The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pawns Count, by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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Title: The Pawns Count

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim

Posting Date: December 7, 2011 [EBook #9836]
Release Date: February, 2006
First Posted: October 23, 2003
Last Updated: January 1, 2006

Language: English

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THE PAWNS COUNT

BY

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM


1918


FOREWORD

"I am for England and England only," John Lutchester, the Englishman,
asserted.

"I am for Japan and Japan only," Nikasti, the Jap, insisted.

"I am for Germany first and America afterwards," Oscar Fischer, the
German-American pronounced.

"I am for America first, America only, America always," Pamela Van
Teyl, the American girl, declared.

They were all right except the German-American.




CHAPTER I


Mefiez-Vous!

Taisez-Vous!

Les Oreilles Ennemies Vous Ecoutent!

The usual little crowd was waiting in the lobby of a fashionable London
restaurant a few minutes before the popular luncheon hour. Pamela Van
Teyl, a very beautiful American girl, dressed in the extreme of
fashion, which she seemed somehow to justify, directed the attention of
her companions to the notice affixed to the wall facing them.

"Except," she declared, "for you poor dears who have been hurt, that is
the first thing I have seen in England which makes me realise that you
are at war."

The younger of her two escorts, Captain Richard Holderness, who wore
the uniform of a well-known cavalry regiment, glanced at the notice a
little impatiently.

"What rot it seems!" he exclaimed. "We get fed up with that sort of
thing in France. It's always the same at every little railway station
and every little inn. 'Mefiez-vous! Taisez-vous!' They might spare us
over here."

John Lutchester, a tall, clean-shaven man, dressed in civilian clothes,
raised his eyeglass and read out the notice languidly.

"Well, I don't know," he observed. "Some of you Service fellows--not
the Regulars, of course--do gas a good deal when you come back. I don't
suppose you any of you know anything, so it doesn't really matter," he
added, glancing at his watch.

"Army's full of Johnnies, who come from God knows where nowadays,"
Holderness assented gloomily. "No wonder they can't keep their mouths
shut."

"Seems to me you need them all," Miss Pamela Van Teyl remarked with a
smile.

"Of course we do," Holderness assented, "and Heaven forbid that any of
us Regulars should say a word against them. Jolly good stuff in them,
too, as the Germans found out last month."

"All the same," Lutchester continued, still studying the notice, "news
does run over London like quicksilver. If you step down to the American
bar here, for instance, you'll find that Charles is one of the
best-informed men about the war in London. He has patrons in the Army,
in the Navy, and in the Flying Corps, and it's astonishing how
communicative they seem to become after the second or third cocktail."

"Cocktail, mark you, Miss Van Teyl," Holderness pointed out. "We poor
Englishmen could keep our tongues from wagging before we acquired some
of your American habits."

"The habits are all right," Pamela retorted. "It's your heads that are
wrong."

"The most valued product of your country," Lutchester murmured, "is
more dangerous to our hearts than to our heads."

She made a little grimace and turned away, holding out her hand to a
new arrival--a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a strong, cold face and
keen, grey eyes, aggressive even behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
There was a queer change in his face as his eyes met Pamela's. He
seemed suddenly to become more human. His pleasure at seeing her was
certainly more than the usual transatlantic politeness.

"Mr. Fischer," she exclaimed, "they are saying hard things about our
country! Please protect me."

He bowed over her fingers. Then he looked up. His tone was impressive.

"If I thought that you needed protection, Miss Van Teyl--"

"Well, I can assure you that I do," she interrupted, laughing. "You
know my friends, don't you?"

"I think I have that pleasure," the American replied, shaking hands
with Lutchester and Holderness.

"Now we'll get an independent opinion," the former observed, pointing
to the wall. "We were discussing that notice, Mr. Fischer. You're
almost as much a Londoner as a New Yorker. What do you think?--is it
superfluous or not?"

Fischer read it out and smiled.

"Well," he admitted, "in America we don't lay much store by that sort
of thing, but I don't know as we're very good judges about what goes on
over here. I shouldn't call this place, anyway, a hotbed of intrigue.
Excuse me!"

He moved off to greet some incoming guests--a well-known stockbroker
and his partner. Lutchester looked after him curiously.

"Is Mr. Fischer one of your typical millionaires, Miss Van Teyl?" he
asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"We have no typical millionaires," she assured him. "They come from all
classes and all States."

"Fischer is a Westerner, isn't he?"

Pamela nodded, but did not pursue the conversation. Her eyes were fixed
upon a girl who had just entered, and who was looking a little
doubtfully around, a girl plainly but smartly dressed, with fluffy
light hair, dark eyes, and a very pleasant expression. Pamela, who was
critical of her own sex, found the newcomer attractive.

"Is that, by any chance, one of our missing guests, Captain
Holderness?" she inquired, turning towards him. "I don't know why, but
I have an idea that it is your sister."

"By Jove, yes!" the young man assented, stepping forward. "Here we are,
Molly, and at last you are going to meet Miss Van Teyl. I've bored
Molly stiff, talking about you," he explained, as Pamela held out her
hand.

The girls, who stood talking together for a moment, presented rather a
striking contrast. Molly Holderness was pretty but usual. Pamela was
beautiful and unusual. She had the long, slim body of a New York girl,
the complexion and eyes of a Southerner, the savoir faire of a
Frenchwoman. She was extraordinarily cosmopolitan, and yet
extraordinarily American. She impressed every one, as she did Molly
Holderness at that moment, with a sense of charm. One could almost
accept as truth her own statement--that she valued her looks chiefly
because they helped people to forget that she had brains.

"I won't admit that I have ever been bored, Miss Van Teyl," Molly
Holderness assured her, "but Dick has certainly told me all sorts of
wonderful things about you--how kind you were in New York, and what a
delightful surprise it was to see you down at the hospital at Nice. I
am afraid he must have been a terrible crock then."

"Got well in no time as soon as Miss Van Teyl came along," Holderness
declared. "It was a bit dreary down there at first. None of my lot were
sent south, and a familiar face means a good deal when you've got your
lungs full of that rotten gas and are feeling like nothing on earth. I
wonder where that idiot Sandy is. I told him to be here a quarter of an
hour before you others--thought we might have had a quiet chat first.
Will you stand by the girls for a moment, Lutchester, while I have a
look round?" he added.

He hobbled away, one of the thousands who were thronging the streets
and public places of London--brave, simple-minded young men, all of
them, with tangled recollections in their brains of blood and fire and
hell, and a game leg or a lost arm to remind them that the whole thing
was not a nightmare. He looked a little disconsolately around, and was
on the point of rejoining the others when the friend for whom he was
searching came hurriedly through the turnstile doors.

"Sandy, old chap," Holderness exclaimed, with an air of relief, "here
you are at last!"

"Cheero, Dick!" was the light-hearted reply. "Fearfully sorry I'm late,
but listen--just listen for one moment."

The newcomer threw his hat and coat to the attendant. He was a rather
short, freckled young man, with a broad, high forehead and
light-coloured hair. His eyes just now were filled with the enthusiasm
which trembled in his tone.

"Dick," he continued, gripping his friend's arm tightly, "I'm late, I
know, but I've great news. I've motored straight up from Salisbury
Plain. I've done it! I swear to you, Dick, I've done it!"

"Done what?" Holderness demanded, a little bewildered.

"I've perfected my explosive--the thing I was telling you about last
week," was the triumphant reply. "The whole world's struggling for it,
Dick. The German chemists have been working night and day for three
years, just for one little formula, and I've got it! One of my shells,
which fell in a wood at daylight this morning, killed every living
thing within a mile of it. The bark fell off the trees, and the
labourers in a field beyond threw down their implements and ran for
their lives. It's the principle of intensification. The poison feeds on
its own vapours. The formula--I've got it in my pocket-book--"

"Look here, old fellow," Holderness interrupted, "it's all splendid, of
course, and I'm dying to hear you talk about it, but come along now and
be introduced to Miss Van Teyl. Molly's over there, waiting, and we're
all half starved."

"So am I," was the cheerful answer. "Hullo, Lutchester, how are you?
Just one moment. I must get a wash, I motored straight through, and I'm
choked with dust. Where do I go?"

"I'll show you," Lutchester volunteered. "Hurry up."

The two men sprang up the stairs towards the dressing-room, and
Holderness strolled back to where his sister and Pamela were talking to
a small, dark young man, with rather high cheek-bones and olive
complexion. Pamela turned around with a smile.

"I have found an old friend," she told him. "Baron Sunyea--Captain
Holderness. Baron Sunyea used to be in the Japanese Embassy at
Washington."

The two men shook hands.

"I was interested," the Japanese said slowly, "in your conversation
just now about that notice. Your young friend was telling you news very
loudly indeed, it seemed to me, which you would not like known across
the North Sea. Am I not right?"

"In a sense you are, of course," Holderness admitted, "but here at
Henry's--why, the place is like a club. Where are the enemies' ears to
come from, I should like to know?"

"Where we least expect to find them, as a rule," was the grave reply.

"Quite right," Lutchester, who had just rejoined them, agreed. "They
still say, you know, that our home Secret Service is just as bad as our
foreign Secret Service is good."

Holderness smiled in somewhat superior fashion.

"Can't say that I have much faith in that spy talk," he declared. "No
doubt there was any quantity of espionage before the war, but it's
pretty well weeded out now. I say, how good civilisation is!" he went
on, his eyes dwelling lovingly on the interior of the restaurant.
"Tophole, isn't it, Lutchester--these smart girls, with their furs and
violets and perfumes, the little note of music in the distance, the
cheerful clatter of plates, the smiling faces of the waiters, and the
undercurrent of pleasant voices. Don't laugh at me, please, Miss Van
Teyl. I've three weeks more of it, by George--perhaps more. I don't go
up before my Board till Thursday fortnight. Dash it, I wish Sandy would
hurry up!"

"You never told me how you got your wound," Pamela observed, as the
conversation flagged for a moment.

"Can't even remember," was the careless reply. "We were all scrapping
away as hard as we could one afternoon, and nearly a dozen of us got
the knock, all at the same time. It's quite all right now, though,
except for the stiffness. It was the gas did me in.... What a fellow
Sandy is! You people must be starving."

They waited for another five minutes. Then Holderness limped towards
the stairs with a little imprecation. Lutchester stopped him.

"Don't you go, Holderness," he begged. "I'll find him and bring him
down by the scruff of the neck."

He strode up the stairs on a mission which ended in unexpected failure.
Presently he returned, a slight frown upon his forehead.

"I am awfully sorry," he announced, "but I can't find him anywhere. I
left him washing his hands, and he said he'd be down in a moment. Are
you quite sure that we haven't missed him?"

"There hasn't been a sign of him," Molly declared promptly. "I am so
hungry that my eyes have been glued upon the staircase all the time."

Pamela, who had slipped away a few moments before, rejoined them with a
little expression of surprise.

"Isn't Captain Graham here yet?" she asked incredulously.

"Not a sign of him," Holderness replied. "Queer set out, isn't it? We
won't wait a moment longer. Take my sister and Miss Van Teyl in, will
you?" he went on, laying his hand on Lutchester's shoulder. "Ferrani
will look after you. I'll follow directly."

The chief maitre d'hotel advanced to meet them with a gesture of
invitation, and led them to a table arranged for five. The restaurant
was crowded, and the coloured band, from the space against the wall on
their left, was playing a lively one-step. Ferrani was buttonholed by
an important client as they crossed the threshold, and they lingered
for a moment, waiting for his guidance. Whilst they stood there, a
curious thing happened. The leader of the orchestra seemed to draw his
fingers recklessly across the strings of his instrument and to produce
a discord which was almost appalling. A half-pained, half-amused
exclamation rippled down the room. For a moment the music ceased. The
conductor, who was responsible for the disturbance, was sitting
motionless, his hand hanging down by his side. His features remained
imperturbable, but the gleam of his white teeth, and a livid little
streak under his eyes gave to his usually good-humoured face an utterly
altered, almost a malignant expression. Ferrani stepped across and
spoke to him for a moment angrily. The man took up his instrument,
waved his hand, and the music re-commenced in a subdued note. Pamela
turned to the chief maitre d'hotel, who had now re-joined them.

"What an extraordinary breakdown!" she exclaimed. "Is your leader a man
of nerves?"

"Never have I heard such a thing in all my days," Ferrani assured them
fervently. "Joseph is one of the most wonderful performers in the
world. His control over his instrument is marvellous.... Captain
Holderness asked particularly for this table."

They seated themselves at the table reserved for them against the wall.
Their cicerone was withdrawing with a low bow, but Pamela leaned over
to speak to him.

"Your music," she told him, "is quite wonderful. The orchestra consists
entirely of Americans, I suppose?"

"Entirely, madam," Ferrani assented. "They are real Southern darkies,
from Joseph, the leader, down to little Peter, who blows the
motor-horn."

Pamela's interest in the matter remained unabated.

"I tell you it makes one feel almost homesick to hear them play," she
went on, with a little sigh. "Did they come direct from the States?"

Ferrani shook his head.

"From Paris, madam. Before that, for a little time, they were at the
Winter Garden in Berlin. They made quite a European tour of it before
they arrived here."

"And he is the leader--the man whom you call Joseph," Pamela observed.
"A broad, good-humoured face--not much intelligence, I should imagine."

Ferrani's protest was vigorous and gesticulatory. He evidently had
ideas of his own concerning Joseph.

"More, perhaps, than you would think, madam," he declared. "He knows
how to make a bargain, believe me. It cost us more than I would like to
tell you to get these fellows here."

Pamela looked him in the eyes.

"Be careful, Monsieur Ferrani," she advised, "that it does not cost you
more to get rid of them."

She leaned back in her place, apparently tired of the subject, and
Ferrani, a little puzzled, made his bow and withdrew. The music was
once more in full swing. Their luncheon was served, and Lutchester did
his best to entertain his companions. Their eyes, however, every few
seconds strayed towards the door. There was no sign of the missing
guest.




CHAPTER II


Molly Holderness, for whom Graham's absence possessed, perhaps, more
significance than the others, relapsed very soon into a strained and
anxious silence. Pamela and Lutchester, on the other hand, divided
their attention between a very excellent luncheon and an even flow of
personal, almost inquisitorial conversation.

"You will find," Pamela warned her companion almost as they took their
places, "that I am a very curious person. I am more interested in
people than in events. Tell me something about your work at the War
Office?"

"I am not at the War Office," he replied.

"Well, what is it that you do, then?" she asked. "Captain Holderness
told me that you had been out in France, fighting, but that you had
some sort of official position at home now."

"I am at the Ministry of Munitions," he explained.

"Well, tell me about that, then?" she suggested. "Is it as exciting as
fighting?"

He shook his head.

"It has advantages," he admitted, "but I should scarcely say that
excitement figured amongst them."

She looked at him thoughtfully. Lutchester was a little over
thirty-five years of age, tall and of sinewy build. His colouring was
neutral, his complexion inclined to be pale, his mouth straight and
firm, his grey eyes rather deep-set. Without possessing any of the
stereotyped qualifications, he was sufficiently good-looking.

"I wonder you didn't prefer soldiering," she observed.

He smiled for a moment, and Pamela felt unreasonably annoyed at the
twinkle in his eyes.

"I am not a soldier by profession," he said, "but I went out with the
Expeditionary Force and had a year of it. They kept me here, after a
slight wound, to take up my old work again."

"Your old work," she repeated. "I didn't know there was such a thing as
a Ministry of Munitions before the war."

He deliberately changed the conversation, directing Pamela's attention
to the crowded condition of the room.

"Gay scene, isn't it?" he remarked.

"Very!" she assented drily.

"Do you come here to dance?" he inquired.

She shook her head.

"You must remember that I have been living in Paris for some months,"
she told him. "You won't be annoyed if I tell you that the way you
English people are taking the war simply maddens me. Your young
soldiers talk about it as though it were a sort of picnic, your
middle-aged clubmen seem to think that it was invented to give them a
fresh interest in their newspapers, and the rest of you seem to think
of nothing but the money you are making. And Paris.... No, I don't
think I should care to dance here!"

Lutchester nodded, but Pamela fancied somehow or other that his
attitude was not wholly sympathetic. His tone, with its slight note of
admonition, irritated her.

"You must be careful," he said, "not to be too much misled by
externals."

Pamela opened her lips for a quick reply, but checked herself.

Captain Holderness and Ferrani had entered the room and were
approaching their table, talking earnestly. The latter especially was
looking perplexed and anxious.

"It's the queerest thing I ever knew," Holderness pronounced. "We've
searched every hole and corner upstairs, and there isn't a sign of
Sandy."

"Have you tried the bar?" Lutchester inquired.

"Both the bar and the grillroom," Ferrani assured him.

"If he had been suddenly taken ill--" Molly murmured.

"But there is no place in which he could have been taken ill which we
have not searched," Ferrani reminded her.

"And besides," Holderness intervened, "Sandy was in the very pink of
health, and bubbling over with high-spirits."

"One noticed that," Lutchester remarked, a little drily.

"He might almost have been called garrulous," Pamela agreed.

Ferrani took grave leave of them, and Holderness seated himself at the
table.

"Well, let's get on with luncheon, anyway," he advised. "It's no good
bothering. The best thing we can do is to conclude that the impossible
has happened--that Sandy has met with some pals and will be here
presently."

"Or possibly," Lutchester suggested, "that he has done what certainly
seems the most reasonable thing--gone straight off to the War Office
with his formula and forgotten all about us. Let us return the
compliment and forget all about him."

They finished their luncheon a little more cheerfully. As the
cigarettes were handed round, Pamela's eyes looked longingly at a tray
of Turkish coffee which was passing.

"I'm a rotten host," Holderness declared, "but, to tell you the truth,
this queer prank of Sandy's has driven everything else out of my mind.
Here, Hassan!"

The coloured man in gorgeous oriental livery turned at once with a
smile. He approached the table, bowing to each of them in turn. Pamela
watched him intently, and, as his eyes met hers, Hassan's hands began
to shake.

"The waiter is bringing us ordinary coffee," Holderness explained.
"Please countermand it and bring us Turkish coffee for four."

The man had lost his savoir faire. His wonderful smile had turned into
something sickly, his bland speech of thanks into a mumble. He turned
away almost sheepishly.

"Hassan doesn't seem to like us to-day," Molly remarked.

"I should have said that he was drunk," her brother observed, looking
after him curiously.

There was certainly something the matter with Hassan, for it was at
least a quarter of an hour before he reappeared and served his
specially prepared concoction with the usual ceremony but with more
restraint. Molly and the two men, after Hassan had sprinkled the
contents of his mysterious little flask into their coffee, gave him
their hands for the customary salute. When he came to Pamela he
hesitated. She shook her head and he fell back, bowing respectfully,
his hand tracing cabalistic signs across his heart. For a moment before
he departed, he raised his eyes and glanced at her. It was like the
mute appeal of some hurt or frightened animal.

"You don't approve of Hassan's little ceremony?" Lutchester asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"In America," she observed, "I think we look upon coloured people of
any sort a little differently. Well, we've certainly given your friend
a chance," she went on, glancing at the little jewelled watch upon her
wrist, "We've outstayed almost every one here."

Their host paid the bill, and they strolled reluctantly towards the
door, Holderness and Pamela a few steps behind.

"Now what are your sister and Mr. Lutchester studying again?" the
latter inquired, as they reached the lobby.

Molly had paused once more before the notice on the wall, which seemed
somehow to have fascinated her. She read it out, lingering on every
word:

MEFIEZ-VOUS!
TAISEZ-VOUS!
LES OREILLES ENNEMIES VOUS
ECOUTENT!

Holderness listened with a frown. Then he turned suddenly to
Lutchester, who was standing by his side.

"It would be too ridiculous, wouldn't it--you couldn't in any way
connect the idea behind that notice with Sandy's disappearance?"

"I was wondering about that myself," Lutchester confessed. "To tell you
the truth, I have been wondering all luncheon-time. If ever a man broke
the letter and the spirit of that simple warning I should say your
excitable young friend, Captain Graham, did."

"But here at Henry's," Holderness protested, "with friends on every
side! Isn't it a little too ridiculous! We'll wait until the last
person is out of the place, anyway," he added.

The crowd soon began to thin. Ferrani, seeing them still waiting,
approached with a little bow.

"Your friend," he asked, "he has not arrived, eh?"

"No sign of him," Holderness replied gloomily.

"What about his hat and coat?" Ferrani inquired, with a sudden
inspiration.

"Great idea," Holderness assented, turning towards the cloakroom
attendant. "Don't you remember my friend, James?" he went on. "He
arrived about half-past one, and threw his coat and hat over to you."

The attendant nodded and glanced towards an empty peg.

"I remember him quite well, sir," he acknowledged. "Number sixty-seven
was his number."

"Where are his things, then?"

"Gone, sir," the man replied.

"Do you remember his asking for them?"

The attendant shook his head.

"Can't say that I do, sir," he acknowledged, "but they've gone right
enough."

A party of outgoing guests claimed the man's attention. Holderness
turned away.

"This thing is getting on my nerves," he declared. "Does it seem likely
that Sandy should chuck his luncheon without a word of explanation,
come out and get his coat and hat and walk off? And, besides, where was
he all the time we were looking for him?"

It was unanswerable, inexplicable. They all looked at one another
almost helplessly. Pamela held out her hand.

"Well," she announced, "I am sorry, but I'm afraid that I must go. I
have a great many things to attend to this afternoon."

"You are going away soon?" Lutchester inquired.

She hesitated, and at that moment Mr. Fischer, who had been saying
farewell to his guests, turned towards her.

"You are not thinking of the trip home yet, Miss Van Teyl?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered a little evasively. "I'm out of humour
with London just now."

"Perhaps we shall be fellow-passengers on Thursday?" he ventured. "I am
going over on the _New York_."

"I never make plans," she told him.

"In any case," Mr. Fischer continued, "I shall anticipate our early
meeting in New York. I heard from your brother only yesterday."

She looked at him with a slight frown.

"From James?"

Mr. Fischer nodded.

"Why, I didn't know," she observed, "that you and he were acquainted."

"I have had large transactions with his firm, and naturally I have seen
a good deal of Mr. Van Teyl," the other explained. "He looks after the
interests of us Western clients."

Pamela turned a little abruptly away, and Lutchester walked with her to
the door.

"You will let me see that they bring your car round?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Thank you, no," she replied, holding out her hand. "I have not yet
said good-by to Captain Holderness and his sister. Good-by, Mr.
Lutchester!"

Her farewell was purposely chilly. It seemed as though the slight
sparring in which they had indulged throughout luncheon-time, had found
its culmination in an antipathy which she had no desire to conceal.
Lutchester, however, only smiled.

"Nowadays," he observed, "that is a word which it is never necessary to
use."

She withdrew her hand from his somewhat too tenacious clasp. Something
in his manner puzzled as well as irritated her.

"Do you mean that you, too, are thinking of taking a holiday from your
strenuous labours?" she asked. "Perhaps America is the safest country
in the world just now for an Englishman who--"

She stopped short, realising the lengths towards which her causeless
pique was carrying her.

"Prefers departmental work to fighting, were you going to add?" he said
quietly. "Well, perhaps you are right. At any rate, I will content
myself by saying au revoir."

He passed through the turnstile door and disappeared. Pamela made her
adieux to Holderness and his sister, and then, recognising some
acquaintances, turned back into the restaurant to speak to them.
Fischer, who had just received his hat and cane from the cloakroom
attendant, stood watching her.




CHAPTER III


Pamela, after a brief conversation with her friends, once more left the
restaurant. In the lobby she called Ferrani to her.

"Has Mr. Fischer gone, Ferrani?" she asked.

"Not two minutes ago," the man replied. "You wish to speak to him? I
can stop him even now."

She shook her head.

"On the contrary," she said drily, "Mr. Fischer represents a type of my
countrymen of whom I am not very fond. He is a great patron of yours,
is he not?"

"He is a large shareholder in the company," Ferrani confessed.

"Then your restaurant will prosper," she told him. "Mr. Fischer has the
name of being very fortunate.... That was a wonderful luncheon you gave
us to-day."

"Madame is very kind."

"Will you do me a favour?"

Ferrani's gesture was all-expressive. Words were entirely superfluous.

"I want two addresses, please. First, the address of Joseph, your head
musician, and, secondly, the address of Hassan, your coffee-maker."

Ferrani effectually concealed any surprise he might have felt. He tore
a page from his pocket-book.

