

“You knew what those letters meant! This is a plot! Where is Skinner’s report?”

Mr. Sabin raised his eyebrows. He signaled to the head-waiter.

“Be so good as to continue the service of my dinner,” he ordered. “The champagne is a trifle too chilled. You can take it out of the cooler.”

The man bowed, with a curious side glance at Horser.

“Certainly, your Grace!”

Horser was almost speechless with anger.

“Are you going to answer my questions?” he demanded thickly.

“I have no particular objection to doing so,” Mr. Sabin answered, “but until you can sit up and compose yourself like an ordinary individual, I decline to enter into any conversation with you at all.”

Again Mr. Horser raised his voice, and the glare in his eyes was like the glare of a wild beast.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Mr. Sabin looked at him coolly, and fingered his wineglass.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve a shocking memory for names, but yours is–Mr. Horser, isn’t it? I heard it for the first time this morning, and my memory will generally carry me through four-and-twenty hours.”

There was a moment’s silence. Horser was no fool. He accepted his defeat and dropped the bully.

“You’re a stranger in this city, Mr. Sabin, and I guess you aren’t altogether acquainted with our ways yet,” he said. “But I want you to understand this. The report which is in your pocket has got to be returned to me. If I’d known what I was meddling with I wouldn’t have touched your business for a hundred thousand dollars. It’s got to be returned to me, I say!” he repeated in a more threatening tone.

Mr. Sabin helped himself to fish, and made a careful examination of the sauce.

“After all,” he said meditatively, “I am not sure that I was wise in insisting upon a sauce piquante. I beg your pardon, Mr. Horser. Please do not think me inattentive, but I am very hungry. So, I believe, is my friend, Mr. Skinner. Will you not join us–or perhaps you have already dined?”

There was an ugly flush in Mr. Horser’s cheeks, but he struggled to keep his composure.

“Will you give me back that report?”

“When I have read it, with pleasure,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Before, no.”

Mr. Horser swallowed an exceedingly vicious oath. He struck the table lightly with his forefinger.

“Look here,” he said. “If you’d lived in New York a couple of years, even a couple of months, you wouldn’t talk like that. I tell you that I hold the government of this city in my right hand. I don’t want to be unpleasant, but if that paper is not in my hands by the time you leave this table I shall have you arrested as you leave this room, and the papers taken from you.”

“Dear me,” Mr. Sabin said, “this is serious. On what charge may I ask should I be exposed to this inconvenience?”

“Charge be damned!” Mr. Horser answered. “The police don’t want particulars from me. When I say do a thing they do it. They know that if they declined it would be their last day on the force.”

Mr. Sabin filled his glass and leaned back in his chair.

“This,” he remarked, “is interesting. I am always glad to have the opportunity of gaining an insight into the customs of different countries. I had an idea that America was a country remarkable for the amount of liberty enjoyed by its inhabitants. Your proposed course of action seems scarcely in keeping with this.”

“What are you going to do? Come, I’ve got to have an answer.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Mr. Sabin remarked, with a puzzled look, “what your official position is in connection with the police.”

Mr. Horser’s face was a very ugly sight. “Oh, curse my official position,” he exclaimed thickly. “If you want proof of what I say you shall have it in less than five minutes. Skinner, be off and fetch a couple of constables.”

“I really must protest,” Mr. Sabin said. “Mr. Skinner is my guest, and I will not have him treated in this fashion, just as the terrapin is coming in, too. Sit down, Mr. Skinner, sit down. I will settle this matter with you in my room, Mr. Horser, after I have dined. I will not even discuss it before.”

Mr. Horser opened his mouth twice, and closed it again. He knew that his opponent was simply playing to gain time, but, after all, he held the trump card. He could afford to wait. He turned to a waiter and ordered a cigar. Mr. Sabin and Mr. Skinner continued their dinner.

Conversation was a little difficult, though Mr. Sabin showed no signs of an impaired appetite. Skinner was white with fear, and glanced every now and then nervously at his chief. Mr. Horser smoked without ceasing, and maintained an ominous silence. Mr. Sabin at last, with a sigh, rose, and lighting a cigarette, took his stick from the waiter and prepared to leave.

“I fear, Mr. Horser,” he remarked, “that your presence has scarcely contributed to the cheerfulness of our repast. Mr. Skinner, am I to be favoured with your company also upstairs?”

Horser clutched that gentleman’s arm and whispered a few words in his ear.

“Mr. Skinner,” he said, “will join us presently. What is your number?”

“336,” Mr. Sabin answered. “You will excuse my somewhat slow progress.”

They crossed the hall and entered the elevator. Mr. Horser’s face began to clear. In a moment or two they would be in Mr. Sabin’s sitting-room-alone. He regarded with satisfaction the other’s slim, delicate figure and the limp with which he moved. He felt that the danger was already over.