"Both I know," he declared. "Hassan lodges at a shop eighty yards away.
The name is Haines, and there are newspaper placards outside the door."

"That is quite enough," Pamela murmured.

"As for Monsieur Joseph," Ferrani continued, "that is a different
matter. He has, I understand, a small flat in Tower Mansions, Tower
Street, leading off the Edgware Road. The number is 18C. So!"

He wrote it down and passed it to her. Pamela thanked him and stood up.

"Now that I have done as you asked me," Ferrani concluded, "let me add
a word. Both these men are already off duty and have left the
restaurant. If you wish to communicate with either of them, I advise
you to do so by letter."

"You are a very courteous gentleman, Mr. Ferrani," Pamela declared,
dropping him a little mock curtsey, "and good morning!"

She made her way into the street outside, shook her head to the
commissionaire's upraised whistle, and strolled along until she came to
a cross street down which several motor-cars were waiting. She
approached one--a very handsome limousine--and checked the driver who
would have sprung from his seat.

"George," she said, "I am going to pay a call at a disreputable-looking
news-shop, just where I am pointing. You can't bring the car there, as
the street is too narrow. You might follow me on foot and be about."

The young man touched his hat and obeyed. A few yards down the street
Pamela found her destination, and entered a gloomy little shop. A
slatternly woman looked at her curiously from behind the counter.

"I am told that Hassan lodges here, the coffee-maker from Henry's,"
Pamela began.

The woman looked at her in a peculiar fashion.

"Well?"

"I wish to see him."

"You can't, then," was the curt answer. "He's at his prayers."

"At what?" Pamela exclaimed.

"At his prayers," the woman repeated brusquely. "There," she added,
throwing open the door which led into the premises behind, "can't you
hear him, poor soul? He's been pinching some more charms from ladies'
bracelets, or something of the sort, I reckon. He's always in trouble.
He goes on like this for an hour or so and then he forgives himself."

Pamela stood by the open door and listened--listened to a strange,
wailing chant, which rose and fell with almost weird monotony.

"Very interesting," she observed. "I have heard that sort of thing
before. Now will you kindly tell Hassan that I wish to speak to him, or
shall I go and find him for myself?"

"Well, you've got some brass!" the woman declared, with a sneer.

"And some gold," Pamela assented, passing a pound note over to the
woman.

"Do you want to see him alone?" the latter asked, almost snatching at
the note, but still regarding Pamela with distrustful curiosity.

"Of course," was the calm reply.

The woman opened her lips and closed them again, sniffed, and led the
way down a short passage, at the end of which was a door.

"There you are," she muttered, throwing it open. "You've arst for it,
mind. 'Tain't my business."

She slouched her way back again into the shop. At first Pamela could
scarcely see anything except a dark figure on his knees before a closed
and shrouded window. Then she saw Hassan rise to his feet, saw the
glitter of his eyes.

"Pull up the blind, Hassan," she directed.

He came a step nearer to her. The gloom in the apartment was
extraordinary. Only his shape and his eyes were visible.

"Do as I tell you," she ordered. "Pull up the blind. It will be
better."

He hesitated. Then he obeyed. Even then the interior of the room seemed
shadowy and obscure. Pamela could only see, in contrast with the rest
of the house, that it was wonderfully and spotlessly clean. In one
corner, barely concealed by a low screen, his bed stood upon the floor.
Hassan muttered something in an Oriental tongue. Pamela interrupted
him. She spoke in the soothing tone one uses towards a child.

"That's all right, Hassan," she said. "Sorry to have interrupted you at
your prayers, but it had to be done. You know me?"

"Yes, mistress," he answered unwillingly. "I your dragoman one year in
Cairo. What you want here, mistress?"

"You know that I know," she went on, "that you are a Turk and a
Mohammedan, and not an Egyptian at all."

"Yes, mistress, you know that," he muttered.

"And you also know," she continued, "that if I give you away to the
authorities you will be sent at once to a very uncomfortable internment
camp, where you won't even have an opportunity to wash more than once a
day, where you will have to herd with all sorts of people, who will
make fun of your colour and your religion--"

"Don't, mistress!" he shouted suddenly. "You will not tell. I think you
will not tell!"

He was sidling a little towards her. Again one of those curious changes
seemed to have transformed him from a dumb, passive creature into a
savage. There was menace in his eyes. She waved him back without
moving.

"I have come to make a bargain with you, Hassan," she said, "just a few
words, that is all. Not quite so near, please."

He paused. There was a moment's silence. His face was within a foot of
hers, lowering, black, bestial. Her eyes met his without a tremor. Her
full, sweet lips only curved into a faintly contemptuous line.

"You cannot frighten me, Hassan," she declared. "No man has ever done
that. And outside I have a chauffeur with muscles of iron, who waits
for me. Be reasonable. Listen. There are secrets connected with your
restaurant."

"I know nothing," he began at once; "nothing, mistress--nothing!"

"Quite naturally," she continued. "I only need one piece of
information. A man disappeared there this morning. I just have to find
him. That's all there is about it. At half-past one he was inveigled
into the musicians' room and by some means or other rendered
unconscious. At three o'clock he had been removed. I want to know what
became of him. You help me and the whole world can believe you to be an
Egyptian for the rest of their lives. If you can't help me it is rather
unfortunate for you, because I shall tell the police at once who and
what you are. Don't waste time, Hassan."

He stood thinking, rubbing his hands and bowing before her, yet, as she
knew very well, with murder in his heart. Once she saw his long fingers
raised a little.

"Quite useless, Hassan," she warned him. "They hang you in England, you
know, for any little trifle such as you are thinking of. Be sensible,
and I may even leave a few pound notes behind me."

"Mistress should ask Joseph," he muttered. "I know nothing."

"Oh, mistress is going to ask Joseph all right," she assured him, "but
I want a little information from you, too. You've got to earn your
freedom, you know, Hassan. Come, what do they do with the people who
disappear from the restaurant?"

"Not understand," was the almost piteous reply.

Pamela sighed. She had again the air of one being patient with a child.

"See here, Hassan," she went on, "a few days ago I went over that
restaurant from top to bottom with the manager. There is the musicians'
room, isn't there, just over the entrance hall? I suppose those little
glass places in the floor are movable, and then one can hear every word
that is spoken below. I am right so far, am I not?"

Hassan answered nothing. His breathing, however, had become a little
deeper.

"An unsuspecting person, passing from the toilet rooms upstairs, could
easily be induced to enter. I think that there must be another exit
from that room. Yes?"

"Yes!" Hassan faltered.

"To where?"

"The wine-cellars."

"And from there?"

Hassan was suddenly voluble. Truth unlocked his tongue.

"Not know, mistress--not know another thing. No one enters wine-cellar
but three men. One of those not know. If I guess--I, Hassan--I look at
little chapel left standing in waste place. Perhaps I wonder sometimes,
but I not know."

Pamela drew three notes from her gold purse, smoothed them out and
handed them over.

"Three pounds, Hassan, silence, and good day! You'll live longer if you
open your windows now and then, and get a little fresh air, instead of
praying yourself hoarse."

Again the black figure swayed perilously towards her. She affected not
to notice, not to notice the hand which seemed for a moment as though
it would snatch the door handle from her grasp. She passed out
pleasantly and without haste. The last sound she heard was a groan.

"Done your bit o' business, eh?" the landlady asked curiously.

Pamela nodded assent.

"Rather an odd sort of lodger for you, isn't he?"

"Not so odd as his visitors," the woman retorted, with an evil sneer.

Pamela passed into the narrow street and drew a long sigh of relief.
Then she entered her car and gave the chauffeur an address from the
slip of paper which she carried in her hand. When they stopped outside
the little block of flats he prepared to follow her.

"Tough neighbourhood this, madam," he said.

"Maybe, George," she replied, waving him back, "but you've got to stay
down here. If the man I am going to see thought I was frightened of him
I wouldn't have a chance. If I am not down in half an hour you can try
number 18C."

The chauffeur resumed his place on the driving-seat of the car. Pamela,
heartily disliking her surroundings, was escorted by a shabby porter to
a shabbier lift.

"You'll find Mr. Joseph in," the lift boy assured her with a grin.

Pamela found the number at the end of an unswept stone passage. At her
third summons the door was cautiously opened by a large,
repulsive-looking woman, with a mass of peroxidised hair. She stared at
her visitor first in amazement, then in rapidly gathering resentment.

"Mr. Joseph is at home," she admitted truculently, in response to
Pamela's inquiry. "What might you be wanting with him?"

"If you will be so good as to let me in I will explain to Mr. Joseph,"
Pamela replied.

The woman seemed on the point of slamming the door. Suddenly there was
a voice from behind her shoulder. Joseph appeared--not the smiling,
joyous Joseph of Henry's but a sullen-looking negro, dressed in shirt
and trousers only, with a heavy under-lip and frowning forehead.

"Let the lady pass and get into the kitchen, Nora," he ordered, "Come
this way, mam."

Pamela followed her guide into a parlour, redolent of stale cigar
smoke, with oilcloth on the floor and varnished walls, an abode even
more horrible than Hassan's lair. Joseph closed the door carefully
behind him, and made no apology for his dishabille. He simply faced
Pamela.

"Say, what is it you want with me?" he demanded truculently.

"A trifle," she answered. "The key of the chapel in the little plot of
waste ground next Henry's."

She meant him to be staggered, and he was. He reeled back for a moment.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he gasped.

"Facts," Pamela replied. "Do you want to save yourself, Joseph? You can
do it if you choose."

He folded his arms and stood in front of the closed door. Without a
collar, his neck bulged unpleasantly behind. There was nothing whatever
left of the suave and genial chef d'orchestra.

"Save myself from what, eh? Just let me get wise about it."

Pamela's eyebrows were daintily elevated.

"Dear me!" she murmured. "I thought you were more intelligent. Listen.
You know where we met last? Let me remind you. You were playing in the
Winter Garden at Berlin, and the gentleman whom I was with, an attache
at the American Embassy, spoke to you. He told me a good deal about
your past life, Joseph, and your present one. You are in the pay of the
Secret Service of Germany. Am I to go to Scotland Yard and tell them
so?"

He looked at her wickedly.

"You'd have to get out of here first."

"Don't be silly," she advised him contemptuously. "Remember you're
talking to an American woman and don't waste your breath. You can be in
the Secret Service of any country you like, without interference from
me. On the other hand, there's just one thing I want from you."

"What is it? I haven't got any key."

"I want to discover exactly what has become of Captain Graham," she
declared.

"What, the guy that missed his lunch to-day?" he growled.

"I see you know all about it," she continued equably.

"So he's your spark, is he?" Joseph observed slowly, his eyes blinking
as he leaned a little forward.

"On the contrary," Pamela replied, "I have never met him. However,
that's beside the point. Do I have the key of that chapel?"

"You do not."

"Have you got it?"

"Right here," Joseph assented, dangling it before her eyes.

"I think it's a fair bargain I'm offering you," she reminded him. "You
lose the key and keep your place. You only have to keep your mouth shut
and nothing happens."

"Nothing doing," the negro declared shortly. "Keys as important as this
ain't lost. If I part with it, I get the chuck, and I probably get into
the same mess as the others. If I keep it--"

"If you keep it," Pamela interrupted, "you will probably stand with
your back to the light in the Tower within the next few days. They've
left off being lenient with spies over here."

He looked at her, and there were things in his eyes which few women in
the world could have seen without terror. Pamela's lips only came a
little closer together. She pressed the inside of the ring upon her
third finger, and a ray of green fire seemed to shoot forward.

"I guess I'm up against it," he growled, taking a step forward. "I'll
have something of what's coming to me, if I swing for it."

His arm was suddenly around her, his face hideously close. He gave a
little snarl as he felt the pinprick through his shirt sleeve. Then he
went spinning round and round with his hand to his head.

"What in God's name!" he spluttered. "What in hell--!"

He reeled against the horsehair easy-chair and slipped on to the floor.
Pamela calmly closed her ring, stooped over him, withdrew the key from
his pocket, crossed the room and the dingy little hall with swift
footsteps, and, without waiting for the lift, fled down the stone
steps. Before she reached the bottom, she heard the shrill ringing of
the lift bell, the angry shouting of the woman. Pamela, however,
strolled quietly out and took her place in the car.

"Back to the hotel, George," she directed the chauffeur. "Don't stop if
they call to you from the flats."

The young man sprang up to his seat and the car glided off. Pamela
leaned forward and looked at herself in the mirror. There was a shade
more colour in her face, perhaps, than usual, but her low waves of
chestnut hair were unruffled. She used her powder puff with attentive
skill and leaned back.

"That's the disagreeable part of it over, anyway," she sighed to
herself contentedly.




CHAPTER IV


The last of the supper-guests had left Henry's Restaurant, the
commissionaire's whistle was silent. The light laughter and frivolous
adieux of the departing guests seemed to have melted away into a world
somewhere beyond the pale of the unseasonable fog. The little strip of
waste ground adjoining was wrapped in gloom and silence. The exterior
of the bare and deserted chapel, long since unconsecrate, was dull and
lifeless. Inside, however, began the march of strange things. First of
all, the pinprick of light of a tiny electric torch seemed as though it
had risen from the floor, and Hassan, pushing back a trap-door, stepped
into the bare, dusty conventicle. He listened for a moment, then made a
tour of the windows, touched a spring in the wall, and drew down long,
thick blinds. Afterwards he passed between the row of dilapidated
benches and paused at the entrance door. He stooped down, examined the
keyless lock, shook it gently, gazed upwards and downwards as though in
vain search of bolts that were never there. His white teeth gleamed for
a moment in the darkness. He turned away with a little shiver.

"Not my fault," he muttered to himself. "Not my fault."

He listened for a moment intently, as though for footsteps outside. The
disturbance, however, came from the other end of the building. There
was a sharp knocking from the trap-door by which he had ascended. He
touched an electric knob. The place was dimly yet sufficiently
illuminated. He hastened towards the further end of the place and
pulled up the trap-door. A melancholy-looking little procession slowly
emerged. First of all came Joseph, stepping backwards, supporting the
head and shoulders of Graham, still bound and gagged. After him came a
dark, swarthy-faced wine waiter, who supported Graham's feet. Behind
followed Fischer, carrying his silk hat and cane in his hand. He paused
for a moment as he stepped on the floor of the chapel, and brushed the
dust from his trousers.

"You can take out the gag now," he ordered the two men. "There isn't
much shout in him."

They laid him upon a couch, and Joseph obeyed the order. Graham's head
swung helplessly on one side. His eyes opened, however, and he
struggled for consciousness. His lips twitched for a moment. In these
long hours he had almost forgotten the habit of speech. The words, when
they came, sounded strange to him.

"What--where am I? What do you want with me?"

Fischer laid his hat and stick upon a table, on which also stood a
telephone instrument.

"The formula, my young friend," he replied, "for that wonderful
explosive of which you spoke in the lobby."

A sudden accession of nervous strength brought something almost like
passion into the young man's reply, although to himself there still
seemed some unreality in the words which might have come from the walls
or the roof--surely not from his lips.

"I'll see you damned first!"

Fischer smiled. The man was good-looking, in his way, but this was a
pale and ugly smile.

"My request was merely a matter of courtesy," he remarked. "The
difficulty of searching you is not formidable. It would have been
undertaken long ago but for the fact that the restaurant has been
crowded and gags sometimes slip. Besides, there was no hurry. Observe!"

He leaned over Graham, who for the first time struggled furiously but
ineffectually with his bonds. His fingers all the time were straining
towards the inside pocket of his coat. Fischer nodded understandingly.

"Allow me to anticipate you," he said.

With a quick thrust he drew a little handful of papers from the pocket
of his captive. One by one he glanced them through and flung them on to
the floor. As he came towards the end of his search, however, his
expression of confident complacency vanished. His lips shrivelled up a
little, his eyes narrowed. The last folded sheet of paper--a little
perfumed note from Peggy, thanking Sandy for his beautiful roses--he
crumpled fiercely into a little ball. He opened his lips to speak, then
he paused. A new light broke in upon him. The fury had passed from
Sandy Graham's face. In its stead there was an expression of blank
astonishment.

"Where is the formula?" Fischer asked fiercely.

There was no reply. Sandy Graham was still staring at the little pile
of papers upon the floor. Fischer made a brief examination of the other
pockets. Then he stepped back. His voice shook, his face was dark and
malevolent.

"Joseph, Hassan, Jules--listen to me!" he ordered. "Did any one else
enter the musicians' room whilst he was lying in the alcove?"

"Impossible!" Jules declared.

"The door was locked," Hassan murmured.

"Stop!" Joseph exclaimed.

Fischer wheeled round upon him.

"Well?" he exclaimed. "Get on, then. Who?"

Joseph moistened his lips. He was still feeling sore and dizzy, but he
began to see his way.

"You noticed, perhaps," he said, "the American girl--the beautiful
young lady with this guy's friends? She was waiting with the others for
Captain Graham to come down. I saw her go up the stairs. I saw her come
down again, three minutes later."

"Miss Van Teyl?" Fischer exclaimed, with a frown. "You're mad, Joseph!"

The negro laughed grimly.

"Am I!" he retorted. "I tell you this, Master Fischer. She was in
Berlin where I was, and she was at the Embassy every day. She was asked
to leave there. They put her over the frontier into Holland. I knew her
when she came into the restaurant. She's no society young lady, she
ain't! Bet you she was on to the goods."

Fischer hesitated for a moment. The thoughts were chasing one another
through his brain. Then he took up the receiver from the telephone
instrument which stood upon the table.

"1560 Mayfair," he asked in a low tone.

They all stood listening, grouped around Graham's writhing figure.

"Hullo! Is that Claridge's Hotel?" Fischer went on. "I am speaking from
Giro's. Put me through, if you please, to Miss Van Teyl's apartments...
What? Repeat that, will you?... Thank you."

Fischer laid down the receiver. He turned towards the others. He was
breathing a little quickly, and his eyes glittered behind his
gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Miss Van Teyl," he announced, "has left for Tilbury. She is going out
on the _Lapland_ this morning. My God, she's got the formula!"

There was a moment's silence. Joseph was standing by with a wicked look
on his face.

"I saw her slip away," he muttered, "and I watched her come down again.
There was just time."

Fischer turned suddenly to where Graham was lying. He drew a sheet of
writing paper from the rack upon the table, and a pencil from his
pocket. There was an evil and concentrated significance in his tone.

"That formula," he said, "can be written again. I think you had better
write it."

"I'll see you damned first!" was the weak but prompt reply.

Fischer bent a little lower over the prostrate figure, "Look here," he
went on, "we don't run risks like this for nothing. You're better dead
than alive, so far as we are concerned, anyway. We'd planned to take
the formula from you, and you can guess the rest. There are cellars
underneath here into which no one ever goes who matters. Now here's a
chance of life for you. Write down that formula--truthfully, mind--and
we'll discuss the matter of taking your parole."

"See you damned first!" Graham repeated, his voice a little more
tremulous but still convincing.

Fischer stood upright and turned to Jules.

"Get a bottle of brandy and a glass," he ordered.

The man pushed open the trap-door and disappeared. He came back again
in a few moments, with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other.
Fischer poured out some of the cordial and drew a small table up to
Graham's side.

"There," he said, loosening the cord around his left wrist, "drink
that, and think it over. We shall be gone for about ten minutes. If you
change your mind before, ring that little hand-bell. If you have not
changed your mind when we return, it will be the cellars."

"Beasts!" Graham muttered.

Fischer shrugged his shoulders. For a moment he had straightened
himself. His face had softened, but it was in tune with his thoughts.

"I would twist the necks of a million fools like you," he said, "for
the sake of--"

He paused, leaving his sentence uncompleted, and beckoned to the other
men. They followed him through the trap-door and down into the cellars
below. The place was once more silent. Graham rolled from side to side,
drew a long breath, and tugged vainly at his bonds. The effort
overtaxed his strength. He seemed to feel the darkness closing in upon
him, the rushing of the sea in his ears....




CHAPTER V


So far as Sandy Graham was concerned, his unconsciousness might have
lasted an hour or a day. As a matter of fact, it was scarcely a minute
after the disappearance of Fischer and his confederates when he was
conscious of a rush of cold air in the place, and beheld the vision of
a tiny flash of light at the lower end of the gloomy building.
Immediately afterwards he heard the soft closing of a door and beheld a
tall, shadowy figure slowly approaching. He lay quite still and looked
at it, and his heart began to beat with hope. One of the lights had
been left burning, and there was something in the bearing and attitude
of the man who finally came to a standstill by his side, which was
entirely reassuring.

"Lutchester!" he faltered. "My God, how did you get here?"

"Offices of a young lady," Lutchester observed, producing a knife from
his pocket. "Allow me!"

He cut the cords which still secured Graham's limbs. Then he looked
around him.

"How did they bring you here?" he whispered. "I suppose there is a
passage from the restaurant?"

"Up through a trapdoor there," Graham explained, pointing.

Lutchester stood over it and listened intently.

Then he turned around, lifted the glass of brandy from the table, smelt
it approvingly, and tasted it.

"Excellent!" he pronounced. "The 1840. Allow me!"

He refilled the glass and handed it to Sandy, who gulped down the
contents. The effect was almost instantaneous. In less than a minute he
had staggered to his feet.

"Feel strong enough to walk about fifty yards?" Lutchester inquired.

"I'd walk to hell to get out of this place!" was the prompt reply.

Lutchester took his arm, and they passed down the dusty aisle between
the worm-eaten and decaying benches and through the outside door, which
Lutchester closed and locked behind them. The rush of cold air was like
new life to Graham.

"I can walk all right now," he muttered. "My God, we'll give these
fellows hell for this!"

They made their very difficult way across a plot of ground from which a
row of dilapidated cottages had been razed to the ground. The fog still
hung around them and seemed to bring with it a curious silence,
although the dying traffic from one of the main thoroughfares reached
them in muffled notes. Lutchester climbed to the top of a pile of
rubbish and then, turning around, held out his hand.

"Up here," he directed.

Graham struggled up until he stood by his companion's side. The latter
stood quite still, listening for a moment. Then he climbed a little
higher and swung around, holding out his hand once more.

"I'm on top of the wall," he said. "Come
on."

Graham's knees were shaking, but with Lutchester's help he staggered up
and reached his side. On the pavement below a man in chauffeur's livery
was standing, holding out his hands, and by the side of the curbstone a
closed car was waiting. Somehow or other the two reached the pavement.
Lutchester almost pushed his companion into the limousine and stepped
in after him. The chauffeur sprang to his seat and the car glided off.
Graham just realised that there was a woman by his side whose face was
vaguely familiar. Then the waves broke in upon his ears once more.

"I was right, then, it seems," Pamela observed approvingly. "You were
just the man for this little affair."

Lutchester sighed.

"Unfortunately," he confessed, "a messenger boy would have been as
effective. I stumbled over to the chapel--rubber shoes, you observe,"
he remarked, pointing downwards--"and soon discovered that blinds had
been let down all round and that there were people inside. There was
just a faint chink in one, and I caught a glimpse of several men, your
friend Oscar amongst them. Having," he went on, "an immense regard for
my personal safety, I was hesitating what means to adopt when the
lights were lowered, and it seemed to me that the men were
disappearing."

"Do go on," Pamela murmured. "This is most exciting."

"In a sense it was disappointing," Lutchester complained. "I had
pictured for myself a dramatic entrance ... a quiet turning of the key,
a soft approach--owing to my shoes," he reminded her--"a cough,
perhaps, or a breath ... discovery, me with a revolver in my hand
pointed to the arch-villain--'If you stir you're a dead man!' ...
Natural collapse of the villain. With my left hand I slash the bonds
which hold Graham, with my right I cover the miscreants. One of them,
perhaps, might creep behind me, and I hesitate. If I move my revolver
the other two will get the drop on me--I think that is the correct
expression? A wonderful moment, that, Miss Van Teyl!"

"But it didn't happen," she protested.

"Ah! I forgot that," he acknowledged. "Still, I was prepared, I had the
revolver all right. But as you say, it didn't happen. I made my way to
the chapel door, let myself in, found our friend lying in a
half-comatose state upon one of the blue plush Henry sofas, in the
shadow of a horrible deal pulpit. I gathered that he had been left
there to reflect upon his sins. There was a bottle of remarkably fine
brandy within reach, which I tested, and with which I dosed our friend
here. I then cut away his bonds, arm in arm we walked down the aisle, I
locked up the place, threw the key away, kicked my shins half-a-dozen
times crossing that disgusting little plot of land, climbed boldly to
the top of the wall, and behold!"

Pamela smiled upon him in congratulatory fashion.

"On the whole," she said, "I am quite glad that I telephoned to you."

"You showed a sound discretion," he admitted.

"If he had not been lame," she confessed, "I should have sent to
Captain Holderness."

"That would have been a great mistake," Lutchester assured her.
"Holderness is a good fellow but devoid of imagination. He is great on
constituted authority. He would have probably marched up with a squad
of heavy-footed policemen--and found nothing."

"Yet I must confess," Pamela persisted, with a frankness unaccountable
even to herself, "that if I could have thought of any one else I should
never have telephoned to you."

"And why not?"

"Because I should not have classified you as being of the adventurous
type," she declared.

Lutchester looked injured.

"After all," he protested, "that is not my fault. That is due to your
singular lack of perception. However, I am able to return the
compliment. I, for my part, should have thought that you were more
interested in the fashions than in paying exceedingly rash visits to
degenerate orientals and negroes."

"Perhaps some day," she remarked, "we may understand one another
better."

He met her gaze with a certain seriousness.

"I hope that we may," he said.

For some reason they were both silent for a moment. Her tone had
changed a little when she spoke again.

"You are sure," she asked, "that you do not mind my leaving the rest of
this affair in your hands? There are reasons, which I cannot tell you
of just now, which make me anxious not to appear in it at all."

"I accept the charge as a privilege," he assented. "We are within a few
yards of my rooms now. I promise you that I will look after Captain
Graham and advise him as to the proper course for him to pursue."

The car came to a standstill.

"This then," she said, holding out her hand, "will be good-by for the
present."

He held her fingers for a moment without reply. Quite suddenly she
decided that she liked him. Then he lifted Graham, who was half asleep,
half unconscious, to his feet, and assisted him from the car.

"Where shall I tell the man to go to?" he inquired.

"He knows," she answered with sudden taciturnity.

"Wherever it may be, then," he replied, "bon voyage!"




CHAPTER VI


It was about half-an-hour later when Sandy Graham opened his eyes and
began to feel the life once more warm in his veins. He was seated in
the most comfortable easy-chair of John Lutchester's bachelor
sitting-room. By his side was a coffee equipage and a decanter of
brandy. His head still throbbed, and his bones ached, but his mind was
beginning to grow clearer. Lutchester, who had been seated at the
writing table, swung round in his chair at the sound of his guest's
movement.

"Feeling better, eh?" he asked.

"I am all right now," was the somewhat shaky reply. "Got a head like a
turnip and a tongue like a lime-kiln, but I'm beginning--to feel
myself."

"How's your memory?"

"Hazy. Let me see.... My God, I've been robbed, haven't I!"

"So I imagine," Lutchester replied. "You rather asked for it, didn't
you?"

Graham moved uneasily in his place. He had suddenly the feeling of
being back at school--and in the presence of the headmaster.

"I suppose I did in a way," he admitted, "but at Henry's--why, I've
always looked upon the place as a club more than anything else."

"I am afraid that I can't agree with you there," Lutchester observed.
"I should consider Henry's a remarkably cosmopolitan restaurant, where
a man in your position should exercise more than even ordinary
restraint."

"I suppose I was wrong," Graham muttered, "but I had been working for
about ten hours on end, and then rushed up to London in the car to try
and keep my appointment with Holderness."

"Stop anywhere on the way?"

"We had a few drinks," Graham confessed. "I was so done up. Perhaps I
had more than I meant to. However, it's no use bothering about that
now. I've been robbed, and that's all there is about it. Could we get
on to Scotland Yard from here?"

"We could, but I don't think we will," Lutchester replied.

Graham was puzzled.

"Why not?" he demanded. "That formula was the most wonderful thing that
has ever been put together, and the whole thing's so simple. I've been
afraid every second that some one else might stumble upon it."

"It is without doubt a great loss," Lutchester admitted. "All the same,
I don't fancy that it's a Scotland Yard business exactly. Have you any
idea who robbed you?"

Graham paused to think. His eyes were still troubled and uncertain.

"It's coming back to me," he muttered. "I remember that beastly barn of
a chapel. There were Jules, and that musician fellow, and the big
American. He emptied my pockets ... Why, of course, I remember how
angry he was ... My pocketbook was gone! They left me alone to write
out the formula again, and then you came.... How on earth did you
tumble on to my being there, Lutchester?"

"It was Miss Pamela Van Teyl whom you must thank," Lutchester told him,
"not me. It seems she knew more about Henry's than any of us. She'd
come up against some of the crew in Berlin, and she guessed they were
holding you for that formula. She got the key out of one of those men
and then telephoned to me for my help."

"And I never even thanked her," Graham murmured weakly.

There was a moment's silence. The recovering man's consciousness of his
position and of events was evidently as yet incomplete. He sat up
suddenly in his chair, gripping the sides of it. His eyes were large
with reminiscent trouble.

"My pocketbook had gone when they searched me," he muttered.

"Are you sure that you had it with you when you came into Henry's?"
Lutchester inquired.

"Absolutely certain."

"Do you think you can remember now what happened when you went
upstairs?"

"I reached the lavatory all right--you were with me then, weren't you?"
Graham said reflectively. "I hung up my coat while I washed, but there
was no one else in the room. Then you went downstairs and I brushed my
hair and just stopped to light a cigarette. You know that on the
right-hand side of the landing there is a room where the musicians
change. Joseph, that black devil, was standing in the doorway. He
grinned as I came into sight. 'Lady wants to speak to you for a moment,
Captain Graham,' he said. Well, you know how harmless the fellow
looks--just a good-natured, smiling nigger. I never dreamed of anything
wrong. As a matter of fact, I thought that Peggy Vincent--that's a
young lady I often go to Henry's with--wanted to have a word with me
before I joined our party. I stepped inside the room, and that's just
about all I can remember. It must have been jolly quick. His arm shot
round my neck, the door was closed, and that other brute--Hassan, I
think it was--held something over my face."

"But that room was searched," Lutchester reminded him.

"Well I came to just a little," Graham explained, "I found that I was
in a sort of cupboard place, behind the lockers these fellows have for
their clothes. It opens with a spring lock, and you'd never notice it,
searching the room."

"Who was the first person you saw when you recovered consciousness?"

Graham's forehead was wrinkled in the effort to remember.

"I can't quite get hold of it," he confessed, "but I have a sort of
fancy I can't altogether get rid of that there was a woman about."

Lutchester looked at the end of the cigarette he had just lit.

"A woman?" he repeated. "That's queer."

"I can't remember anything definitely until I woke up in that chapel,"
Graham continued, "but when they searched me and found that the
pocketbook had gone, Fischer, the big American, muttered some woman's
name. I was queer just at the moment, but it sounded very much to me
like Miss Van Teyl's. He rang her up on the telephone."

"Did they suspect Miss Van Teyl, then, of having taken your
pocketbook?"

Graham shook his head.

"I lost the drift of things just then," he admitted. "She couldn't have
done, in any case. Forgive me, but aren't we wasting time, Mr.
Lutchester? We must do something. Couldn't you ring up Scotland Yard
now?"

"I certainly could," Lutchester assented, "but, as I told you just now,
I don't think that I will."

Graham stared at him.

"But why not?"

"For certain very definite reasons with which you needn't trouble
yourself just now," Lutchester pronounced. "The formula has gone,
without a doubt, but it certainly isn't in the hands of any of the
people at Henry's."

"But there's that American fellow--Fischer!" Graham exclaimed. "He was
the ringleader!"

"Just so," Lutchester murmured thoughtfully. "However, he hasn't got
the formula."

"But he planned the attack upon me," Graham protested. "He is an
enemy--a German--sheltering himself under his American naturalization.
Surely we're going for him?"

"He's a wrong 'un, of course," Lutchester admitted, "but he hasn't got
the formula."

"But we must do something!" Graham continued, his anger rising as his
strength returned. "Why, the place is a perfect den of conspirators! I
expect Ferrani himself is in it, and there's that other maitre d'hotel,
Jules, and those black beasts, Joseph and Hassan, besides Fischer. My
God, they shall pay for this!"

Lutchester nodded.

"I dare say they will," he admitted, "but not quite in the way you are
thinking of."

Graham half rose to his feet.

"Look here," he said, "I'm sane enough now, aren't I, and in my proper
senses? You are not going to suggest that we don't turn the police on
to that damned place?"

"I certainly am," was the brief reply.

Graham was aghast.

"What do you mean to do, then?"

"Leave them alone for the present. Not one of them has the formula. Not
one of them even knows where it is."

"But the attack upon me?"

"You asked for all you got," Lutchester told him curtly, "and perhaps a
little more."

The first tinge of colour came back to Graham's cheeks. His eyes
flashed with anger.

"Perhaps I did," he admitted, "but that doesn't alter the fact that I'm
going to have some of my own back out of them."

Lutchester crossed his legs and turned round in his chair. For the
first time he directly faced his visitor. His tone, though not
unkindly, was imperative.

"Young fellow," he said, "you'll have to listen to me about this."

A smouldering sense of revolt suddenly found words.

"Listen to you? What the devil have you got to do with it?" Graham
demanded.

"I hate to remind any one of an obligation," Lutchester answered, "but
I am under the impression that, together with Miss Van Teyl, of course,
I rescued you from an exceedingly inconvenient situation."

"I haven't had time yet to tell you how grateful I am," Graham said
awkwardly. "You were a brick, of course, and how you and Miss Van Teyl
tumbled on to the whole thing I can't imagine. But I don't understand
what you're getting at now. You can't suggest that I am to leave these
fellows alone and not give information to the police?"

"The character of the place," Lutchester assured him, "is already
perfectly well known to the heads of the police. The matter will be
dealt with, but not in the way you suggest. And so far as regards
Fischer, I do not wish him interfered with for the present."

"You do not wish him interfered with?" Graham repeated. "Where the
devil do you come in at all?"

"You can leave me out of the matter for the present. You want the
formula back, don't you?"

"My God, yes!" Graham muttered fervently. "It's all very well to give
one a pencil and a piece of paper and say 'Write it out,' but there are
calculations and proportions--"

"Precisely," Lutchester interrupted. "You want it back again. Why not
let Fischer do the business? He has an idea where it's gone. The thing
to do seems to me to follow him."

"To follow Fischer?" Graham repeated vaguely.

"Precisely. If he thinks the formula is in England, Fischer will stay
in England. If he thinks that it has gone abroad he will go abroad. If
we leave him free we can watch which he does."

Graham swallowed half a wineglassful of the brandy by his side. Then he
leaned forward.

"Look here," he said, "you'll forgive me if I repeat myself and ask you
once more--what the hell has all this got to do with you?"

"Just this much," Lutchester replied, "that I insist upon your taking
the course of action in this matter which I propose."

"You mean," Graham protested, working himself gradually into a state of
wrath, "that I am to go back to my rooms as though nothing had
happened, see Holderness and the others to-morrow, and not have a word
of explanation to offer? That I am to leave those blackguards at
Henry's to try their dirty games on some one else, and let Fischer, the
man who was fully inclined to become my murderer, go away unharmed? I
think not, Mr. Lutchester. I am much obliged for your help, but you are
talking piffle."

"What do you propose to do, then?"

"I am going round to Scotland Yard myself."

Lutchester rose to his feet.

"Stay where you are for a minute, please," he begged.

He passed into a smaller room, and Graham could hear faintly the sound
of the telephone. In a minute or two his host returned.

"Go in there and speak, Graham," he invited. "You will find some one
you know at the other end."

Graham did as he was bidden, and Lutchester closed the door after him.
For a few minutes the latter sat in his chair, smoking quietly, his
eyes fixed upon the fire. Then his unwilling guest reappeared. He came
into the room a little unsteadily and looked with new eyes at the man
who seemed so unaccountably to have taken over the control of his
affairs.

"I don't understand all this," he muttered. "Who the devil are you,
anyway, Lutchester?"

"A very ordinary person, I can assure you," was the quiet reply.
"However, you are satisfied, I suppose, that my advice is good?"

"Yes, I am satisfied," Graham answered nervously. "You know that--that
I'm under arrest?"

Lutchester nodded.

"Well, you're not asking for my sympathy, I suppose?" he observed
drily.

The young man flushed.

"I know that I behaved like a fool," he admitted. "All the same, I've
been working night and day for weeks on this problem. I haven't even
been up to town once. I must say I think they seem inclined to be a
little hard on me."

"No one is going to be in the least hard on you," Lutchester assured
him. "You have committed a frightful indiscretion, and all that is
asked of you now is to keep your mouth shut. If you do that, I think a
way will be found for you out of your troubles."

"But what is to become of me?" Graham demanded.

"I understand that you are to be taken to Northumberland to-morrow,"
Lutchester informed him. "There you will be allowed every facility for
fresh experiments. In the meantime, I have promised to give you a
shakedown here for the night. You will find a soldier on guard outside
your door, but you can treat him as your servant."

"You are very kind," Graham faltered, a little vaguely. "If only I
could understand--"

Lutchester rose to his feet. His manner became more serious, his tone
had in it a note of finality.

"Captain Graham," he interrupted, "don't try to understand. I will tell
you as much as this, if it helps you. Henry's Restaurant will be placed
under the closest surveillance, but we wish nothing disturbed there at
the moment until we have discovered the future plans of Mr. Oscar
Fischer."

"The big German-American," Graham muttered. "He's the man you ought to
get hold of."

"Some day I hope that we may," Lutchester declared. "For the moment,
however, we want him undisturbed. You would scarcely believe it,
perhaps, if I told you that the theft of your formulas is only a slight
thing compared to the bigger business that man has on hand. There is
something else at the back of his head which is worth heaven and earth
to us to understand. We want the formula and we shall have it, but more
than anything else in the world we want to know why Fischer has pledged
his word in Berlin to bring this war to an end within three months. We
have to find that out, and we are going to find it out--from him. You
see, I have treated you with confidence, Captain Graham. Now let me
show you to your room." Graham put his hand to his forehead.

"I feel as though this were some sort of nightmare," he muttered. "I've
known you for several months, Mr. Lutchester, and I have never heard
you say a serious word. You dance at Henry's; you made a good soldier,
they said, but you'd had enough of it in twelve months; you play
auction bridge in the afternoons; and you talk about the war as though
it were simply an irritating circumstance. And to-night--"

Lutchester threw open the door of his own bedroom and pointed to the
bathroom beyond.

"My man has put out everything he thinks you may want," he said. "Try
and get a good night's sleep. And, Graham."

"Yes?"

"Don't bother your head about me, and don't ask any more questions."




CHAPTER VII


The _Lapland_ was two days out from Tilbury before Pamela appeared on
deck, followed by her maid with an armful of cushions, and the deck
steward with her rugs. She had scarcely made herself comfortable in a
sunny corner when she was aware of the approach of a large, familiar
figure. Her astonishment was entirely genuine.

"Mr. Fischer!" she exclaimed. "Why, how on earth did you catch this
steamer? I thought you were coming on the Thursday boat?"

"Some inducement to change my mind," Mr. Fischer replied, drawing a
chair up to her side.

"Meaning me?"

"I guess that's so!"

"Of course, I'm exceedingly flattered," Pamela observed, "or rather I
should be if I believed you, but I don't see how you could leave a
supper-party at Henry's and go straight to Tilbury."

"Say, how did you know I was supping at Henry's?" he inquired.

"Because I was there for luncheon myself, as you know," she answered
carelessly, "and I heard you order your table for supper."

Mr. Fischer nodded reminiscently.

"I always wind up with a little supper at Henry's, on my last night in
London," he remarked. "It left me two hours to get down to Tilbury, but
it don't take me long to start for anywhere when I once make up my
mind. That's the American of us, I suppose. Besides, I never need much
in the way of luggage. I keep clothes over on the other side and
clothes in New York, and a grip always ready packed for a journey."

"You're so typical," she murmured, smiling.

"I don't know about that," he replied. "My business makes it necessary
for me to be always on the go. Have you heard from your brother
lately?"

Pamela shook her head.

"Jimmy is the most terrible correspondent," she complained. "I don't
think I've had any mail from him for two months."

"You didn't know that he and I were sharing rooms together, then, in
the Plaza Hotel, I suppose?"

Pamela turned her head a little and gazed at her companion in genuine
surprise.

"Sharing rooms in the Plaza Hotel?" she repeated.... "You and Jimmy?"

"I guess that's so," Mr. Fischer assented. "We were doing business
together one day, and the subject cropped up somehow or other. Your
brother was thinking of making a move, and I'd just been shown these
rooms, which were a trifle on the large side for me. I made him an
offer and he jumped at it."

"I hope you're not leading James into extravagant ways," she remarked
anxiously. "I loved his little apartment in Forty-Second Street and it
was so inexpensive."

"Your brother's share of these rooms isn't anything more than he can
afford," Mr. Fischer assured her. "That I can promise you. I guess his
firm is doing well just now. If they've many more clients like me they
are."

"It is very nice of you to put business in his way," Pamela said
thoughtfully. "I wonder why you do it, Mr. Fischer?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Well," Pamela went on, her eyes travelling out seaward for a moment,
"you seem to be one of those sort of men, Mr. Fischer, who never do
anything without an object."

"_Some_ powers of observation," he admitted blithely.

"You have an object in being kind to Jimmy, then?"

Mr. Fischer produced a cigar case and selected a cheroot.

"Mind my smoking?"

"Not in the least. The only time I mind things is when people don't
answer my questions."

"I was only kind of hesitating," Mr. Fischer went on, leaning back once
more in his chair. "You want the truth, don't you?"

"I never think anything else is worth while."

"In the first place, then," her companion began, "your brother belongs
to what I suppose is known as the exclusive set in New York. I am a
Westerner with few friends there. Through him I have obtained
introductions to several people whom it was interesting to me, from a
business point of view, to know."

"I see," Pamela murmured. "You are at least frank, Mr. Fischer."

"I am going to be more frank still," he promised her. "Then another
reason, of course, was because I liked him, and a third, which I am not
sure wasn't the chief of all, because he was your brother."

Pamela laughed gaily.

"Is that necessary?"

"Necessary or not, it's the truth," he assured her. "I am a man of
quick impressions and lasting ones."

"But we've never met except on a steamer," Pamela reminded him.

"I know it's the fashion," Mr. Fischer said, "to turn up one's nose at
steamer acquaintances. It isn't like that with me. You see, I don't
have as much opportunity of meeting folk as some others, perhaps. The
most interesting people I've known socially I've met on steamers. I sat
at your table, side by side with you, Miss Van Teyl, for seven days a
few months ago. I guess I'll remember those seven days as long as I
live."

Pamela turned her head and looked at him. The faintly derisive smile
died away from her lips. The man was in earnest. A certain curiosity
stole into her eyes as the seconds passed. She studied his hard, strong
face, with its great jaw and prominent forehead; the mouth, a little
too full, and belying the rest of his physiognomy, yet with its own
peculiar strength. He had taken off his spectacles, and it seemed to
her that the cold, flinty light of his eyes had caught for a moment
some touch of the softer blue of the sea or the sky. Seated, he lost
some of the awkwardness of his too great and ill-carried height. It
seemed to her that he was at least a person to be reckoned with, either
in friendship or enmity.

"Are you an American born, Mr. Fischer," she asked him.

He shook his head.

"I was born at Offenbach," he told her, "near Frankfurt. My father
brought me out to America when I was eleven years old."

"You must find the present condition of things a little trying for
you," she observed.

Oscar Fischer put on his glasses again. He did not answer for several
moments.

"That opens up a subject, Miss Van Teyl," he said, "which some day I
should like to discuss with you."

"Why not now?" she invited. "I feel much more inclined for conversation
than reading."

"Tell me, then, to begin with," he asked thoughtfully, "on which side
are your sympathies?"

"I try to do my duty as an American citizen," she replied promptly,
"and that is to have no sympathies. Our dear country has set the world
an example of what neutrality should be. I think it is the duty of us
Americans to try and bring ourselves into exactly the same line of
feeling."

He changed his position a little uneasily. His attitude became less of
a sprawl. His eyes were fixed upon her face.

"I fear," he said, "that we are going to begin by a disagreement. I do
not consider that America has realised in the least the duties of a
neutral nation."

"You must explain that at once, if you please, before we go any
further," Pamela insisted.

"Is this neutrality?" Fischer demanded, his rather harsh voice almost
raucous now with a touch of real feeling. "America ships daily millions
of dollars' worth of those things that make war possible, to France, to
Italy, above all to England. She keeps them supplied with ammunition,
clothing, scientific instruments, food--a dozen things which make war
easier. To Germany she sends nothing. Is that neutrality?"

"But America is perfectly willing to deal in the same way with
Germany," Pamela pointed out. "German agents can come and place their
orders and take away whatever they want. The market is as much open to
her as to the Allies."

Fischer was sitting bolt upright in his chair now. There was a little
spot of colour in his cheeks and his eyes flashed behind his
spectacles. He struck the side of the chair. He was very angry.

"That is Jesuitical," he declared. "It is perfectly well-known that
Germany is not in a position to fetch munitions from America.
Therefore, I say that there is no neutrality in supplying one side in
the war with goods which the other is unable to procure."

"Then you place upon America the onus of Germany's naval inferiority,"
Pamela remarked drily.

"Germany's maritime inferiority does not exist," Mr. Fischer protested.
"When the moment arrives that the High Seas fleet comes out for action
the world will know the truth."

"Then hadn't it better come," Pamela suggested, "and clear the ocean
for your commerce?"

"That isn't the point," Fischer insisted. "We have wandered from the
main issue. I say that America abandons its neutrality when it helps
the Allies to continue the war."

"I don't think you will find," Pamela replied, "that international law
prevents any neutral country from supplying either combatant with
munitions. If one country can fetch the things and the other can't,
that is the misfortune of the country that can't. For one moment look
at the matter from England's point of view. She has built up a mighty
navy to keep the seas clear for exactly this purpose--to continue her
commerce from abroad. Germany instead has built up a mighty army, with
which she has overrun Europe. Germany has had the advantage from her
army. Why shouldn't England have the advantage from her navy?"

"Let me ask you the question you asked me a few minutes ago," her
companion begged. "Were you born in America--or England?"

"I was born in America," Pamela told him; "so were my parents and my
grandparents. I claim to be American to the backbone. I claim even to
treat any sympathies I might have in this affair as prejudices, and not
even to allow them a single corner in my brain."

Mr. Fischer sat quite still for several moments. He was struggling very
hard to keep his temper. In the end he succeeded.

"We will not, then, pursue the subject of America's neutrality," he
said, "because it is obvious that we disagree fundamentally. But tell
me this, now, as an American and a patriot. Which do you think would be
better for America--That Germany and Austria won this war, or the
Allies?"

"Upon that question I have not altogether made up my mind," Pamela
confessed.

"Then there is room there for a discussion," Mr. Fischer pointed out
eagerly. "I should like to put my views before you on this matter."

"And I should love to hear them," Pamela replied, "but I feel just now
as though we had talked enough politics. Do you know that I came up on
deck in a state of great agitation?"

"Submarine alarms from the stewardess?" Mr. Fischer suggested.

"I am not afraid of submarines, but I have a most profound dislike for
thieves," Pamela declared.

"You have not had anything stolen?" he asked quickly.

"I have not," Pamela replied, "but the only reason seems to be that I
have nothing worth stealing. When I got back from luncheon this
afternoon I found that my stateroom had been systematically searched."

She turned her head a little lazily and looked at her neighbour. His
expression was entirely sympathetic.

"Your jewellery?"

"Deposited with the purser."

"I congratulate you," he said.

"Nothing has been stolen," she observed, "but one hates the feeling of
insecurity, all the same. Both my steward and stewardess are old
friends. It must have been a very clever person who found his way into
my room."

"A very clever person," Mr. Fischer objected, "would have known that
you had deposited your jewels with the purser."

"If it was my jewels of which they were in search," Pamela murmured.
"By the bye, do you remember all that fuss about the disappearance of a
young soldier that morning at Henry's?"

Fischer nodded.

"I heard something about it," he confessed. "They were talking about it
at dinner-time."

"I had an idea that you might be interested," Pamela went on. "He was
rather a foolish young man. He came into the restaurant telling every
one at the top of his voice that he had made a great discovery! Even in
London, which is, I should think, the most prosaic city in the world,
there must be people who are on the lookout to pick up war secrets."

"Even in London, as you remark," Fischer assented.

"You didn't hear the end of the affair, I suppose?" she asked him.

The steward had arrived with afternoon tea. Fischer threw into the sea
the cigar which he had been smoking.

"I do not think," he said, "that the end has been reached yet."

Pamela sighed.

"Les oreilles ennemies!" she quoted. "I suppose one has to be careful
everywhere."




CHAPTER VIII


It was one evening towards the end of the voyage, and about an hour
after dinner. A huge form loomed out of the darkness, continuing its
steady promenade along the unlit portion of the deck. Pamela, moved by
some caprice, abandoned her caution of the last few days and called
out.

"Mr. Fischer!"

He stopped short. The sparks flew from the red end of his cigar, which
he tossed into the sea. He hastened towards her.

"Miss Van Teyl?" he replied, a little hesitatingly.

"How clever of you to know my voice!" she observed. "I am in the humour
to talk. Will you sit down, please?"

Mr. Fischer humbly drew a chair to her side.

"I had an idea," he said, "that you had been avoiding me the last two
or three days."

"I have," she admitted.

"Have I offended you, then?"

"Scarcely that," she replied, "only, you see, it seemed waste of time
to talk to you with the foils on, and a little dangerous, perhaps, to
talk to you with them off."

His face reflected his admiration.

"Miss Van Teyl," he declared, "you are quite a wonderful person. I have
never believed very much in women before. Perhaps that is the reason
why I have never married."

"Dear me, are you a woman-hater?" she asked.

He looked at her steadfastly.

"I have made use of women as playthings," he confessed. "Until I met
you I never thought of them as companions, as partners."

She laughed at him through the darkness, and at the sound of her laugh
his eyes glowed.

"Really, I am very much flattered," she said. "You give me credit for
intelligence, then?"

"I give you credit for every gift a woman should have," he answered
enthusiastically. "I recognise in you the woman I have sometimes
dreamed of."

Again she laughed.

"Don't tell me, Mr. Fischer," she protested, "that ever in your
practical life you have spent a single moment in dreams?"

"I have spent many," he assured her, "but they have all been since I
knew you."

Pamela sighed.

"I have never been through a voyage," she observed, "without a love
affair. Still, I never suspected you, Mr. Fischer."

"You suspected me, perhaps, of other things."

She nodded.

"I am full of suspicions about you," she admitted. "I am not going to
tell you what they are, of course."

"There is one thing of which I am guilty," he confessed. "I should like
to tell you about it right now."

"Could I guess it?"

"You're clever enough."

"You like me, don't you, Mr. Fischer?"

"Better than any woman in the world," he answered promptly. "And my
confession is--well, just that. Will you marry me?"

Pamela shook her head.

"Quite early in life," she confided, "I made up my mind that I would
never give a definite answer to any one who proposed to me on a
steamer. I suppose it's the wind, or is it the stars, or the silence,
or what? I have known the sanest of men, even like you, Mr. Fischer,
become quite maudlin."

"I am brimful of common sense at the present moment," he declared
earnestly. "You and I could do great things together, if only I could
get you to look at one certain matter from my point of view; to see it
as I see it."

"A political matter?" she inquired naively.

"I want to try and persuade you," he confessed, "that America has
everything in the world to gain from Germany's success, and everything
to lose if the Allies should triumph in this war and Great Britain
should continue her tyranny of the seas."

"It's an extraordinarily interesting subject," Pamela admitted.

"It is almost as absorbing," he declared, "as the other matter which
just now lies even nearer to my heart."

She withdrew her fingers from his sudden clutch.

"Mr. Fischer," she told him, "what I said just now was quite final. I
will not be made love to on a steamer."

"When we land," he continued eagerly, "you will be coming to see your
brother, won't you?"

She nodded.

"Of course! I am coming to the Plaza Hotel. That, I suppose, is good
news for you, Mr. Fischer."

"Of course it is," he answered, "but why do you say so?"

"It will give you so many opportunities," she murmured.

"Of seeing you?"

She shook her head.

"Of searching my belongings."

There was a moment's silence. She heard his quick breath through the
darkness. His voice assumed its harsher tone.

"You believe that it was I who searched your stateroom?"

"I am sure that it was you, or some one acting for you."

"What is it, then, of which I am in search?" he demanded.

"Captain Graham's formula," she replied. "I think you want that a good
deal more than you want me."

"You have it then?" he asked fiercely.

She sighed.

"You jump so to conclusions. I didn't say so."

"You went up the stairs ... you were the only person who went up just
at that one psychological moment! He had his pocketbook with him when
he came in--he told Holderness so."

"And when you searched him it was gone," she remarked calmly. "Dear
me!"

"How do you know that I searched him?" Fischer demanded.

"How dare you ask me to give away my secrets?" she replied.

"Listen," he began, striving with an almost painful effort to keep his
voice down to the level of a whisper, "you and I together, we could do
the most marvellous things. I could let you into all my schemes. They
are great. They will be successful. After the war is over--"

He held his breath for a moment. The tramp of approaching footsteps
warned him of the coming of an intruder. The Captain came to a
standstill before their chairs and saluted.

"Miss Van Teyl," he said, "there will be a mutiny in the saloon if you
don't come down and sing."

She almost sprang to her feet. The ship was rolling a little, and she
laid her fingers upon his arm.

"I meant to come long ago," she declared, "but Mr. Fischer has been so
interesting. You will finish telling me your experiences another time,
won't you?" she called out over her shoulder. "There is so much that I
still want to hear."

Fischer's reply was almost ungracious. He watched their departure in
silence, and afterwards leaned further back in his chair. With long,
nervous fingers he drew a black cigar from his case and lit it. Then he
folded his arms. For more than half an hour he sat there motionless,
smoking furiously. He looked out into the chaos of the windy darkness,
he heard voices riding upon the seas, shrieking and calling to him,
voices to which he had been deaf too long. The burden of these later
years of turbulent, brazen, selfish struggling, rolled back. He had
been a sentimentalist once, a willing seeker after things which seemed
to have passed him by. At his age, he told himself, a man should still
find more than one place in the world.




CHAPTER IX


James Van Teyl glanced curiously at the small, dark figure standing
patiently before him, and then back again at the wireless cable which
he held in his fingers. He was just back from a tiring day in Wall
Street, and was reclining in the most comfortable easy-chair of his
Hotel Plaza sitting-room.

"Gee!" he murmured. "This beats me. The last thing I should have
thought we wanted here was a valet. The fellow who looks after this
suite has scarcely anything else to do. What did you say your name
was?"

"Nikasti, sir."

Van Teyl carefully reconsidered the cable. It certainly seemed to leave
no room for misunderstanding.

Please engage for our service, as valet, Nikasti. See that he enters on
his duties at once. Hope land this evening. Your sister on board sends
love.--F.

"Well that seems clear enough," the young man muttered, thrusting the
form into his waistcoat pocket. "You're here to stay, I guess, Nikasti?
I see you've brought your kit along."

"In case you decided to engage me, sir," the man replied.

"Oh, you are engaged right enough," Van Teyl assured him. "You'd better
make the best job you can of putting out my evening clothes. If you
ring for the floor valet, he'll help you. The bedrooms are through that
door."

"Very good, sir!"

"I am going down to the barber's now," Van Teyl continued, rising to
his feet. "Just remember this, Nikasti--what a name, by the bye!"

"I could be called Kato," the man suggested.

"Kato for me all the time," his prospective employer agreed. "Well,
listen. My sister, Miss Van Teyl, arrives from Europe on the _Lapland_
this evening. If she comes in or rings up, say I'm here and I want to
see her at once. You understand?"

"I understand, sir."

Van Teyl strolled out, and Kato disappeared into the inner room. The
floor valet, dressed in the dark blue livery of the hotel, was already
laying out his master's dinner clothes. He eyed the intruder a little
truculently.

"Who are you, anyway?" he inquired.

"My name is Nikasti," was the quiet reply. "Mr. Van Teyl has engaged me
as his valet, to wait upon him and Mr. Fischer."

The man laid down the shirt into which he was fixing the studs.

"That's some news," he remarked bitterly.

"To wait on Mr. Van Teyl and Mr. Fischer, eh? What the hell do they
want you for?"

Nikasti shook his head slowly. He was very small, and his dark eyes
seemed filled with melancholy.

"It is not for a very long time," he ventured.

"Long enough to do me out of my five dollars' tip every week," the man
grumbled. "I'm a married man, too, and a good American. Blast you
fellows, coming and taking our jobs away! Can't think what they let you
into the country for."

"I am sorry," Nikasti murmured.

"Your sorrow don't bring me in my five dollars," the valet retorted
bitterly. "There's only two suites on this floor to work for, anyway,
and this is the only one worth a cent."

"I am taking the situation," the other explained, "for the sake of
experience. I do not wish to rob you of your earnings. I will pay you
the five dollars a week while I stay here. You shall help me with the
work."

"That's a deal, my little yellow-skinned kid," the valet agreed in a
tone of relief. "I'll show you where the things are kept."

His new coadjutor bowed.

"The telephone is ringing in the master's room," he observed. "You
shall remain here, and I will answer it."

"That goes, Jappy," the man acquiesced. "If it's a young lady take her
name, but don't say that Mr. Van Teyl's about. Forward young baggages
some of them are."

Nikasti glided from the room, closed the door, and approached the
telephone receiver.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "these are the rooms of Mr. Van Teyl... No,
madam, Mr. Van Teyl is not in at present."

There was a moment's pause. Nikasti's face was impenetrable as he
listened, but his eyes glowed.

"Yes, I understand, madam," he said softly. "You are Miss Van Teyl, and
you wish to speak to your brother. The moment Mr. Van Teyl returns I
will ring you up or fetch you."

He replaced the receiver upon its hook, and returned to the bedroom.
For some little time he was initiated into the mysteries of his new
master's studs, boots and shoes, and general taste in wearing apparel.
Then the latter entered the sitting-room, and Nikasti obeyed his
summons.

"Anyone called me up?" he inquired.

"No one, sir."

Van Teyl glanced at the clock in an undecided manner.

"I'll change right away," he decided. "Just set things to rights in
here, fill my cigarette case, and hang round by the telephone."

Nikasti bowed, and the young man disappeared into the inner room. His
new attendant waited until the door was closed. Then he removed the
receiver from its hook, laid it upon the table, and moved stealthily
towards the open fireplace. For several moments he remained in an
attitude of listening, then with quick, lithe fingers he drew from his
pocket a cable dispatch, reread it with an air of complete absorption,
and committed it to the flames. He watched it burn, and turned away
from the contemplation of its grey ashes with a sigh of content.
Suddenly he started. The door of the sitting-room had been opened and
closed. A tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, a
long travelling coat and a Homburg hat, was standing watching him.
Nikasti was only momentarily disturbed. His look of gentle inquiry was
perfect.

"You wish to see my master--Mr. Van Teyl?" he asked.

"Where is he?" Fischer demanded.

"He is dressing in the next apartment. I will take him your name."

Fischer threw his coat and hat upon the table.

"That'll do directly," he replied. "So you're Nikasti?"

They looked at one another for a moment. The face of the Japanese was
smooth, bland, and imperturbable. His eyes were innocent even of any
question. Fischer's forehead was wrinkled, and his brows drawn close
together.

"I am Nikasti," the other acknowledged--"Kato Nikasti. Mr. Van Teyl has
just engaged me as his valet."

"You can take off the gloves," Fischer told him. "I am Oscar Fischer."

"Oscar Fischer," Nikasti repeated.

"Yes! ... Burning something when I came in weren't you? Looked like a
cable, eh?"

"A dispatch from London," Nikasti confided.

"Nothing that would interest me, eh?"

"It was a family message," was the calm response. "It did not concern
the affair which is between us."

"How came you to speak English like this?" Fischer inquired.

"I was at Oxford University for two years," Nikasti told him, "and in
the Embassy at London for five more."

"Before you took up your present job, eh?"

Nikasti assented silently. Fischer glanced around as though to make
sure that they were still alone.

"I have the communication with me," he announced, "which we are to
discuss. The terms of our proposal are clearly set out, and they are
signed by the Highest of all himself. The letter embodying them was
handed to me three weeks ago to-day in Berlin. Have you been to
Washington?"

Nikasti shook his head.

"I do not go to Washington," he said. "You will understand that
diplomatically, as you would put it, I do not exist. Neither is it
necessary. I am here to listen."

Fischer nodded.

"There need be very little delay, then," he observed, "before we get to
work."

Nikasti bowed and raised his forefinger in warning.

"I think," he whispered, "that Mr. Van Teyl has finished dressing."




CHAPTER X


Van Teyl, as he hastened forward to meet his friend, presented at first
sight a very good type of the well-groomed, athletic young American. He
was over six feet tall, with smooth, dark hair brushed back from his
forehead, a strong, clean-shaven face and good features. Only, as he
drew nearer, there was evident a slight, unnatural quivering at the
corner of his lips. The cordiality of his greeting, too, was a little
overdone.

"Welcome home, Fischer! Why, man, you're looking fine. Had a pleasant
voyage?"

"Storms for the first few days--after that all right," Fischer replied.

"Any submarines?"

"Not a sight of one. Seen your sister yet?"

"Not yet. I've been waiting about for a telephone message. She hadn't
arrived, a few minutes ago."

Fischer frowned.

"I want us three to meet--you and she and I--the first moment she sets
foot in the hotel," he declared.

"What's the hurry?" Van Teyl demanded. "You must have seen plenty of
her the last ten days."

"That," Fischer insisted, "was a different matter. See here, Jimmy,
I'll be frank with you."

He walked to the door of the bedroom, opened it, and looked inside. Its
sole occupant was Nikasti, who was at the far end, putting away some
clothes. Fischer closed the door firmly and returned.

"I want you to understand this, James," he began. "Your sister is
meddling in certain things she'd best leave alone."

Van Teyl lit a cigarette.

"No use talking to me," he observed. "Pamela's her own mistress, and
she's gone her own way ever since she came of age."

"She's got to quit," Fischer pronounced. "That's all there is about it.
You and I will have to talk this out. Where are you dining?"

"Downstairs," Van Teyl replied gloomily. "I was thinking of waiting for
Pamela."

"You leave word to have your people let you know directly she arrives,"
Fischer advised, "and come along with me."

Van Teyl allowed himself to be led towards the door. Nikasti, with a
due sense of his new duties, glided past them, rang for the lift, and
watched them descend. Fischer turned at once towards the dining room.

"Thank God we're in a civilised country," he observed, "and that I
don't have to change when I don't want to!"

They found a quiet table, and Fischer, displaying much interest in the
menu, ordered a somewhat extensive dinner.

"Grapefruit and Maryland chicken are worth coming back to," he
declared. "Now see here, James, let's get to business. You've got to
help me with your sister."

"But how?" Van Teyl demanded. "Pamela and I are good pals, of course,
but she has a will of her own in all she does, and I don't fancy that
anything I could say would influence her very much."

"There are two things about your sister," Fischer continued. "The first
is that she's got to quit this secret service business she's got
herself mixed up in."

"Don't talk nonsense!" Van Teyl exclaimed. "Pamela doesn't care a fig
about politics."

Fischer grunted scornfully.

"You don't know much about your sister, young fellow," he said.
"Internal politics over here may not interest her a cent, but she's
crazy about America as a country, and she's shrewd enough to see things
coming that a great many of you over here aren't looking for. Anyway,
she came bang up against me in a little scheme I had on the night
before I left Europe, and somewhere about her she's got concealed a
document which I'd gladly buy for a quarter of a million dollars."

Van Teyl drank off his second cocktail.

"Some money!" he observed. "How did she come by the prize?"

"Played up for it, just as I did," Fischer replied. "She was clever
enough to make use of my scaffolding, and got up the ladder first. I'm
not squealing, but I've got to have that document, whatever it costs
me."

Van Teyl was silent for a moment. There was an undercurrent of
something threatening in his companion's manner, of which he had taken
note.

"And the second thing you mentioned?" he asked. "What is that?"

Fischer, as though to give due emphasis to his statement, indulged in a
brief pause. Then he leaned a little forward and spoke very slowly and
very forcibly.

"I want to marry her," he declared.

Van Teyl learned back in his chair and gazed at his vis-a-vis in blank
astonishment.

"You must be a damned fool, Fischer!" he exclaimed.

"You think so?" was the unruffled reply. "I wonder why?"

"I'll tell you why, if you want to know," Van Teyl continued bluntly.
"I know of four of the richest and best-looking young men in America,
two ambassadors, an English peer, and an Italian prince, who have
proposed to Pamela during the last twelve months alone. She refused
every one of them."

"Well," Fischer remarked, "she must marry some time."

Van Teyl looked at him insolently.

"I shouldn't think you'd have a dog's chance," he pronounced.

There was a little glitter behind Fischer's spectacles.

"Up till now," he admitted smoothly, "I have not been fortunate. I must
confess, however, that I was hoping for your good offices."

"Pamela wouldn't take the slightest notice of anything I might say,"
Van Teyl declared. "Besides, I should hate you to marry her."

"A little blunt, are you not, my young friend?" Fischer remarked
amiably. "Still, to continue, there is also the matter of that
document. I must confess that I exercised all my ingenuity to obtain
possession of it on the steamer."

"You would!" Van Teyl muttered.

"Your sister, however," Fischer continued, "was wise enough to have it
locked up in the purser's safe the moment she set foot upon the
steamer. She gave me the slip when she got it back, and eluded me,
somehow, on the quay. She will scarcely have had time to part with it
yet, though. When she arrives here to-night, it will in all probability
be in her possession."

"Well?" Van Teyl demanded. "You don't suggest that I should rob her of
it, I suppose?"

"Not at all," Fischer replied. "On the other hand, you might very well
induce her to give it up voluntarily, or at least to treat with me."

"You don't know Pamela," was Van Teyl's curt reply.

"I know her sufficiently," Fischer went on, leaning over the table, "to
believe that she would sacrifice a great deal to save her brother from
Sing Sing."

Van Teyl took the thrust badly. He started as though he had been
stabbed, and his face became almost ghastly in its pallor. He tossed
off a glass of wine hastily.

"Just what do you mean by that?" he asked thickly.

"Are you prepared," Fischer continued, "to have me visit your office
to-morrow morning and examine my accounts and securities in the
presence of your partners?"

"Why not?" Van Teyl faltered. "What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean, James Van Teyl," his companion declared, "that I should find
you a matter of a hundred thousand dollars short. I mean that you've
realised on some of my securities, gambled on your own account with the
proceeds, and lost. You did this as regards one stock at least, with a
forged transfer, which I hold."

Van Teyl looked almost piteously around. Life seemed suddenly to have
become an unreal thing--the crowds of well-dressed diners, the gentle
splashing of the water from the fountains in the winter garden, the
distant murmuring of music from behind the canopy of palms. So this was
the end of it! All that week he had hoped against hope. He had been
told of a sure thing. Next week he had meant to have a great gamble.
Everything was to have gone his way, after all. And now it was too
late. Fischer knew, and Fischer was a cruel man!...

The unnatural silence came to an end. Only Fischer's voice seemed to
come from a long way off.

"Drink your wine, James Van Teyl," he advised, "and listen to me.
You've been under obligations to me from the start. I meant you to be.
I brought a great business to your firm, and I insisted upon having you
interested. I had a motive, as I have for most things I do. You are
well placed socially in New York, and I am not. You are also above
suspicion, which I am not. It suited me to take this suite in the
Plaza, nominally in our joint names, but to pay the whole account
myself. It suited me because I required the shelter of your social
position. You understand?"

"I always understand," Van Teyl muttered.

"Just so. Only, whereas you simply thought me a snob, I had in reality
a different and very definite purpose. We come now, however, to your
present obligation to me. I can, if I choose, tear up your forged
transfer, submit to the loss of my money, and leave you secure. I shall
do so if you are able to induce your sister to hand over to me those
few lines of writing--to which, believe me, she has no earthly
right--and to accept me as a prospective suitor."

Van Teyl was drinking steadily now, but every mouthful of food seemed
almost to choke him. Red-eyed and defiant, he faced his torturer.

"You're talking rot!" he declared. "Pamela wouldn't marry you if you
were the last man on earth, and if she's got anything she wants to
keep, she'll keep it."

"And see her brother disgraced," Fischer reminded him, "tried at the
Criminal Court for theft and sent to Sing Sing? It's a good name in New
York, yours, you know. The Van Teyls have held up their heads high for
more than one generation. Your sister will not fancy seeing it dragged
down into the mire."

For a single moment the young man seemed about to throw himself upon
his companion, Fischer, perfectly unmoved, watched him, nevertheless,
like a cat.

"Better sit tight," he enjoined. "Drop it now or people will be
watching us. I have ordered some of the old brandy. A liqueur or two
will steady you, perhaps. Afterwards we will go upstairs and take your
sister into our confidence."

Van Teyl nodded.

"Very well," he agreed hoarsely. "We'll hear what Pamela has to say."




CHAPTER XI


Nikasti, with a low bow, watched the disappearance of the lift into
which his two new masters, James Van Teyl and Oscar Fischer, had
stepped. He waited until the indicator registered its safe arrival on
the ground floor. Then he slowly retraced his steps along the corridor,
entered the sitting-room, and took up the telephone receiver, which was
still lying upon the table.

"Will you give me number 77," he asked--"Miss Van Teyl's suite?"

There was a moment's silence--then a voice at the other end to which he
made obeisance.

"It is Miss Van Teyl who speaks? I am Mr. Van Teyl's valet. Mr. Van
Teyl is here now and will be glad if you will come in."

He replaced the receiver, listened and waited. In a few moments there
was the sound of a light footstep outside. The door was opened and
Pamela entered. She was still wearing the grey tailor-made costume in
which she had left the steamer.

"Why, where is Mr. Van Teyl?" she asked, looking around the room. "I
have been ringing up for the last ten minutes and couldn't get any
answer. I did not realise that it was the next suite."

"Mr. Van Teyl is close at hand, madam," Nikasti replied. "If you will
kindly be seated, I will fetch him."

"How long have you been valet here?" Pamela asked curiously.

"For a few hours only, madam," was the grave reply. "If you will be so
good as to wait."

He bowed low and left the room. Pamela took up an evening paper and for
a few minutes buried herself in its contents. Then suddenly she held it
away from her and listened. A queer and unaccountable impulse inspired
her with a certain mistrust. There was no sound of movement in the
adjoining bedchamber, nor any sign of her brother's presence. She
opened the door and peered in. It was empty and in darkness. Then,
moved by that same unaccountable impulse, she crossed the room and
listened at the door which led into her own suite, and which she
perceived was bolted on this side as well as her own. She listened at
first idly, afterwards breathlessly. In a few moments she was convinced
that her senses were not playing her false. Some one was moving
stealthily about in her room, the key to which was even at that moment
in her hand. She hastened to the door, to be confronted by another
surprise. The handle turned but the door refused to open. She was
locked in.

Pamela was both generous and insistent in the matter of bells. She
found four, and she rang them all together. The consequences were
speedy, and in their way satisfactory. Nikasti himself, a breathless
chambermaid, a hurt but dignified waiter, and the floor valet, who had
not even stopped to put on his coat, entered together. They seemed a
little stupefied at finding Pamela alone and no sign of any
disturbance.

"Why was I locked in here?" Pamela demanded indignantly, taking them
en bloc.

There was a little chorus of non-comprehension. Nikasti stepped
forward, waved to the others to be silent, and bowed almost to the
ground.

"It was a mistake easily to be understood, madam," he explained. "The
handle is a little stiff, perhaps, but the door was not locked. We all
reached here together, I myself barely a yard in advance. No key was
used--and behold!"

Pamela was disposed to argue, but a moment's reflection induced her to
change her mind. This falsehood of Nikasti's was at least interesting.
She waved the hotel servants away.

"I am sorry to have troubled you," she said. "I will remember it when I
pay my bill."

They took their leave, Nikasti showing them out. When the last had
departed, he turned back to the centre table, from the other side of
which Pamela was watching him curiously.

"I cannot imagine," she remarked, "how I could have made such a mistake
about the door. I tried it twice or three times and it certainly seemed
to me to be locked."

Nikasti moved a step nearer towards her. Something of the servility of
his manner had gone. For the first time she looked at him closely,
appreciated the tense immobility of his features, the still,
penetrating light of his cold eyes. A queer premonition of trouble for
a moment unsteadied her.

"There was no mistake," he said softly. "The door was locked."

Even then she did not fully understand the position. She leaned a
little towards him.

"It was locked?" she repeated.

"I locked it," he told her. "It is locked now, securely. I have been
searching in your room for something which I did not find. I think that
you had better give it to me. It will save trouble."

"Are you mad?" she demanded breathlessly.

"Do I seem so?" he replied. "There is no person more sane than I. I
require from you the formula of the new explosive, which you stole in
Henry's restaurant eleven days ago."

The sense of mystery passed. It was simply trouble of the ordinary sort
from an unexpected source.

"Dear me!" she murmured. "Every one seems interested in my little
adventure. How did you hear about it?"

"I destroyed the cable telling me of all that happened only a few
minutes ago," he explained. "It was the foolish talk of the young
inventor which gave his secret to the world to scramble for."

"It was very clever of your informant," she remarked, "to suggest that
I was the fortunate thief. Why not Oscar Fischer? It was his plot, not
mine."

The eyes of the little Japanese seemed suddenly to narrow. He realised
quite well that she was talking simply to gain time.

"Madam," he insisted, "the formula. It is for my country, and for my
country I would risk much."

"I do not doubt it," she replied; "but if I hold it, I hold it for my
country, too, and there is nothing you would risk for Japan from which
I should shrink for America."

He laid his hands upon the table. She turned her ring and clenched her
hand. She could see his spring coming, realised in those few seconds
that here was an opponent of more desperate and subtle calibre than
Joseph. Whether her wits might have failed her, fate remained her
friend. There was a knock at the door.

"You hear?" she cried breathlessly. "There is some one there. Shall I
call out?"

His hands and knee were gone from the table. He was once more his old
self, so completely the servant that for a moment even Pamela was
puzzled. It seemed as though the events of the last few seconds might
have been part of a disordered dream. Nikasti played to the cue of her
fevered question and entirely ignored them. He opened the door with a
respectful flourish--and John Lutchester walked in.




CHAPTER XII


Pamela's first shock of surprise did not readily pass. In the first
place, John Lutchester's appearance in America at all was entirely
unexpected. In the second, by what possible means could he have arrived
at this precise and psychological moment?

"You!" she exclaimed, a little helplessly. "Mr. Lutchester!"

He smiled as he shook hands. Nikasti had slipped noiselessly from the
room. Pamela made no effort to detain him. She had a curious feeling
that the things which had passed between them concerned their two
selves only. So had no desire whatever to hand him over to retributive
justice.

"You are surprised," he observed. "So far as my presence here is
concerned, I knew quite well that I was coming some time ago, but it
was one of those matters, you understand, Miss Van Teyl, that one is
scarcely at liberty to talk about. I am here in connection with my
work."

"Your work," she repeated weakly. "I thought that you were in the
Ministry of Munitions?"

"Precisely," he admitted. "I have a travelling inspectorship. You see,
I don't mind telling you this, but it is just as well, if you will
forgive my mentioning it, Miss Van Teyl, that these things are not
spoken of to any one. My business over here is supposed to be secret. I
am going round some of the factories from which we are drawing
supplies."

She drew a long breath and began to feel a little more like herself.

"Well, after this," she declared, "I shall be surprised at nothing. I
have had one shock already this evening, and you are the second."

"The first, I trust, was not disagreeable?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Without flattering you," she answered, "I think I could say that I
prefer the second."

"I had an idea," Lutchester remarked diffidently, "that my arrival
seemed either opportune or inopportune--I could not quite tell which.
Were you in any way troubled or embarrassed by the presence of the
little Japanese gentleman?"

"Of course not," she replied. "Why, he is Jimmy's valet."

"How absurd of me!" Lutchester murmured. "By the bye, if Jimmy is your
brother--Mr. Van Teyl--I have a letter to him from a pal in town--Dicky
Green. It was to present it that I found my way up here this evening. I
was told that he might put me in the way of a little golf during my
spare time over here."

He produced the note and laid it upon the table. Pamela glanced at it
and then at Lutchester. He was carefully dressed in dinner clothes,
black tie and white waistcoat. He was, as usual, perfectly groomed and
immaculate. He had what she could only describe to herself as an
everyday air about him. He seemed entirely free from any mental
pressure or the wear and tear of great events.

"Golf?" she repeated wonderingly. "You expect to have a little spare
time, then?"

"Well, I hope so," Lutchester replied. "One must have exercise. By the
bye," he went on, "is your brother in, do you happen to know? Perhaps
it would be more convenient if I came round in the morning? I am
staying in the hotel."

"Oh, for goodness sake, don't go away," she begged. "Jimmy will be here
presently, for certain. To tell you the truth, we have been rather
playing hide-and-seek this evening, but it hasn't been altogether his
fault. Please sit down over there--you will find cigarettes on the
sideboard--and talk to me."

"Delighted," he agreed, taking the chair opposite to her. "I suppose
you want to know what became of poor Graham?"

A sudden bewilderment appeared in her face. She leaned towards him. Her
forehead was knitted, her eyes puzzled. There was a new problem to be
solved.

"Why, Mr. Lutchester," she demanded, "how on earth did you get here?"

"Across the Atlantic," he replied amiably. "Bit too far the other way
round."

"Yes, but what on?" she persisted. "I went straight on to the _Lapland_
after we parted last week, and only arrived here an hour or so ago.
There was no other passenger steamer sailing for three days."

"I was a stowaway," he told her confidentially--"helped to shovel coals
all the way over."

"Don't talk nonsense!" she protested a little sharply. "I dislike
mysteries. Look at you! A stowaway, indeed! Tell me the truth
at once?"

He leaned forward in his chair towards her. An ingenuous smile parted
his lips. He had the air of a schoolboy repeating a mischievous secret.

"The fact is, Miss Van Teyl," he confided, "I don't want it talked
about, you know, but I had a joy ride over."

"A what?"

"A joy ride," he repeated. "A cousin of mine is in command of a
destroyer, and she was under orders to sail for New York. He hadn't the
slightest right, really, to bring a passenger, as she was coming over
on a special mission, but I had word about the trip over here, so I
slipped on board late one night--not a word to any one, you
understand--and--well, here I am. A more awful voyage," he went on
impressively, "you couldn't imagine. I was sore all over within
twenty-four hours of starting. There's practically no deck on those
things, you know, for sitting out or anything of that sort. The British
Navy's nowhere for comfort, I can tell you. The biggest liner for me,
going back!"

Pamela was still a little dazed. Lutchester's story did not sound in
the least convincing. For the moment, however, she accepted his account
of himself.

"Tell me now," she begged, "about Captain Graham?"

"You haven't heard, then?"

"I have heard nothing. How should I hear?"

"I took him straight back to my rooms after we left you," Lutchester
began. "He was in an awful state of nerves and drugs and drink. Then I
put him to bed as soon as I could, and rang up a pal of mine at the War
Office to take him in hand."

"Do you believe," she asked curiously, "that he had really been robbed
of his formula?"

"Those amiable people who were interviewing him in the chapel seemed to
think so," Lutchester observed.

"But you! What do you think?" she persisted. He smiled in superior
fashion.

"I find it rather hard to bring myself to believe that any one would
take the trouble," he confided. "I have heard it said in my department
that there have been thirty-one new explosives invented since the
beginning of the war. Two of them only are in use, and they're not much
better than the old stuff."

Pamela nodded understandingly.

"All the same," she remarked, "I am not at all sure that was the case
with Captain Graham's invention. There were rumours for days before
that something wonderful was happening on Salisbury Plain. They had to
cover up whole acres of ground after his last experiments, and a man
who was down there told me that it seemed just as though the life had
been sucked out of it."

"Where did you collect all this information?" her visitor inquired.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"One hears everything in London."

Lutchester was sitting with his finger-tips pressed together. For a
moment his attention seemed fixed upon them.

"There are things," he said, "which one hears, too, in the far corners
of the world--on the Atlantic, for instance."

"You have had some news?" she interrupted.

"It is really a private piece of information," he told her, "and it
won't be in the papers--not the way the thing happened, anyway--but I
don't suppose there's any harm in telling you, as we were both more or
less mixed up in the affair. Graham was shot the next day, on his way
up to Northumberland."

"Shot?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Murdered, if you'd like the whole thrill," Lutchester continued. "Of
course, we didn't get many particulars in the wireless, but we gathered
that he was shot by some one passing him in a more powerful car on a
lonely stretch of the Great North Road."

Pamela shuddered. She was for the moment profoundly impressed. A
certain air of unreality which had hung over the events of that night
was suddenly banished. The whole tragedy rose up before her eyes. The
effect of it was almost stupefying.

"Gave me quite a shock," Lutchester confided. "Somehow or other I had
never been able to take that night quite seriously. There was more than
a dash of melodrama in it, wasn't there? Seems now as though those
fellows must have been in earnest, though."

"And as though Captain Graham's formula," she reminded him gravely,
"was the real thing."

"Whereupon," Lutchester observed, "our first interest in the affair
receives a certain stimulus. Some one stole the formula. To judge from
the behaviour of those amiable gentlemen connected with Henry's
Restaurant, it wasn't they. Some one had been before them. Have you any
theories, Miss Van Teyl?"

"I can tell you who has," she replied. "Do you remember when we were
all grouped around that notice--Mefiez-vous! Taisez-vous! Les oreilles
ennemies vous ecoutent!?"

"Of course I do," he assented.

"Do you remember Baron Sunyea making a remark afterwards? He had been
standing by and heard everything Graham said."

"Can't say that I do," Lutchester regretted, "but I remember seeing him
about the place."

"You promise to say or do nothing without my permission, if I tell you
something?" she went on.

"Naturally!"

"See, then, how diplomacy or secret service work, or whatever you like
to call it, can gather the ends of the world together! Only a quarter
of an hour ago that Japanese valet of my brother's, having searched my
rooms in vain, demanded from me that formula!"

"From you?" Lutchester gasped. "But you haven't got it!"

"Of course not. On the other hand Sunyea pitched upon me as being one
of the possible thieves, and cabled his instructions over."

"Have you got it?" he asked abruptly.

"If I had," she smiled, "I should not tell you."

"But come," he expostulated, "the thing's no use to you."

"So Baron Sunyea evidently thought," she laughed. "We'll leave that, if
you don't mind."

Lutchester was still looking a little bewildered.

"I had an idea when I came in," he muttered, "that things were a little
scrappy between you and the Japanese gentleman."

She was suddenly serious.

"Now that I have told you the truth," she said, "I really ought to
thank you. You certainly seem to have a knack of appearing when you are
wanted."

"Fluke this time, I'm afraid," he acknowledged, "but I rather like the
suggestion. You ought to see a great deal of me, Miss Van Teyl. Do you
realise that I am a stranger in New York, and any hospitality you can
show me may be doubly rewarded? Are you going to take me round and show
me the sights?"

"Are you going to have any time for sight-seeing?"

"Well, I hope so. Why not? A fellow can't do more than a certain number
of hours' work in a day."

She looked at him curiously.

"And yet," she murmured, "you expect to win the war!"

"Of course we shall win the war," he assured her confidently. "You
haven't any doubt about that yourself, have you, Miss Van Teyl?"

"I don't know," she told him calmly.

Lutchester was almost horrified. He rose to his feet and stood looking
down at his companion.

"Tell me what on earth you mean?" he demanded. "We always win in the
long run, even if we muddle things about a little."

"I was just contrasting in my mind," she said thoughtfully, "some of
the Germans whom I have met since the war, with some of the Englishmen.
They are taking it very seriously, you know, Mr. Lutchester. They don't
find time for luncheon parties or sight-seeing."

"That's just their way," he protested. "They turn themselves into
machines. They are what we used to call suckers at school, but you can
take my word for it that before next autumn they will be on the run."

"You call them suckers," she observed. "That's because they're always
working, always studying, always experimenting. Supposing they got hold
of something like this new explosive?"

"First of all," he told her, "I don't believe in it, and secondly, if
it exists, the formula isn't in their hands."

"Supposing it is in mine?" she suggested. "I might sell it to them."

"I'd trust you all the time," he laughed lightheartedly. "I can't see
you giving a leg up to the Huns.... Will you lunch with me at one
o'clock to-morrow, please?"

"Certainly not," she replied. "You must attend to your work, whatever
it is."

"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but every one has an hour off for
luncheon."

"People who win wars don't lunch," she declared severely. "Here's
Jimmy--I can hear his voice--and he's brought some one up with him.
I'll--let you know about lunch."

The door opened. James Van Teyl and Fischer entered together.




CHAPTER XIII


The first few seconds after the entrance of the two men were
monopolised by the greetings of Pamela with her brother. Fischer stood
a little in the background, his eyes fixed upon Lutchester. His brain
was used to emergencies, but he found himself here confronted by an
unanswerable problem.

"Say, this is Mr. Lutchester, isn't it?" he inquired, holding out his
hand.

"The same," Lutchester assented politely. "We met at Henry's some ten
days ago, didn't we?"

"Mr. Lutchester has brought us a letter from Dicky Green, Jimmy,"
Pamela explained, as she withdrew from her brother's arms. "Quite
unnecessary, as it happens, because I met him in London just before we
sailed."

"Very glad to meet you, Mr. Lutchester," Jimmy declared, wringing his
hand with American cordiality. "Dicky's an old pal of mine--one of the
best. We graduated in the same year from Harvard."

Conversation for a few minutes was platitudinous. Van Teyl, although he
showed few signs of his recent excesses, was noisy and boisterous,
clutching at this brief escape from a situation which he dreaded.
Fischer on the other hand, remained in the back-ground, ominously
silent, thinking rapidly, speculating and theorising as to the
coincidence, if it were coincidence, of finding Lutchester and Pamela
together. He listened to the former's polite conversation, never once
letting his eyes wander from his face. All his thoughts were
concentrated upon one problem. The mysterious escape of Sandy Graham,
which had sent him flying from the country, remained unsolved. Of
Pamela's share in it he had already his suspicions. Was it possible
that Lutchester was the other and the central figure in that remarkable
rescue? He waited his opportunity, and, during a momentary lull in the
cheerful conversation, broke in with his first question.

"Say, Mr. Lutchester, you haven't any twin brother, have you?"

"No brother at all," Lutchester admitted.

"Then, how did you get over here? You were at Henry's weren't you, on
the night the _Lapland_ sailed? You didn't cross with us, and there's
no other steamer due for two days."

"Then I can't be here," Lutchester declared. "The thing's impossible."

"Guess you'll have to explain, if you want to save me from a sleepless
night," Fischer persisted.

Lutchester smiled. He had the air of one enjoying the situation
immensely.

"Well," he said, "I have had to confess to Miss Van Teyl here, so I
may as well make a clean breast of it to you. To every one else I meet
in New York, I shall say that I came over on the _Lapland_. I really
came over on a destroyer."

Fischer's face seemed to become more set and grim than ever.

"A British destroyer," he muttered to himself.

"It was kind of a joy ride," Lutchester explained confidentially, "a
cousin of mine who was in command came in to see me and say good-by,
just after I'd received my orders from the head of my department to
come out here on the next steamer, and he smuggled me on board that
night. Mum's the word, though, if you please. We asked nobody's leave.
It would have taken about a month to have heard anything definite from
the Admiralty."

"A British destroyer come across the Atlantic, eh?" Mr. Fischer
muttered. "She must have come out on a special mission, then, I
imagine."

"That is not for me to say," Lutchester observed, with stiff reticence.

Pamela suddenly and purposely intervened. She turned towards Fischer.

"Mr. Lutchester brought some rather curious news," she observed. "He
got it by wireless. Do you remember all the fuss there was about the
disappearance of Captain Holderness' friend at Henry's?"

"I heard something about it," he admitted grimly.

"Well, Captain Graham was in my party, so naturally I was more
interested than any one else. To all appearance he entered Henry's
Restaurant, walked up the stairs, and disappeared into the skies. The
place was ransacked everywhere for him, but he never turned up. Well,
the very next day he was murdered in a motor-car on his way to
Northumberland."

"Incredible!" Fischer murmured.

"Seems a queer set out," Lutchester remarked, "but it's quite true. He
was supposed to have discovered a marvellous new explosive, the formula
for which had been stolen. He was on his way up to Northumberland to
make fresh experiments."

"For myself I have little faith," Fischer observed, "in any new
explosives. In Germany they believe, I understand, that the limit of
destructiveness has been attained."

"The Germans should know," Lutchester admitted carelessly. "I'm afraid
they are still a good deal ahead of us in most scientific matters. I
will take the liberty, of calling some time to-morrow, Miss Van Teyl,
and hope I shall have the pleasure of improving my acquaintance with
your brother. Good night, Mr. Fischer."

"Are you staying in the hotel?" the latter inquired.

"On the fifteenth floor," was the somewhat gloomy reply. "I shan't be
able to shave in front of the window without feeling giddy. However, I
suppose that's America. Good-by, everybody."

With a little inclusive and farewell bow he disappeared. They heard him
make his way down the corridor and ring for the lift. Rather a curious
silence ensued, which was broken at last by Pamela.

"Is that," she asked, throwing herself into an easy-chair and selecting
a cigarette, "just an ordinary type of a nice, well-bred,
unintelligent, self-sufficient Englishman, or--"

"Or what?" Fischer asked, with interest.

Pamela watched the smoke curl from the end of her cigarette.

"Well, I scarcely know how to finish," she confessed, "only sometimes
when I am talking to him I feel that he can scarcely be as big a fool
as he seems, and then I wonder. Jimmy," she went on, shaking her head
at him, "you're not looking well. You've been sitting up too late and
getting into bad habits during my absence. Open confession, now, if you
please. If it's a girl, I shall give you my blessing."

Van Teyl groaned and said nothing. A foreboding of impending trouble
depressed Pamela. She turned towards Fischer and found in his grim face
confirmation of her fears.

"What does this mean?" she demanded.

"Your brother will explain," Fischer replied. "It is better that he
should tell you everything."

"Everything?" she repeated. "What is there to tell. What have you to do
with my brother, anyway?" she added fiercely.

"You must not look at me as though I were in any way to blame for what
has happened," was the insistent reply. "On the contrary, I have been
very lenient with your brother. I am still prepared to be lenient--upon
certain conditions."

The light of battle was in Pamela's eyes. She fought against the
significance of the man's ominous words. This was his first blow, then,
and directed against her.

"I begin to understand," she said. "Please go on. Let me hear
everything."

Van Teyl had turned to the sideboard. He mixed and drank off a whisky
and soda. Then he swung around.

"I'll make a clean breast of it in a few words, Pamela," he promised.
"I've gambled with Fischer's money, lost it, forged a transfer of his
certificates to meet my liabilities, and I am in his power. He could
have me hammered and chucked into Sing Sing, if he wanted to. That's
all there is about it."

Pamela stood the shock well. She turned to Fischer.

"How much of this are you responsible for?" she asked.

"That," he objected, "is an impotent question. It is not I who had the
moulding of your brother's character. It is not I who made him a forger
and a weakling."

Van Teyl's arm was upraised. An oath broke from his lips. Pamela seized
him firmly and drew him away.

"Be quiet, James," she begged. "Let us hear what Mr. Fischer is going
to do about it."

"That depends upon you," was the cold reply.

Pamela stood at the head of the table, between the two men, and
laughed. Her brother had sunk into a chair, and his head had dropped
moodily upon his folded arms. She looked from one to the other and a
new sense of strength inspired her. She felt that if she were not
indeed entirely mistress of the situation, yet the elements of triumph
were there to her hand.

"This is living, at any rate," she declared. "First of all I discover
that your Japanese servant is a spy--"

"Nikasti!" Van Teyl interrupted furiously. "Blast him! I knew that
there was something wrong about that fellow, Fischer."

Fischer frowned.

"What's he been up to?" he inquired.

"Well, to begin with," Pamela explained, "he searched my room, then he
locked me in here, and was proceeding to threaten me when fortunately
Mr. Lutchester arrived."

"Threaten you--what about?" Fischer demanded.

"He seemed to have an absurd idea," Pamela explained sweetly, "that I
might have somewhere concealed upon my person the formula which was
stolen from Captain Graham last Monday week at Henry's Restaurant. It
makes quite a small world of it, doesn't it?"

"I will deal with Nikasti for this," Fischer promised, "if it is true.
Meanwhile?"

"No sooner have I got over that little shock," Pamela went on, "than
you turn up with this melodramatic story, and an offer from Mr.
Fischer, which I can read in his face. Really, I feel that I shall hear
the buzz of a cinema machine in a moment. How much do you owe him,
Jimmy?"

"Eighty-nine thousand dollars," the young man groaned.

"I'll write you a cheque to-morrow morning," Pamela promised. "Will
that do, Mr. Fischer?"

"It is the last thing I desire," was the calm reply.

"Really! Well, perhaps now you will come to the point. Perhaps you will
tell me what it is that you do want?"

"Stolen property," Fischer announced deliberately--"stolen property,
however, to which I have a greater right than you."

She laughed at him mockingly.

"I think not, Mr. Fischer," she said. "You really don't deserve it, you
know."

"And why not?"

"Just see how you have bungled! You bait the trap, the poor man walks
into it, and you allow another to forestall you. Not only that, but you
actually allow Japan to come into the game, and but for Mr.
Lutchester's appearance we might both of us have been left planté là.
No, Mr. Fischer! You don't deserve the formula, and you shall not have
it. I'll pay my brother's debt to you in dollars--no other way."

"Dollars," Mr. Fischer told her sternly, "will never buy the forged
transfer. Dollars will never keep your brother out of the city police
court or Sing Sing afterwards. There isn't much future for a young man
who has been through it."

Van Teyl was upon him suddenly with a low, murderous cry. Fischer had
no time to resist, no chance of success if he had attempted it. He was
borne backwards on to the lounge, his assailant's hand upon his throat.
The young man was beside himself with drink and fury. The words poured
from his lips, incoherent, hot with rage.

"You--hound! You've made my life a hell! You've plotted and schemed to
get me into your power!... There! Do you feel the life going out of
you?... My sister, indeed! You!... You scum of the earth! You ..."

"James!"

The sound of Pamela's voice unnerved him. His fit of passion was spent.
She dragged him easily away.

"Don't be a fool, Jimmy!" she begged. "You can't settle accounts like
that."

"Can't I?" he muttered. "If we'd been alone, Pamela ... my God, if he
and I had been alone here!"

"Jimmy," she said, "you're a fool, and you've been drinking. Fetch the
water bottle."

He obeyed, and she dashed water in Fischer's face. Presently he opened
his eyes, groaned and sat up. There were two livid marks upon his
throat. Van Teyl watched him like a crouching animal. His eyes were
still lit with sullen fire. The lust for killing was upon him. Fischer
sat up and blinked. He felt the atmosphere of the room, and he knew his
danger. His hand stole into his hip pocket, and a small revolver
suddenly flashed upon his knees. He drew a long breath of relief. He
was like a fugitive who had found sanctuary.

"So that's the game, James Van Teyl, is it?" he exclaimed. "Now
listen."

He adjusted the revolver with a click. His cruel, long fingers were
pressed around its stock.

"I am not threatening you," he went on. "I am not fond of violence, and
I don't believe in it. This is just in case you come a single yard
nearer to me. Now, Miss Van Teyl, my business is with you. We won't
fence any longer. You will hand over to me the pocketbook which you
stole from Captain Graham in Henry's Restaurant. Hand it over to me
intact, you understand. In return I will give you the forged transfer
of stock, and leave it to your sense of honour as to whether you care
to pay your brother's debt or not. If you decline to consider my
proposition, I shall ring up Joseph Neville, your brother's senior
partner. I shall not even wait for to-morrow, mind. I shall make an
appointment, and I shall place in his hands the proof of your brother's
robbery."

"Perhaps," Pamela murmured, "I was wrong to stop you. Jimmy....
Anything else, Mr. Fischer?"

"Just this. I would rather have carried this matter through in a
friendly fashion, for reasons at which I think you can guess."

She shook her head.

"You flatter my intelligence!" she told him scornfully.

"I will explain, then. I desire to offer myself as your suitor."

She laughed at him without restraint or consideration.

"I would rather marry my brother's valet!" she declared.

"You are entirely wrong," he protested. "You are wrong, too, in holding
up cards against me. We are on the same side. You are an American, and
so am I. I swear that I desire nothing that is not for your good. You
have wonderful gifts, and I have great wealth and opportunities. I have
also a sincere and very heartfelt admiration for you."

"I have never been more flattered!" Pamela scoffed.

He looked a little wistfully from one to the other. Antagonism and
dislike were written in their faces. Even Pamela, who was skilled in
the art of subterfuge, made little effort to conceal her aversion.
Nevertheless, he continued doggedly.

"What does it matter," he demanded, "who handles this formula--you or
I? Our faces are turned in the same direction. There is this difference
only with me. I want to make it the basis of a kindlier feeling in
Washington towards my father's country."

Pamela's eyebrows were raised.

"Are you sure," she asked, "that the formula itself would not find its
way into your father's country?"

"As to that I pledge my word," he replied. "I am an American citizen."

"Looks like it, doesn't he!" Van Teyl jeered.

"Tell us what you have been doing in Berlin, then?" Pamela inquired.

"I had a definite mission there," Fischer assured them, "which I hope
to bring to a definite conclusion. If you are an American citizen in
the broadest sense of the word, England is no more to you than Germany.
I want to place before some responsible person in the American
Government, a proposal--an official proposal--the acceptance of which
will be in years to come of immense benefit to her."

"And the quid pro quo?" Pamela asked gently.

"I am not here for the purpose of gratifying curiosity," Fischer
replied, "but if you will take this matter up seriously, you shall be
the person through whom this proposal shall be brought before the
American Government. The whole of the negotiations shall be conducted
through you. If you succeed, you will be known throughout history as
the woman who saved America from her great and growing danger. If you
fail, you will be no worse off than you are now."

"And you propose to hand over the conduct of these negotiations to me,"
Pamela observed, "in return for what?"

"The pocketbook which you took from Captain Graham."

"So there we are, back again at the commencement of our discussion,"
Pamela remarked. "Are you going to repeat that you want this formula
for Washington and not for Berlin?"

"My first idea," Fischer confessed, "was to hand it over to Germany. I
have changed my views. Germany has great explosives of her own. This
formula shall be used in a different fashion. It shall be a lever in
the coming negotiations between America and Germany."

"We have had a great deal of conversation to no practical purpose,"
Pamela declared. "Why are you so sure that I have the formula?"

Fischer frowned slightly. He had recovered himself now, and his tone
was as steady and quiet as ever. Only occasionally his eyes wandered to
where James Van Teyl was fidgetting about the table, and at such times
his fingers tightened upon the stock of his revolver.

"It is practically certain that you have the papers," he pointed out.
"You were the first person to go up the stairs after Graham had been
rendered unconscious. Joseph admits that he had been forced to leave
him--the orchestra was waiting to play. He was alone in that little
room. That you should have known of its existence and his presence
there is surprising, but nothing more. Furthermore, I am convinced that
you were in some way concerned with his rescue later. You visited
Hassan and you visited Joseph. From the latter you procured the key of
the chapel. If only he had had the courage to tell the truth--well, we
will let that pass. You have the papers, Miss Van Teyl. I am bidding a
great price for them. If you are a wise woman, you will not hesitate."

There was a knock at the door. They all three turned towards it a
little impatiently. Even Pamela and her brother felt the grip of an
absorbing problem. To their surprise, it was Lutchester who reappeared
upon the threshold. In his hand he held a small sealed packet.

"So sorry to disturb you all," he apologised. "I have something here
which I believe belongs to you, Miss Van Teyl. I thought I'd better
bring it up and explain. From the way your little Japanese friend was
holding on to it, I thought it might be important. It is a little torn,
but that isn't my fault."

He held it out to Pamela. It was a long packet torn open at one end.
From it was protruding a worn, brown pocketbook. Pamela's hand closed
upon it mechanically. There was a dazed look in her eyes. Fischer's
fingers stole once more towards the pocket into which, at Lutchester's
entrance, he had slipped his revolver.




CHAPTER XIV


Lutchester, to all appearance, remained sublimely unconscious of the
tension which his words and appearance seemed to have created. He had
strolled a little further into the room, and was looking down at the
packet which he still held.

"You are wondering how I got hold of this, of course?" he observed.
"Just one of those simple little coincidences which either mean a great
deal or nothing at all."

"How did you know it was mine?" Pamela asked, almost under her breath.

"I'll explain," Lutchester continued. "I was in the lobby of the hotel,
a few minutes ago, when I heard the fire bell outside. I hurried out
and watched the engines go by from the sidewalk. I have always been
rather interested in--"

"Never mind that, please. Go on," Pamela asked, almost under her
breath.

"Certainly," Lutchester assented. "On the way back, then, I saw a
little Japanese, who was coming out of the hotel, knocked down by a
taxicab which skidded nearly into the door. I don't think he was badly
hurt--I'm not even sure that he was hurt at all. I picked up this
packet from the spot where he had been lying, and I was on the point of
taking it to the office when I saw your name upon it, Miss Van Teyl, in
what seemed to me to be your own handwriting, so I thought I'd bring it
up."

He laid it upon the table. Pamela's eyes seemed fastened upon it. She
turned it over nervously.

"It is very kind of you, Mr. Lutchester," she murmured.

"I'll be perfectly frank," he went on. "I should have found out where
the little man who dropped it had disappeared to, and restored it to
him, but I fancied--of course, I may have been wrong--that you and he
were having some sort of a disagreement, a few minutes ago, when I
happened to come in. Anyway, that was in my mind, and I thought I'd run
no risks."

"You did the very kindest and most considerate thing," Pamela declared.

"The little Japanese must have been our new valet," James Van Teyl
observed. "I'm beginning to think that he is not going to be much of an
acquisition."

"You'll probably see something of him in a few minutes," Lutchester
remarked. "I will wish you good night, Miss Van Teyl. Good night!"

Pamela's reiterated thanks were murmured and perfunctory. Even James
Van Teyl's hospitable instincts seemed numbed. They allowed Lutchester
to depart with scarcely a word. With the closing of the door, speech
brought them some relief from a state of tension which was becoming
intolerable. Even then Fischer at first said nothing. He had risen
noiselessly to his feet, his right hand was in the sidepocket of his
coat, his eyes were fixed upon the table.

"So this is why you insisted upon a valet!" James Van Teyl exclaimed,
his voice thick with anger. "He's planted here to rob for you! Is that
it, eh, Fischer?"

Pamela drew the packet towards her and stood with her right palm
covering it. Fischer seemed still at a loss for words.

"I can assure you," he said at last fervently, "that if that packet was
stolen from Miss Van Teyl by Nikasti, it was done without my
instigation. It is as much a surprise to me as to any of you. We can
congratulate ourselves that it is not on the way to Japan."

Pamela nodded.

"He is speaking the truth," she asserted. "Nikasti is not out to steal
for others. He is playing the same game as all of us, only he is
playing it for his own hand. Mr. Fischer has brought him here for some
purpose of his own, without a doubt, but I am quite sure that Nikasti
never meant to be any one's cat's-paw."

"Believe me, that is the truth," Fischer agreed. "I will admit that I
brought Nikasti here with a purpose, but upon my honour I swear that
until this evening I never dreamed that he even knew of the existence
of the formula."

"Oh! we are not the only people in the world who are clever," Pamela
declared, with an unnatural little laugh. "The first man who took note
of Sandy Graham's silly words as he rushed into Henry's was Baron
Sunyea. I saw him stiffen as he listened. He even uttered a word of
remonstrance. Japan in London heard. Japan in your sitting-room here,
in ten days' time, knew everything there was to be known."

"I didn't bring Nikasti here for this," Fischer insisted.

"Perhaps not," Pamela conceded, "but if you're a good American, what
are you doing at all with a Japanese secret agent?"

"If you trust me, you shall know," Fischer promised. "Listen to reason.
Let us have finished with one affair at a time. You very nearly lost
that formula to Japan. Hand over the pocketbook. You see how dangerous
it is for it to remain in your possession. I'll keep my share of the
bargain. I'll put my scheme before you. Come, be reasonable. See,
here's the forged transfer."

He drew a paper from his pocket and spread it out upon the table. His
long, hairy fingers were shaking with nervousness.

"Come, make it a deal," he persisted, "You can pay me the defalcations
or not, as you choose. There is your brother's freedom and the honour
of your name, in exchange for that pocketbook."

Pamela, after all her hesitation, seemed to make up her mind with
startling suddenness. She thrust the pocketbook towards Fischer, took
the transfer from his fingers and tore it into small pieces.

"I give in," she said. "This time you have scored. We will talk about
the other matter tomorrow."

Fischer buttoned up the packet carefully in his breast pocket. His eyes
glittered. He turned towards the door. On the threshold he looked
around. He stretched out his hand towards Pamela.

"Believe me, you have done well," he assured her hoarsely. "I shall
keep my word. I will set you in the path of great things."

He left the room, and they heard the furious ringing of the lift bell.
Pamela was tearing into smaller pieces the forged transfer. Van Teyl, a
little pale, but with new life in his frame, was watching the fragments
upon the floor. There was a tap at the door. Nikasti entered. Pamela's
fingers paused in their task. Van Teyl stared at him. The newcomer was
carrying the evening papers, which he laid down upon the table.

"Is there anything more I can do before I go to bed, sir?" he asked,
with his usual reverential little bow.

"Aren't you hurt?" Van Teyl exclaimed.

"Hurt?" Nikasti replied wonderingly. "Oh, no!"

"Weren't you knocked down by a taxicab," Pamela asked, "outside the
hotel?"

Nikasti looked from one to the other with an air of gentle surprise.

"I have been to my rooms in the servants' quarters," he told them, "on
the upper floor. I have not been downstairs at all. I have been
unpacking and arranging my own humble belongings."

Van Teyl clasped his forehead.

"Let me get this!" he exclaimed. "You haven't been down in the lobby of
the hotel, you haven't been knocked down by a taxicab that skidded, you
haven't lost a pocketbook which you had previously stolen from my
sister?"

Nikasti shook his head. He seemed completely mystified. He watched
Pamela's face carefully.

"Perhaps there has been some mistake," he suggested quietly. "My
English is sometimes not very good. I would not dream of trying to rob
the young lady. I have not lost any pocketbook. I have not descended
lower down in the hotel than this floor."

Van Teyl waved him away, accepted his farewell salutation, and waited
until the door was closed.

"Look here, Pamela," he protested, turning almost appealingly towards
her, "my brain wasn't made for this sort of thing. What in thunder does
it all mean?"

Pamela looked at the fragments of paper upon the floor and sank back in
an easy chair.

"Jimmy," she confided, "I don't know."




CHAPTER XV


Pamela opened her eyes the next morning upon a distinctly pleasing
sight. At the foot of her bed was an enormous basket of pink
carnations. On the counterpane by her side lay a smaller cluster of
twelve very beautiful dark red Gloire de Dijon roses. Attached to these
latter was a note.

"When did these flowers come, Leah?" Pamela asked the maid who was
moving about the room.

"An hour ago, madam," the girl told her.

"Read the name on the card," Pamela directed, pointing to the mass of
pink blossoms.

"Mr. Oscar H. Fischer," the girl read out, "with respectful
compliments."

Pamela smiled.

"He doesn't know, then," she murmured to herself. "Get my bath ready,
Leah."

The maid disappeared into the inner room. Pamela tore open the note
attached to the roses by her side, and read it slowly through:

Dear Miss Van Teyl,

I am so very sorry, but the luncheon we had half-planned for to-day
must be postponed. I have an urgent message to go south; to
inspect--but no secrets! It's horribly disappointing. I hope we may
meet in a few days.

Sincerely yours,

JOHN LUTCHESTER.

Pamela laid down the note, conscious of an indefined but distinct
sensation of disappointment. After all, it was not so wonderful to wake
up and find oneself in New York. The sun was pleasant, the little puffs
of air which came in through the window across the park, delightful and
exhilarating, yet something had gone out of the day. Accustomed to
self-analysis, she asked herself swiftly--what? It was, without a
doubt, something to do with Lutchester's departure. She tried to face
the question of her disappointment. Was it possible to feel any real
interest in a man who preferred a Government post to the army at such a
time, and who had brought his golf clubs out to America? Her
imagination for a moment revolved around the problem of his apparently
uninteresting and yet, in some respects, contradictory personality. Was
it really her fancy or had she, every now and then, detected behind
that flamboyant manner traces of something deeper and more serious,
something which seemed to indicate a life and aims of which nothing
appeared upon the surface? She clasped her knees and sat up in bed,
listening to the sound of the running water in the next room. Was there
any possible explanation of his opportune appearance on the night
before with a dummy pocketbook and a concocted story? The cleverest man
on earth could surely never have gauged her position with Fischer and
intervened in such a manner at the psychological moment.

Yet he had done it, she reflected, gazing thoughtfully at Fischer's
gift. If, indeed, he knew what was passing around him to that extent,
how much more knowledge might he not possess? She felt the little
silken belt around her waist. At least there was no one who could take
Sandy Graham's secret from her until she chose to give it up. Supposing
for a moment that Lutchester was also out for the great things, was he
fooled by her attitude? If he knew so much, he must know that the
secret remained with her. Perhaps, after all, he was only a philanderer
in intrigue....

Pamela bathed and dressed, sent for her brother, and, to his horror,
insisted upon an American breakfast.

"It's quite time I came back to look after you, Jimmy," she said
severely, as she watched him send away his grapefruit and gaze
helplessly at his bacon and eggs. "You're going to turn over a new
leaf, young man."

"I shan't be sorry," he confessed fervently. "I tell you, Pamela, when
you have a thing like this hanging over you, it's hell--some hell! You
just want to drown your thoughts and keep going all the time."

She nodded sagely.

"Well, that's over now, Jimmy," she said, "and I meant you to listen to
me. It's more than likely that Mr. Fischer may find out at any moment
that the mysterious pocketbook, which came from heaven knows where, is
a faked one. He may be horrid about it."

"While we are on that," Van Teyl interrupted, "I couldn't sleep a wink
last night for trying to imagine where on earth that fellow Lutchester
came in, and what his game was."

"I have a headache this morning, trying to puzzle out the same thing,"
Pamela told him.

"He seems such an ordinary sort of chap," Van Teyl continued
thoughtfully. "Good sportsman, no doubt, and all that sort of thing,
but the last fellow in the world to concoct a yarn, and if he did, what
was his object?"

"Jimmy," his sister begged, "let's quit. Of course, I know a little
more than you do, but the little more that I do know only makes it more
confusing. Now, to make it worse, he's gone away."

"What, this morning?"

"Gone away on his Government work," Pamela announced. "I had a note and
some roses from him. Don't let's talk about it, Jimmy. I keep on
getting new ideas, and it makes my brain whirl. I want to talk about
you."

"I'm a rotten lot to talk about," he sighed.

She patted his hand.

"You're nothing of the sort, dear, and you've got to remember now that
you're out of the trouble. But listen. Hurry down to the office as
early as you can and set about straightening things out, so that if Mr.
Fischer tries to make trouble, he won't be able to do it. There's my
cheque for eighty-nine thousand dollars I made out last night before I
went to bed," she added, passing it over to him. "Just replace what
stocks you're short of and get yourself out of the mess, and don't
waste any time about it."

His face glowed as he looked across the table.

"You're the most wonderful sister, Pamela."

"Nonsense!" she interrupted. "Nonsense! I ought not to have left you
alone all this time, and, besides, I'm pretty sure he helped you into
this trouble for his own ends. Anyway, we are all right now. I shall be
in New York for a few days before I go to Washington. When I do go, you
must see whether you can get leave and come with me."

"That's bully," he declared. "I'll get leave, right enough. There's
never been less doing in Wall Street. But say, Pamela, I don't seem to
half understand what's going on. You've given up most of your friends,
and you spend months away there in Europe in all sorts of corners. Now
you come back and you seem mixed up in regular secret service work.
Where do you come in, anyway? What are you going to Washington for?"

She smiled.

"Queer tastes, haven't I, Jimmy?"

"Queer for a girl."

"That's prejudice," she objected, shaking her head. "Nowadays there are
few things a woman can't do. To tell you the truth, my new interest in
life started three years ago, when Uncle Theodore found out that I was
going to Rome for the winter."

"So Uncle Theodore started it, did he?"

She nodded.

"That's the worst of having an uncle in the Administration, isn't it?
Well, of course, he gave me letters to every one in Rome, and I found
out what he wanted quite easily, and without the inquiries going
through the Embassy at all. Sometimes, as you can understand, that's a
great advantage. I found it simply fascinating--the work, I mean--and
after three or four more commissions--well, they recognised me at
Washington. I have been to most of the capitals in Europe at different
times, with small affairs to arrange at each, or information to get.
Sometimes it's been just about commercial things. Since the war,
though, of course, it's been more exciting than ever. If I were an
Englishwoman instead of an American, I could tell them some things in
London which they'd find pretty surprising. It's not my affair, though,
and I keep what information I do pick up until it works in with
something else for our own good. I knew quite well in Berlin, for
instance, to speak of something you've heard of, that Henry's
Restaurant in London was being used as a centre of espionage by the
Germans. That is why I was on the lookout, the day I went there."

"You mean the day that pocketbook was stolen that the whole world seems
crazy about?" Van Teyl asked.

She nodded.

"I believe it is perfectly true," she said, "that a young man called
Graham has invented an entirely new explosive, the formula for which he
brought to Henry's with him that day. It isn't only what happens when
the shell explodes, but a sort of putrefaction sets in all round, and
they say that everything within a mile dies. There were spies down even
watching his experiments. There were spies following him up to London,
there were spies in Henry's Restaurant when like a fool he gave the
thing away. Fischer was the ringleader of this lot, and he meant having
the formula from Graham that night. I don't want to bore you, Jimmy,
but I got there first."

"Bore me!" the young man repeated. "Why, it's like a modern Arabian
Nights. I can't imagine you in the thick of this sort of thing,
Pamela."

"It's very easy to slip into the way of anything you like," she
answered. "I knew exactly what they were going to do to Captain Graham,
and I got there before them. When they searched him, the formula had
gone. Fischer caught my steamer and worried me all the way over. He
thought he had us in a corner last night, and then a miracle happened."

"You mean that fellow Lutchester turning up?"

"Yes, I mean that," Pamela admitted.

"Say, didn't that Jap fellow get the pocketbook from your rooms at all,
then?" Van Teyl asked. "I couldn't follow it all last night."

"He searched my rooms," Pamela replied, "and failed to find it.
Afterwards, when he and I were alone in your sitting-room, heaven knows
what would have happened, but for the miraculous arrival of Mr.
Lutchester, whom I had left behind in London, come to pay an evening
call in the Hotel Plaza, New York!"

Van Teyl shook his head slowly, got up from his seat, lit a cigarette,
and came back again.

"Pam," he confessed, "my brain won't stand it. You're not going to tell
me that Lutchester's in the game? Why, a simpler sort of fellow I never
spoke to."

"I can't make up my own mind about Mr. Lutchester," Pamela sighed. "He
helped me in London on the night I sailed--in fact, he was very useful
indeed--but why he invented that story about Nikasti, brought a dummy
pocketbook into the room and helped us out of all our troubles, unless
it was by sheer and brilliant instinct, I cannot imagine."

"Let me get on to this," Van Teyl said. "Even the pocketbook was a
fake, then?"

She nodded.

"I shouldn't be likely to leave things I risk my life for about my
bedroom," she told him.

"Where is it, then--the real thing?" he asked.

She smiled.

"If you must know, Jimmy," she confided, dropping her voice, "it's in a
little compartment of a silk belt around my waist. It will remain there
until I get to Washington, or until Mr. Haskall comes to me."

"Haskall, the Government explosives man?"

Pamela nodded.

"Even he won't get it without Government authority."

"Now, tell me, Pamela," Van Teyl went on--"you're a far-seeing girl--I
suppose we should get it in the neck from Germany some day or other, if
the Germans won? Why don't you hand the formula over to the British,
and give them a chance to get ahead?"

"That's a sensible question, Jimmy, and I'll try to answer it," Pamela
promised. "Because when once the shells are made and used, the secret
will be gone. I think it very likely that it would enable England to
win the war; but, you see, I am an American, not English, and I'm all
American. I have been in touch with things pretty closely for some time
now, and I see trouble ahead for us before very long. I can't exactly
tell you where it's coming from, but I feel it. I want America to have
something up her sleeve, that's why."

"You're a great girl, Pamela," her brother declared. "I'm off downtown,
feeling a different man. And, Pamela, I haven't said much, but God
bless you, and as long as I live I'm going as straight as a die. I've
had my lesson."

He bent over her a little clumsily and kissed her. Pamela walked to the
door with him.

"Be a dear," she called out, "and come back early. And, Jimmy!" ...

"Hullo?'"

"Put things right at the office at once," she whispered with emphasis.
"Fischer hasn't found out yet. I sent him a message this morning,
thanking him for the carnations, and asking him to walk with me in the
park after breakfast, I shall keep him away till lunch time, at least."

The young man looked at her, and at Nikasti, who out in the corridor
was holding his hat and cane. Then he chuckled.

"And they say that things don't happen in New York!" he murmured, as he
turned away.




CHAPTER XVI


An elderly New Yorker, a man of fashion, renowned for his social
perceptions, pressed his companion's arm at the entrance to Central
Park and pointed to Pamela.

"There goes a typical New York girl," he said, "and the best-looking
I've seen for many a long day. You can go all round Europe, Freddie,
and not see a girl with a face and figure like that. She had that frank
way, too, of looking you in the eyes."

"I know," the other assented. "Gibson's girls all had it. Kind of look
which seems to say--'I know you find me nice and I don't mind. I wonder
whether you're nice, too.'"

Pamela strolled along the park with Fischer by her side. She wore a
tailor-made costume of black and white tweed, and a smart hat, in which
yellow seemed the predominating colour. Her shoes, her gloves, the
little tie about her throat, were all the last word in the simple
elegance of suitability. Fischer walked by her side--a powerful,
determined figure in a carefully-pressed blue serge suit and a brown
Homburg hat. He wore a rose in his buttonhole, and he carried a
cane--both unusual circumstances. After fifty years of strenuous
living, Mr. Fischer seemed suddenly to have found a new thing in the
world.

"This is a pleasant idea of yours, Miss Van Teyl," he said.

"I haven't disturbed your morning, I hope?" she asked.

"I guess, if you have, it isn't the way you mean," he replied. "You've
disturbed a good deal of my time and thoughts lately."

"Well, you've had your own way now," she sighed, looking at him out of
the corner of her eyes. "I suppose you always get your own way in the
end, don't you, Mr. Fischer?"

"Generally," he admitted. "I tell you, though, Miss Van Teyl," he went
on earnestly, "if you're alluding to last night's affair, I hated the
whole business. It was my duty, and the opportunity was there, but with
what I have I am satisfied. With reference to that little debt of your
brother's--"

"Please don't say a word, Mr. Fischer," she interrupted. "You will find
that all put right as soon as you get down to Wall Street. Tell me,
what have you done with your prize?"

Mr. Fischer looked very humble.

"Miss Van Teyl," he said, "for certain reasons I am going to tell you
the truth. Perhaps it will be the best in the long run. We may even
before long be working together. So I start by being honest with you.
The pocketbook is by now on its way to Germany."

"To Germany?" she exclaimed. "And after all your promises!"

"Ah, but think, Miss Van Teyl," he pleaded. "I throw aside all
subterfuge. In your heart you know well what I am and what I stand for.
I deny it no longer. I am a German-American, working for Germany,
simply because America does not need my help. If America were at war
with any country in the world, my brains, my knowledge, my wealth would
be hers. But now it is different. Germany is surrounded by many
enemies, and she calls for her sons all over the world to remember the
Fatherland. You can sympathise a little with my unfortunate country,
Miss Van Teyl, and yet remain a good American. You are not angry with
me?"

"I suppose I ought to be, but I am not in the least," she assured him.
"I never had any doubt as to the destination of that packet."

"That," he admitted, "is a relief to me. Let us wipe the matter from
our memories, Miss Van Teyl."

"One word," she begged, "and that only of curiosity. Did you examine
the contents of the pocketbook?"

He turned his head and looked at her. For a moment he had lost the
greater spontaneity of his new self. He was again the cold, calculating
machine.

"No," he answered, "except to take out and destroy what seemed to be a
few private memoranda. There was a bill for flowers, a note from a
young lady--some rubbish of that sort. The remaining papers were all
calculations and figures, chemical formulae."

"Are you a chemist, Mr. Fischer?" she inquired.

"Not in the least," he acknowledged. "I recognised just enough of the
formulae on the last page to realise that there were entirely new
elements being dealt with."

She nodded.

"I only asked out of curiosity. I agree. Let us put it out of our
thoughts. You see, I am generous. We have fought a battle, you and I,
and I have lost. Yet we remain friends."

"It is more than your friendship that I want, Miss Van Teyl," he
pleaded, his voice shaking a little. "I am years older than you, I
know, and, by your standards, I fear unattractive. But you love power,
and I have it. I will take you into my schemes. I will show you how
those live who stand behind the clouds and wield the thunders."

She looked at him with genuine surprise. It was necessary to readjust
some of her impressions of him. Oscar Fischer was, after all, a human
being.

"What you say is all very well so far as it goes," she told him. "I
admit that a life of scheming and adventure attracts me. I love power.
I can think of nothing more wonderful than to feel the machinery of the
world--the political world--roar or die away, according to the touch of
one's fingers. Oh, yes, we're alike so far as that is concerned! But
there is a very vital difference. You are only an American by accident.
I am one by descent. For me there doesn't exist any other country. For
you Germany comes first."

"But can't you realise," he went on eagerly, "that even this is for the
best? America to-day is hypnotised by a maudlin, sentimental affection
for England, a country from whom she never received anything but harm.
We want to change that. We want to kill for ever the misunderstandings
between the two greatest nations in the world. My creed of life could
be yours, too, without a single lapse from your patriotism. Friendship,
alliance, brotherhood, between Germany and America. That would be my
text."

"Shall I be perfectly frank?" Pamela asked.

"Nothing else is worth while," was the instant answer.

"Well, then," she continued, "I can quite see that Germany has
everything to gain from America's friendship, but I cannot see the quid
pro quo."

"And yet it is so clear," Fischer insisted. "Your own cloud may not be
very large just now, but it is growing, and, before you know it, it
will be upon you. Can you not realise why Japan is keeping out of this
war? She is conserving her strength. Millions flow into her coffers
week by week. In a few years time, Japan, for the first time in her
history, will know what it is to possess solid wealth. What does she
want it for, do you think? She has no dreams of European aggression, or
her soldiers would be fighting there now. China is hers for the taking,
a rich prize ready to fall into her mouth at any moment. But the end
and aim of all Japanese policy, the secret Mecca of her desires, is to
repay with the sword the insults your country has heaped upon her. It
is for that, believe me, that her arsenals are working night and day,
her soldiers are training, her fleet is in reserve. While you haggle
about a few volunteers, Japan is strengthening and perfecting a mighty
army for one purpose and one purpose only. Unless you wake up, you will
be in the position that Great Britain was in two years ago. Even now,
work though you may, you will never wholly make up for lost time. The
one chance for you is friendship with Germany."

"Will Germany be in a position to help us after the war?" Pamela asked.

"Never doubt it," Fischer replied vehemently. "Before peace is signed
the sea power of England will be broken. Financially she will be
ruined. She is a country without economic science, without foresight,
without statesmen. The days of her golden opportunities have passed,
frittered away. Unless we of our great pity bind up her wounds, England
will bleed to death before the war is over."

"That, you must remember," Pamela said practically, "is your point of
view."

"I could tell you things--" he began.

"Don't," she begged. "I know what your outlook is now. Be definite.
Leaving aside that other matter, what is your proposition to me?"

Fischer walked for a while in silence. They had turned back some time
since, and were once more nearing the Plaza.

"You ask me to leave out what is most vital," he said at last. "I have
never been married, Miss Van Teyl. I am wealthy. I am promised great
honours at the end of this war. When that comes, I shall rest. If
you will be my wife, you can choose your home, you can choose your
title."

She shook her head.

"But I am not sure that I even like you, Mr. Fischer," she objected.
"We have fought in opposite camps, and you have had the bad taste to be
victorious. Besides which, you were perfectly brutal to James, and I am
not at all sure that I don't resent your bargain with me. As a matter
of fact, I am feeling very bitter towards you."

"You should not," he remonstrated earnestly. "Remember that, after all,
women are only dabblers in diplomacy. Their very physique prevents them
from playing the final game. You have brains, of course, but there are
other things--experience, courage, resource. You would be a wonderful
helpmate, Miss Van Teyl, even if your individual and unaided efforts
have not been entirely successful."

She sighed. Pamela just then was a picture of engaging humility.

"It is so hard for me," she murmured, "I do not want to marry yet. I do
not wish to think of it. And so far as you are concerned, Mr.
Fischer--well, I am simply furious when I think of your attitude last
night. But I love adventures."

"I will promise you all the adventures that can be crammed into your
life," he urged.

"But be more definite," she persisted. "Where should we start? You are
over here now on some important mission. Tell me more about it?"

"I cannot just yet," he answered. "All that I can promise you is that,
if I am successful, it will stop the war just as surely as Captain Graham's
new explosive."

"I thought you were going to make a confidante of me," she complained.

He suddenly gripped her arm. It was the first time he had touched her,
and she felt a queer surging of the blood to her head, a sudden and
almost uncontrollable repulsion. The touch of his long fingers was like
flame; his eyes, behind their sheltering spectacles, glowed in a
curious, disconcerting fashion.

"To the woman who was my pledged wife," he said, "I would tell
everything. From the woman who gave me her hand and became my ally I
would have no secrets. Come, I have a message, more than a message, to
the American people. I am taking it to Washington before many hours
have passed. If it is your will, it should be you to whom I will
deliver it."

Pamela walked on with her head in the air. Fischer was leaning a little
towards her. Every now and then his mouth twitched slightly. His eyes
seemed to be seeking to reach the back of her brain.

"Please go now," she begged. "I can't think clearly while you are here,
and I want to make up my mind. I will send to you when I am ready."




CHAPTER XVII


Pamela sat that afternoon on the balcony of the country club at
Baltusrol and approved of her surroundings. Below her stretched a
pleasant vista of rolling greensward, dotted here and there with the
figures of the golfers. Beyond, the misty blue background of rising
hills.

"I can't tell you how peaceful this all seems, Jimmy," she said to her
brother, who had brought her out in his automobile. "One doesn't notice
the air of strain over on the Continent, because it's the same
everywhere, but it gets a little on one's nerves, all the same. I
positively love it here."

"It's fine to have you," was the hearty response. "Gee, that fellow
coming to the sixteenth hole can play some!"

Pamela directed her attention idly towards the figure which her brother
indicated--a man in light tweeds, who played with an easy and graceful
swing, and with the air of one to whom the game presented no
difficulties whatever. She watched him drive for the seventeenth--a
long, raking ball, fully fifty yards further than his opponent's--
watched him play a perfect mashie shot to the green and hole out in
three.

"A birdie," James Van Teyl murmured. "I say, Pamela!"

She took no notice. Her eyes were still following the figure of the
golfer. She watched him drive at the last hole, play a chip shot on to
the green, and hit the hole for a three. The frown deepened upon her
forehead. She was looking very uncompromising when the two men ascended
the steps.

"I didn't know, Mr. Lutchester, that there were any factories down this
way," she remarked severely, as he paused before her in surprise.

For a single moment she fancied that she saw a flash of annoyance in
his eyes. It was gone so swiftly, however, that she remained uncertain.
He held out his hand, laughing.

"Fairly caught out, Miss Van Teyl," he confessed. "You see, I was
tempted, and I fell."

His companion, an elderly, clean-shaven man, passed on. Pamela glanced
after him.

"Who is your opponent?" she asked.

"Just some one I picked up on the tee," Lutchester explained. "How is
our friend Fischer this morning?"

"I walked with him for an hour in the Park," Pamela replied. "He seemed
quite cheerful. I have scarcely thanked you yet for returning the
pocketbook, have I?"

His face was inscrutable.

"Couldn't keep a thing that didn't belong to me, could I?" he observed.

"You have a marvellous gift for discovering lost property," she
murmured.

"For discovering the owners, you mean," he retorted, with a little bow.

"You're some golfer, I see, Mr. Lutchester," Van Teyl interposed.

"I was on my game to-day," Lutchester admitted. "With a little luck at
the seventh," he continued earnestly, "I might have tied the amateur
record. You see, my ball--but there, I mustn't bore you now. I must
look after my opponent and stand him a drink. We shall meet again, I
daresay."

Lutchester passed on, and Pamela glanced up at her brother.

"Is he a sphinx or a fool?" she whispered.

"Don't ask me," Van Teyl replied. "Seems to me you were a bit rough on
him, anyway. I don't see why the fellow shouldn't have a day's holiday
before he gets to work. If I had his swing, it would interfere with my
career, I know that, well enough."

"Did you recognise the man with whom he was playing?" Pamela inquired.

"Can't say that I did. His face seems familiar, too."

"Go and see if you can find out his name," Pamela begged. "It isn't
ordinary curiosity. I really want to know."

"That's easy enough," Van Teyl replied, rising from his place. "And
I'll order tea at the same time."

Pamela leaned a little further back in her chair. Her eyes seemed to be
fixed upon the pleasant prospect of wooded slopes and green,
upward-stretching sward. As a matter of fact, she saw only two faces--
Fischer's and Lutchester's. Her chief impulse in life for the immediate
present seemed to have resolved itself into a fierce, almost a
passionate curiosity. It was the riddle of those two brains which she
was so anxious to solve. ... Fischer, the cold, subtle intriguer, with
schemes at the back of his mind which she knew quite well that, even in
the moment of his weakness, he intended to keep to himself; and
Lutchester, with his almost cynical devotion to pleasure, yet with his
unaccountable habit of suggesting a strength and qualities to which he
neither laid nor established any claim. Of the two men it was
Lutchester who piqued her, with whom she would have found more pleasure
in the battle of wits. She found herself alternately furious and
puzzled with him, yet her uneasiness concerning him possessed more
disquieting, more fascinating possibilities than any of the emotions
inspired by the other man.

Van Teyl returned to her presently, a little impressed.

"Thought I knew that chap's face," he observed. "It's Eli Hamblin--
Senator Hamblin, you know."

"A friend and confidant of the President," she murmured. "A Westerner,
too. I wonder what he's doing here ... Jimmy!"

"Hallo, Sis?"

"You've just got to be a dear," Pamela begged. "Go to the caddy master,
or professional, or some one, and find out whether Mr. Lutchester met
him here by accident or whether they arrived together."

"You'll turn me into a regular sleuthhound," he laughed. "However, here
goes."

He strolled off again, and Pamela found herself forced to become
mundane and frivolous whilst she chatted with some newly-arrived
acquaintances. It was not until some little time after her brother's
return that she found herself alone with him.

"Well?" she asked eagerly.

"They arrived within a few minutes of one another," Van Teyl announced.
"Senator Hamblin bought a couple of new balls and made some inquiries
about the course, but said nothing about playing. Lutchester, who
appears not to have known him, came up later and asked him if he'd like
a game. That's all I could find out."

Pamela pointed to a little cloud of dust in the distance.

"And there they go," she observed, "together."

Van Teyl threw himself into a chair and accepted the cup of tea which
his sister handed him.

"Well," he inquired, "what do you make of it?"

"There's more in that question than you think, James," Pamela replied.
"All the same, I think I shall be able to answer it in a few days."

Another little crowd of acquaintances discovered them, and Pamela was
soon surrounded by a fresh group of admirers. They all went out
presently to inspect the new tennis courts. Pamela and her brother were
beset with invitations.

"You positively must stay down and dine with us, and go home by
moonlight," Mrs. Saunders, a lively young matron with a large country
house close by, insisted. "Jimmy's neglected me terribly these last few
months, and as for you, Pamela, I haven't seen you for a year."

"I'd love to if we can," Pamela assured her, "but Jimmy will have to
telephone first."

"Then do be quick about it," Mrs. Saunders begged, "It doesn't matter a
bit about clothes. We've twenty people staying in the house now, and
half of us won't change, if that makes you more comfortable. Jimmy, if
you fail at that telephone I'll never forgive you."

But Van Teyl, who had caught the little motion of his sister's head
towards the city, proved equal to the occasion. He returned presently,
driving the car.

"Got to go," he announced as he made his farewells. "Can't be helped,
Pamela. Frightfully sorry, Mrs. Saunders, we are wanted up in New
York."

Pamela sighed.

"I was so afraid of it," she regretted as she waved her adieux. . . . .

An hour or so later the city broke before them in murky waves. Pamela,
who had been leaning back in the car, deep in thought, sat up.

"You are a perfect dear, James," she said. "Do you think you could
stand having Mr. Fischer to dinner one evening this week?"

"Sure!" he replied, a little curiously. "If you want to keep friends
with him for any reason, I don't bear him any ill-will."

"I just want to talk to him," Pamela murmured, "that's all."




CHAPTER XVIII


There was a ripple of interest and a good deal of curiosity that
afternoon, in the lounge and entrance hall of the Hotel Plaza, when a
tall, grey-moustached gentleman of military bearing descended from the
automobile which had brought him from the station, and handed in his
name at the desk, inquiring for Mr. Fischer.

"Will you send my name up--the Baron von Schwerin," he directed.

The clerk, who had recognised the newcomer, took him under his personal
care.

"Mr. Fischer is up in his rooms, expecting you, Baron," he announced.
"If you'll come this way, I'll take you up."

The Baron followed his guide to the lift and along the corridor to the
suite of rooms occupied by Mr. Fischer and his young friend, James Van
Teyl. Mr. Fischer himself opened the door. The two men clasped hands
cordially, and the clerk discreetly withdrew.

"Back with us once more, Fischer," Von Schwerin exclaimed fervently.
"You are wonderful. Tell me," he added, looking around, "we are to be
alone here?"

"Absolutely," Fischer replied. "The young man I share these apartments
with--James Van Teyl--has taken his sister out to Baltusrol. They will
not be back until seven o'clock. We are sure of solitude."

"Good!" Von Schwerin exclaimed. "And you have news--I can see it in
your face."

Fischer rolled up easy chairs and produced a box of cigars.

"Yes," he assented, with a little glitter in his eyes, "I have news.
Things have moved with me. I think that, with the help of an idiotic
Englishman, we shall solve the riddle of what our professors have
called the consuming explosive. I sent the formula home to Germany, by
a trusty hand, only a few hours ago."

"Capital!" Von Schwerin declared. "It was arranged in London, that?"

"Partly in London and partly here," Fischer replied.

Von Schwerin made a grimace.

"If you can find those who are willing to help you here, you are
fortunate indeed," he sighed. "My life's work has lain amongst these
people. In the days of peace, all seemed favourable to us. Since the
war, even those people whom I thought my friends seem to have lost
their heads, to have lost their reasoning powers."

"After all," Fischer muttered, "it is race calling to race. But come,
we have more direct business on hand. Nikasti is here."

Von Schwerin nodded a little gloomily.

"Washington knows nothing of his coming," he observed. "I attended the
Baron Yung's reception last week, informally. I threw out very broad
hints, but Yung would not be drawn. Nikasti represents the Secret
Service of Japan, unofficially and without responsibility."

"Nevertheless," Fischer pointed out, "what he says will reach the ear
of his country, and reach it quickly. You've gone through the papers I
sent you?"

"Carefully," Von Schwerin replied. "And the autograph letter?"

"That I have," Fischer announced. "I will fetch Nikasti."

He crossed the room and opened the door leading into the bedchambers.

"Are you there, Kato?" he cried.

"I am coming, sir," was the instant reply.

Nikasti appeared, a few moments later. He was carrying a dress coat on
his arm, and he held a clothes brush in his hand. It was obvious that
he had studied with nice care the details of his new part.

"You can sit down, Nikasti," Fischer invited. "This is the Baron von
Schwerin. He has something to say to you."

Nikasti bowed very low. He declined the chair, however, to which
Fischer pointed.

"I am your valet and the valet of Mr. Van Teyl," he murmured. "It is
not fitting for me to be seated. I listen."

Von Schwerin drew his chair a little nearer.

"I plunge at once," he said, "into the middle of things. There is
always the fear that we may be disturbed."

Nikasti inclined his head.

"It is best," he agreed.

"You are aware," Von Schwerin continued, "that the Imperial Government
of Germany has already made formal overtures, through a third party, to
the Emperor of Japan with reference to an alteration in our relations?"

"There was talk of this in Tokio," Nikasti observed softly. "Japan,
however, is under obligations--treaty obligations. Her honour demands
that these should be kept."

"The honour of a country," Baron von Schwerin acknowledged, "is,
without doubt, a sacred charge upon her rulers, but above all things in
heaven or on earth, the interests of her people must be their first
consideration. If a time should come when the two might seem to clash,
then it is the task of the statesman to recognise this fact."

Nikasti bowed.

"It is spoken," he confessed, "like a great man."

"Your country," Von Schwerin continued, "is at war with mine because it
seemed to her rulers that her interests lay with the Allies rather than
with Germany. I will admit that my country was at fault. We did not
recognise to its full extent the value of friendship with Japan. We did
not bid high enough for your favours. Asia concerned us very little. We
looked upon the destruction of our interests there in the same spirit
as that with which we contemplated the loss of our colonies. All that
might happen would be temporary. Our influence in Asia, our colonies,
will remain with us or perish, according to the result of the war in
Europe. But our statesmen overlooked one thing."

"Our factories," Nikasti murmured.

"Precisely! We have had our agents all over the world for years. Some
are good, a few are easily deceived. There is no country in the world
where apparently so much liberty is granted to foreigners as in Japan.
There is no country where the capacity for manufacture and output has
been so grossly underestimated by our agents, as yours."

Nikasti smiled.

"I had something to do with that," he announced. "It was Karl Neumann,
was it not, on whom you relied? I supplied him with much information."

Von Schwerin's face clouded for a moment.

"You mean that you fooled him, I suppose," he said. "Well, it is all
part of the game. That is over now. We want your exports to Russia
stopped."

"Ah!" Nikasti murmured reflectively. "Stopped!"

"We ask no favours," Von Schwerin continued. "The issue of the war is
written across the face of the skies for those who care to read."

Nikasti looked downwards at the dress coat which he was carrying. Then
he glanced up at Von Schwerin.

"Perhaps our eyes have been dazzled," he said. "Will you not
interpret?"

"The end of the war will be a peace of exhaustion," Von Schwerin
explained. "Our loftier dreams of conquest we must abandon. Germany has
played her part, but Austria, alas! has failed. Peace will leave us all
very much where we were. Very well, then, I ask you, what has Japan
gained? You answer China? I deny it. Yet even if it were true, it will
take you five hundred years to make a great country of China. Suppose
for a moment you had been on the other side. What about Australia?...
New Zealand?"

"Are those things under present consideration?" Nikasti queried.

"Why not?" Von Schwerin replied. "Listen. Close your exports to Russia
within the next thirty days. Build up for yourselves a stock of
ammunition, add to your fleet, and prepare. Within a year of the
cessation of war, there is no reason why your national dream should not
be realised. Your fleet may sail for San Francisco. The German fleet
shall make a simultaneous attack upon the eastern coast of
Massachusetts and New York."

"The German fleet," Nikasti repeated. "And England?"

Von Schwerin's eyes flashed for a moment.

"If the English fleet is still in being," he declared, "it will be a
crippled and defeated fleet, but, for the sake of your point of view, I
will assume that it exists. Even then there will be nothing to prevent
the German fleet from steaming in what waters it pleases. If our shells
fall upon New York on the day when your warships are sighted off the
Californian coast, do you suppose that America could resist? With her
seaboard, her fleet is contemptible. For her wealth, her army is a
farce. She has neglected for a great many years to pay her national
insurance. She is the one country in the world who can be bled for the
price of empires."

Fischer, who had been smoking furiously, spat out the end of a fresh
cigar.

"It will be a just retribution," he interposed, with smothered
fierceness. "Under the guise of neutrality, America has been
responsible for the lives of hundreds of thousands of my countrymen.
That we never can, we never shall, forget. The wealth which makes these
people fat is blood-money, and Germany will take her vengeance."

"For whom do you speak?" Nikasti inquired.

Von Schwerin rose from his place.

"For the greatest of all."

"Do I take anything but words to Tokio?" the Japanese asked softly.

Fischer unfolded a pocketbook and drew from it a parchment envelope.

"You take this letter," he said, "which I brought over myself from
Berlin, signed and written not more than three weeks ago. I ask you to
believe in no vague promises. I bring you the pledged faith of the
greatest ruler on earth. What do you say, Nikasti? Will you accept our
mission? Will you go back to Tokio and see the Emperor?"

Nikasti bowed.

"I will go back," he promised. "I will sail as soon as I can make
arrangements. But I cannot tell you what the issue may be. We Japanese
are not a self-seeking nation. Above and higher than all things are our
ideals and our honour. I cannot tell what answer our Sovereign may give
to this."

"These are the days when the truest patriotism demands the most sublime
sacrifices," Von Schwerin declared. "Above all the ethics of
individuals comes the supreme necessity of self-preservation."

The Japanese smiled slightly.

"Ah!" he said, "there speaks the philosophy of your country, Baron, the
paean of materialism."

"The destinies of nations," Baron von Schwerin exclaimed, "are above
the man-made laws of a sentimental religion! One needs, nowadays, more
than to survive. It is necessary to flourish."

Nikasti stood suddenly to attention.

"It is Mr. Van Teyl who returns," he warned them.

He glided from the room, shaking out a little the dress coat which he
had been carrying. The two men looked after him. Fischer threw his
cigar savagely away and lit another.

"Curse these orientals!" he muttered. "They listen and listen, and one
never knows. Van Teyl won't be here for hours. That was just an excuse
to get away."

But there was a smile of triumph on Von Schwerin's lips.

"I know them better than you do, Fischer," he declared. "Nikasti is our
man!"




CHAPTER XIX


High up in one of the topmost chambers of the Hotel Plaza, Nikasti,
after his conference with Von Schwerin and Fischer, sought solitude. He
opened the high windows, out of which he could scarcely see, dragged up
a chest of drawers and perched himself, Oriental fashion, on the top,
his long yellow fingers intertwined around his knees, his soft brown
eyes gazing over the wooded slopes of the Park. He was away from the
clamour of tongues, from the poisoned clouds of sophistry, even from
the disturbance of his own thoughts, incited by specious arguments to
some form of reciprocity. Here he sat in the clouds and searched for
the true things. His eyes seemed to be travelling over the battlefields
of Europe. He saw the swaying fortunes of mighty armies, he looked into
council chambers, he seemed to feel the pulses of the great world force
which kept going this most amazing Juggernaut. He saw the furnaces of
Japan, blazing by night and day; saw the forms of hundreds of thousands
of his fellow creatures bent to their task; saw the streams of ships
leaving his ports, laden down with stores; saw the great guns speeding
across Siberia, the endless trains of ammunition, the rifles, food for
the famine-stricken giants who beat upon the air with empty fists. He
saw the gold come streaming back. He saw it poured into the banks, the
pockets of the merchants, the homes of his people. He saw brightening
days throughout the land. He saw the slow but splendid strength of the
nation rejoicing in its new possibilities. And beyond that, what?
Wealth was the great means towards the great end, but if the great end
were once lost sight of, there was no more hideous poison than that
stream of enervating prosperity. He remembered his own diatribes
concerning the decadence of England; how he had pointed to the gold
poison, to the easy living of the poor, the blatant luxury of the rich.
He had pointed to the soft limbs, the cities which had become pools of
sensuality, to the daily life which, calling for no effort, had seen
the passing of the spirit and the triumph of the gross. And what about
his own people? Mankind was the same the world over. The gold which was
bringing strength and life to the nation might very soon exude the same
poisonous fumes, might very soon be laying its thrall upon a people to
whom living had become an easier thing. However it might be for other,
the Western nations, for his own he firmly believed that war alone,
with its thousand privations, its call to the chivalry of his people,
was the one great safeguard. China! The days had gone by when the
taking of China could inspire. It was to greater things they must look.
Australia. New Zealand! Had any Western race the right to flaunt her
Empire's flag in Asiatic seas? And America! Once again he felt the slow
rising of wrath as he recalled the insults of past years ... the
adventurous sons of his country treated like savages and negroes by
that uncultured, strong-limbed race of coarse-fibered, unimaginative
materialists. There was a call, indeed, to the soul of his country to
avenge, to make safe, the homes and lives of her colonists. Across the
seas he looked into the council chambers of the wise men of his race.
He saw the men whose word would tell. He watched their faces turned
towards him, waiting; heard the beginning of the conflict of thoughts
and minds--blind fidelity to the cause which they had espoused, or a
rougher, more splendid, more selfish stroke for the greatness of Japan
and Japan only. "If we break our faith we lose our honour," one
murmured. "There is no honour save the care of my people," he heard one
of his greatest countrymen reply.

So he sat and thought, revolved in his mind arguments, morals,
philosophy. It was the problem which had confronted the great Emperor,
his own ancestor, who had lived for three months on the floor of the
Temple, asking but one question of the Silent Powers: "Through what
gate shall I lead my nation to greatness?"

The senses of the man who crouched in his curious attitude, with his
eyes still piercing the heavens, were mobile and extraordinary things.
No disturbing sounds had reached him from outside. His isolation seemed
complete and impregnable. Yet, without turning his head, he was
perfectly conscious of the slow opening of the door. His whole frame
stiffened. He was conscious for one bitter second of a lapse from the
careful guarding of his ways. That second passed, however, and left him
prepared even for danger, his brain and muscles alike tense. He turned
his head. The expression of slow surprise, which even parted his lips
and narrowed his eyes, was only half assumed.

"What do you wish?" he asked.

Lutchester did not for a moment reply. He had closed the door behind
him carefully, and was looking around the room now with evident
interest. Its bareness of furniture and decoration were noteworthy, but
on the top of the ugly chest of drawers was a great bowl of roses, a
queer little ivory figure set in an arched frame of copper--a figure
almost sacerdotal, with its face turned towards the east--and a little
shower of rose leaves, which could scarcely have fallen there by
accident, at the foot of the pedestal. Lutchester inclined his head
gravely, as he looked towards it, a gesture entirely reverential,
almost an obeisance. Nikasti's eyes were clouded with curiosity. He
slipped down to the ground.

"I have travelled in your country," Lutchester said gravely, as though
in explanation. "I have visited your temples. I may say that I have
prayed there."

"And now?" Nikasti asked.

"I am for my country what you are for yours," Lutchester proceeded.
"You see, I know when it is best to speak the truth. I am in New York
because you are in New York, and if you leave on Saturday for Japan it
may happen--of this I am not sure--but I say that it may happen that I
shall accompany you."

"I shall be much honoured," Nikasti murmured.

"You came here," Lutchester continued, "to meet an emissary from
Berlin. Your country, which could listen to no official word from any
one of her official enemies, can yet, through you, learn what is in
their minds. You have seen to-day Fischer and the Baron von Schwerin.
Fischer has probably presented to you the letter which he has brought
from Berlin. Von Schwerin has expounded further the proposition and the
price which form part of his offer."

Nikasti's face was imperturbable, but there was trouble in his eyes.

"You have found your way to much knowledge,", he muttered.

"I must find my way to more. I must know what Germany offers you. I
must know what is at the back of your mind when you repeat this offer
in Tokio."

"You can make, then, the unwilling speak?" Nikasti demanded.

"Even that is amongst the possibilities," Lutchester affirmed. "Strange
things have been done for the cause which such as you and I revere."

Nikasti showed his white teeth for a moment in a smile meant to be
contemptuous.

"It is a great riddle, this, which we toss from one to the other," he
observed. "I am the simple valet of two gentlemen living in the hotel.
You have listened, perhaps, to fairy tales, or dreamed them yourself,
sir."

"It is no fairy tale," Lutchester rejoined, "that you are Prince
Nikasti, the third son of the great Marquis Ato, that you and I met
more than once in London when you were living there some years ago;
that you travelled through our country, and drew up so scathing an
indictment of our domestic and industrial position that, but for their
clumsy diplomacy, your country would probably have made overtures to
Germany. Ever since those days I have wondered about you. I have
wondered whether you are with your country in her friendship towards
England."

"I have no friends but my country's friends," Nikasti declared, "no
enemies save her enemies. But to-day those things of which you have
spoken do not concern me. I am the Japanese valet of Mr. Fischer and
Mr. Van Teyl."

Lutchester, as though by accident, came a step further into the room.
Nikasti's eyes never left his face. Perhaps at that moment each knew
the other's purpose, though their tongues clung to the other things.

"Will you talk to me, Japan?" Lutchester asked calmly. "You have
listened to Germany. I am England."

"If you have anything to say," Nikasti replied, "Baron Yung is at
Washington."

"You and I know well," Lutchester continued, "that ambassadors are but
the figureheads in the world's history. Speak to me of the things which
concern our nations, Nikasti. Tell me of the letter you bear to the
Emperor. You have nothing to lose. Sit down and talk to me, man to man.
You have heard Germany. Hear England. Tell me of the promises made to
you within the last hour, and I will show you how they can never be
kept. Let us talk of your country's future. You and I can tell one
another much."

"A valet knows nothing," Nikasti murmured.

Lutchester came a step nearer. Nikasti, in retreating, was now almost
in a corner of the room.

"Listen," Lutchester went on, "for many years I have suspected that you
are an enemy of my country. That is the reason why, when our
Intelligence Department learnt of your mission, I chose to come myself
to meet you. And now we meet, Nikasti, face to face, and all that you
are willing to do for your country, I am willing to do for mine, and
unless you sit down and talk this matter out with me as man to man, you
will not leave New York."

The arm of the Japanese stole with the most perfect naturalness inside
his coat, and Lutchester knew then that the die was cast. The line of
blue steel flashed out too late. The hand which gripped the
strangely-shaped little knife was held as though in a vice, and
Lutchester's other arm was suddenly thrown around the neck of his
assailant, his fingers pressed against his windpipe.

"Drop the knife," he ordered.

It fell clattering on to the hard floor. Nikasti, however, twisted
himself almost free, took a flying leap sideways, and seized his
adversary's leg. In another moment he came down upon the floor with a
crash. Lutchester's grip upon him, a little crueller now, was like a
band of steel.

"There are many ways of playing this game. It is you who have chosen
this one," he said. "It's no use, Nikasti. I know as much of your own
science as you do. You're my man now until I choose to let you free,
and before I do that I am going to read the letter which you are taking
to Japan."

Nikasti's eyes were red with fury, but every movement was torture.
Lutchester held him easily with one hand, felt over him with the other,
drew the letter from his vest, and, shaking it free from its envelope,
held it out and read it. When he had finished, he replaced it in the
envelope and pushed it back into the other's breast pocket.

"Now," he directed, "you can get up."

Nikasti scrambled to his feet. There were livid marks under his eyes.
For a moment he had lost all his vitality, he was like a beaten
creature.

"You would never have done this," he muttered, "ten years ago, I grow
old."

"So that is the letter which you are taking to your Emperor!"
Lutchester said. "You think it worth while! You can really see the
German fleet steaming past the British Isles, out into the Atlantic,
and bombarding New York!"

Nikasti made no reply. Lutchester looked at him for a moment
thoughtfully. There was a light once more in the beaten man's eyes--a
queer, secretive gleam. Lutchester stooped down and picked up the knife
from the floor.

"Nikasti," he enjoined, "listen to me, for your country's sake. The
promise contained in that letter is barely worth the paper it is
written on, so long as the British fleet remains what it is. But, apart
from that, I tell you here, of my own profound conviction--and I will
prove it to you before many days are past--Germany does not intend to
keep this promise."

Nikasti made no reply. His face was expressionless.

"Germany has but one idea," Lutchester continued. "She means to play
you and America off against one another. I have found out her offer to
you. All I can say is, if you take it seriously you are not the man I
think you. Now I will tell you what I am going to do. I am going to
find out her offer to America. I will bring that to you, and you shall
see the two side by side. Then you shall know how much you can rely
upon a country whose diplomacy is bred and born of lies, who cheats at
every move of the game, who makes you a deliberate offer here which she
never has the least intention of keeping. Have you anything to say to
me, Nikasti?"

Nikasti raised his eyes for one moment.

"I have nothing to say," he replied. "I am the valet of Mr. Fischer and
Mr. Van Teyl. These things are not of my concern."

Lutchester shrugged his shoulders.

"Whatever you may be," he concluded, "and however much you may resent
all that has happened, I know that you will wait. I might go direct to
Washington, but I prefer to come to you, if it remains possible. Before
you leave this country we will meet again, and, when you have heard me,
you will tear that letter which you are treasuring next your heart into
small pieces."

Lutchester turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Nikasti crouched in his place without movement. The ache in his heart
seemed to be shining out of his face. He turned slowly towards the
little figure of black ivory, his head drooped lower--he was filled
with a great shame.




CHAPTER XX


Fischer raised his eyebrows in mild surprise to find Nikasti waiting
for him in the sitting room that evening, with his overcoat and evening
hat. He closed the door of the bedroom from which he had issued
carefully behind him.

"You don't need to go on with this business now that we have had our
little talk," he remonstrated.

"I cannot leave until the twentieth," Nikasti replied. "I think it best
that I remain here. Your cocktail, sir."

Fischer accepted the glass with a good-humoured little laugh.

"Well," he said, "I suppose you know what you want to do, but it seems
to me unnecessary. Say, is anything wrong with you? You seem shaken,
somehow."

"I am quite well," Nikasti declared gravely. "I am very well indeed."

Fischer stared at him searchingly from behind his spectacles.

"You don't look it," he observed. "If you'll take my advice, you'll get
away from here and rest somewhere quietly for a few days. Why don't you
try one of the summer hotels on Long Island?"

Nikasti shook his head.

"Until I sail," he decided, "I stay here. It is better so."

"You know best, of course," Fischer replied. "Where's Mr. Van Teyl?"

"He has gone out with his sister, sir--the young lady in the next
suite," Nikasti announced.

Fischer sighed for a moment. Then he finished his cocktail, drew on his
gloves, and turned towards the door.

"Well, good night," he said. "Perhaps you are wise to stay here.
Remember always what it is that you carry about with you."

"I shall remember," Nikasti promised.

Fischer entered his automobile and drove to a fashionable restaurant in
the neighbourhood of Fifth Avenue. Arrived here, he made his way to a
room on the first floor, into which he was ushered by one of the head
waiters. Von Schwerin was already there, talking with a little company
of men.

"Ah, our friend Fischer!" the latter exclaimed. "That makes our number
complete."

A waiter handed around cocktails. Fischer smiled as he raised his glass
to his lips.

"It is something, at least," he confided, "to be back in a country
where one can speak freely. I raise my arm. Von Schwerin and
gentlemen--'To the Fatherland!'"

They all drank fervently and with a little guttural murmur. Von
Schwerin set down his empty glass. He was looking a little glum.

"In many ways, my dear Fischer," he said, "one sympathises with that
speech of yours; but the truth is best, and it is to talk truths that
we have met this evening. We are gaining no ground here. I am not sure
that we are not losing."

There was a moment's disturbed and agitated silence.

"It is bad to hear," one little man acknowledged, with a sigh, "but who
can doubt it? There is a fever which has caught hold of this country,
which blazes in the towns and smoulders in the country places, and that
is the fever of money-making. Men are blinded with the passion of it.
They tell me that even Otto Schmidt in Milwaukee has turned his great
factories into ammunition works."

Von Schwerin's eyes flashed.

"Let him be careful," he muttered, "that one morning those are not
blackened walls upon which he looks! We go to dinner now, gentlemen,
and, until we are alone afterwards, not one word concerning the great
things."

The partition doors leading into the dining room were thrown back and
the little company of men sat down to dine. There were fourteen of
them, and their names were known throughout the world. There was a
steel millionaire, half-a-dozen Wall Street magnates, a clothing
manufacturer, whose house in Fifth Avenue was reputed to have cost two
millions. There was not one of them who was not a patriot--to Germany.
They ate and drank through the courses of an abnormally long dinner
with the businesslike thoroughness of their race. When at last the
coffee and liqueurs had been served, the waiters by prearrangement
disappeared, and with a little flourish Von Schwerin locked the door.
Once more he raised his glass.

"To the Kaiser and the Fatherland!" he cried in a voice thick with
emotion.

For a moment a little flash of something almost like spirituality
lightened the gathering. They were at least men with a purpose, and an
unselfish purpose.

"Oscar Fischer," Von Schwerin said, "my friends, all of you, you know
how strenuous my labours have been during the last year. You know that
three times the English Ambassador has almost demanded my recall, and
three times the matter has hung in the balance. I have watched events
in Washington, not through my own but through a thousand eyes. My
fingers are on the pulse of the country, so what I say to you needs
nothing in the way of substantiation. The truth is best.
Notwithstanding all my efforts, and the efforts of every one of you,
the great momentum of public feeling, from California to Massachusetts,
has turned slowly towards the cause of our enemies. Washington is
hopelessly against us. The huge supplies which leave these shores day
by day for England and France will continue. Fresh plants are being
laid down for the manufacture of weapons and ammunition to be used
against our country. The hand of diplomacy is powerless. We can
struggle no longer. Even those who favour our cause are drunk with the
joy of the golden harvest they are reaping. This country has spoken
once and for all, and its voice is for our most hated enemy."

There were a variety of guttural and sympathetic ejaculations. A dozen
earnest faces turned towards Von Schwerin.

"Diplomacy," Von Schwerin continued, "has failed. We come to the next
step. There have been isolated acts of self-sacrifice, splendid in
themselves but systemless. Only the day before yesterday a great
factory at Detroit was burned to the ground, and I can assure you,
gentlemen, I who know, that a thousand bales of cloth, destined for
France, lie in a charred, heap amongst the ruins. That fire was no
accident."

There was a brief silence. Fischer nodded approvingly. Von Schwerin
filled his glass.

"This," he went on, "was the individual act of a brave and faithful
patriot. The time has come for us, too, to remember that we are at war.
I have striven for you with the weapons of diplomacy and I have failed.
I ask you now to face the situation with me--to make use of the only
means left to us."

No one hesitated. Possibly ruin stared them in the face, but not one
flinched. Their heads drew closer together. They discussed the ways and
means of the new campaign.

"We must add largely to our numbers," Von Schwerin said, "and we had
better have a fund. So far as regards money, I take it for granted--"

There was a little chorus of fierce whispers. Five million dollars were
subscribed by men who were willing, if necessary, to find fifty.

"It is enough," their leader assured them. "Much of our labours will be
amongst those to whom money is no object. Only remember, all of you,
this. We shall be a society without a written word, with no roll of
membership, without documents or institution, for complicity in the
things which follow will mean ruin. You are willing to face that?"

Again that strange, passionate instinct of unanimity prevailed. To all
appearance it was a gathering of commonplace, commercialised and
bourgeois, easy-living men, but the touch of the spirit was there.
Fischer leaned a little forward.

"In two months' time," he said, "every factory in America which is
earning its blood money shall be in danger. There will be a reign of
terror. Each State will operate independently and secretly."

"Our friend Fischer," Von Schwerin told them, "has promised to stay
over here for the present to organise this undertaking. I, alas! am
bound to remain always a little aloof, but the time may come, and very
soon, too, when I shall be a free lance. On that day I shall throw my
lot in with yours, to the last drop of my blood and the last hour of my
liberty. Until then, trust Oscar Fischer. He has done great deeds
already. He will show you the way to more."

Fischer took off his spectacles and wiped them.

"Our first proceeding," he said, "sounds paradoxical. It must be that
we cease to exist. There can be no longer any meetings amongst us who
stand in this country for Germany. Gatherings of this sort are
finished. We meet, one or two of us, perhaps, by accident, in the clubs
and in the streets, in our houses and perhaps in the restaurants, but
the bond which unites us, and which no human power could ever sever
because it is of the spirit, that bond from to-night is intangible.
Wait, all of you, for a message. The task given to each shall not be
too great."

Mr. Max H. Bookam, a little black-bearded man who had started life
tailoring in a garret, and was now a multi-millionaire, raised his
glass.

"No task shall seem too great," he muttered. "No risk shall make us
afraid. Even the exile shall take up his burden."




CHAPTER XXI


Mr. Fischer's business later on that night led him into unsavoury
parts. He left his car at the corner of Fourteenth Street, and, after a
moment's reflection, as though to refresh his memory, he made his way
slowly eastwards. He wore an unusually shabby overcoat, and a felt hat
drawn over his eyes, both of which garments he had concealed in the
automobile. Even then, however, his appearance made him an object of
some comment. A little gang of toughs first jostled him and then turned
and followed in his footsteps. A man came out of the shadows, and they
broke away with an oath.

"That cop'll get his head broke some day," Fischer heard one of them
mutter, with appropriate adjectives.

There were others who looked curiously at him. One man's hand he felt
running over his pockets as he pushed past him. A couple of women came
screaming down the street and seized him by the arms. He shook himself
free, and listened without a word to their torrent of abuse. The lights
here seemed to burn more dimly. Even the flares from the drinking dens
seemed secretive, and the shadowy places impenetrable. It was before a
saloon that at last he paused, listened for a moment to the sound of a
cracked piano inside, and entered. The place was packed, and,
fortunately for him, a scrap of some interest between two
villainous-looking Italians in a distant corner was occupying the
attention of many of the patrons. A man with white, staring face was
banging at a crazy piano without a movement of his body, his whole
energies apparently directed towards drowning the tumult of oaths and
hideous execrations which came from the two combatants. A drunken
Irishman, rolling about on the floor, kicked at him savagely as he
passed. An undersized little creature, with the face of an old man but
the figure of a boy, marked him from a distant corner and crept
stealthily towards his side. Fischer reached the counter at last and
stood there for a moment, waiting. Two huge, rough-looking negroes, in
soiled linen clothes, were dispensing the drinks. As one of them
passed, Fischer struck the counter with his forefinger, six or seven
times, observing a particular rhythm. The negro started, turned his
heavily-lidded, repulsive eyes upon Fischer, and nodded slightly. He
handed out the drink he had in his hand, and leaned over the counter.

"Want the boss?" he demanded.

Fischer assented. The negro lifted the flap of the counter and opened a
trapdoor, leading apparently into a cellar beneath.

"Step right down," he muttered. "Don't let the boys catch on. Get out
of that, Tim," he added thickly to the dwarflike figure, whose slender
fingers were suddenly nearing Fischer's neck.

The creature seemed to melt away. Fischer dived and descended a dozen
steps or so into another bare looking apartment, the door of which was
half open. There were three men seated at the solitary deal table,
which was almost the only article of furniture to be seen. One,
sombrely dressed in legal black, with a pale face and fiercely
inquiring eyes, half rose to his feet as the newcomer entered.
Another's hand went to his hip pocket. The man who was sitting between
the two, however--a great red-headed Irishman--rose to his feet and
pushed them back to their places.

"There's no cause for alarm, now, boys," he declared. "This is a friend
of mine. I won't make you acquainted, because we're all better friends
strangers down in these parts. Hop it off, you two. Sit down here, Mr.
Stranger."

The two men stole away. The Irishman poured out a glassful of neat
whisky and passed it to his visitor.

"Clients of mine," he explained. "Tim Crooks is in politics. Got your
message, boss. What's the figure?"

"Two thousand!"

The Irishman whistled and looked thoughtfully down at the table.

"Isn't it enough?" Fischer asked.

"Enough?" was the hoarse reply. "Why, there isn't one of my toughs that
wouldn't go rat-hunting for a quarter of that. If it's any one in these
parts, twelve hours is all I want."

"It isn't!"

The Irishman's face fell.

"Some swell, I suppose? Fifth Avenue way and the swagger parts, eh?"

Fischer assented silently. His host poured himself out some whisky and
drank it as though it were water.

"You see, boss," he pointed out, "it's no use sending greenhorns out on
a job like that, because they only squeak if they're pinched, and
pinched they're sure to be; and all my regulars are what we call in
sanctuary."

"You mean they are hiding already?"

"That's some truth," was the grim admission. "The cops ain't going to
trouble to come after 'em, so long as they keep here, but they'd nab
'em fast enough if they showed their noses beyond the end of
Fourteenth. Still, I'd like to oblige you, guv'nor. I don't know who
you are, and don't want, but my boys speak fine of you. You know Ed
Swindles?"

"Not by name," Fischer confessed.

"He did that little job up at Detroit," the Irishman went on, dropping
his voice a little. "I tell you he's a genius at handling a bomb, is
Ed. Blew that old factory into brick-ends, he did. He's in the saloon
upstairs--got his girl with him. They've been doing a round of the
dancing saloons."

"That's all right, but what about this job?" Fischer inquired, a little
impatiently.

The Irishman glanced behind him. Then he dropped his voice a little.

"Look here, guv'nor," he said, "I've some idea, if it pans out. You've
heard of the Heste case?"

"You mean the girl who was murdered?"

"Yes! Well, the chap that did it is within a few feet of where we're
sitting."

Fischer took off his spectacles and rubbed them. In the dim light his
face looked more grim and powerful than ever.

"Isn't that a little dangerous?" he observed. "The police mean having
him."

"You're dead right," the Irishman replied. "They've got to have him,
and he knows it. They'd keep their hands off any one in these parts if
they could, but this bloke's different. He done it too thick, and he's
got the public squealing. Now if we could get him out for long enough,
he's the man for your job. Come right along, boss."

He rose heavily to his feet, crossed the room, and threw open the door
of what was little more than a cupboard at the further end. The place
was in darkness, but a human form sprang suddenly upright. His white
face and glaring eyes were the only visible objects in a shroud of
darkness.

"That's all right, kid," the Irishman said soothingly. "No cops yet.
This is a gentleman on business. Wait till I fix a light."

He stepped back, and brought a candle from the table at which he had
been seated. Fischer helped him light it, and by degrees the interior
of the little apartment was illuminated. Its contents were almost
negligible--there was simply a foul piece of rug in the corner, and a
broken chair. With his back to the wall crouched a slim, apparently
young man, with a perfectly bloodless face and black eyes under which
were blue lines. His clothes were torn and covered with dust, as though
he had dragged himself about the floor, and one of his hands was
bleeding.

"The gentleman's on business, Jake," his host repeated.

"Give me some whisky," the young man mumbled.

The Irishman shaded his eyes.

"Holy Moses! why, you've finished that bottle!" he exclaimed.

"It's like water," the fugitive replied in a hot whisper, "I drink and
I feel nothing; I taste nothing--I forget nothing! Give me something
stronger."

He tossed off without hesitation the tumbler half full of whisky which
his guardian fetched him. Then he came out.

"I'm sick of this," he declared. "I'll sit at your table. It's no use
talking to me of jobs," he went on. "I couldn't get out of here. I made
for the docks, but they headed me off. They know where I am. They'll
have me sooner or later."

"Yes, they'll have you right enough," the Irishman assented; "but if
there was any chance in the world, this gent could give it to you. He's
got a job he wants done up amongst the swells in Fifth Avenue, and
there's money enough in it to buy Anna herself, if you want her. Anna's
our real toff down here," he explained, turning to Fischer, "and all
the boys are crazy about her."

Jake shook his head, unimpressed. He fixed his eyes upon Fischer,
moistened his lips a little, and spoke in a sort of croaky whisper.

"Money's no use to me," he said, "nor women either--I'm through with
them. You know what I done? I killed my girl. That's what I'm going to
the chair for. But if I could get out of this, I'd do your job. I'm
kind of hating people. I can't get my girl's face out of my mind.
Perhaps if I did your job I'd have another one to think about."

"Pleasant company, ain't he?" the Irishman grunted. "He's the real
goods."

Fischer stared at the young man as though fascinated. He seemed beyond
and outside human comprehension. Their host was sitting with his hands
in his pockets and his feet on another chair. The braces hung from his
shoulders upon the floor, his collarless shirt had fallen a little
open. His face, with its little tuft of red side whiskers and unshaven
chin, was reminiscent of the forests.

"If you want this job fixed, Mr. Stranger," he said, "I don't know as
Jake here couldn't take it on. It'd have to be done like this. Jake's a
real toney chauffeur--drive anything. If you had your automobile at a
spot I could tell you of one evening, just at dusk, I might get him
that far, in a set of chauffeur's clothes. Once on the box of your
auto, he'd be out of this and could give 'em the slip for a bit. It's
the only way I can think of, to get him near the game."

"The arrangement would suit me," Fischer admitted.

Jake suddenly showed a gleaming set of unexpectedly white teeth. His
eyes stared more than ever.

"I'm game! I'm on to this," he cried fiercely. "You can have all there
is coming to me, Sullivan, if I get nabbed, but I'm going to take my
risk. I hate this hole! It's a rat's den."

"Then get you back to your cupboard, Jake," the Irishman enjoined.
"I've got to talk business to the gent."

The young man rose to his feet. He took the bottle of whisky under his
arm. His face was still ashen, but his tone was steady. He gripped
Fischer by the arm.

"I will do your job," he promised. "I will do it thoroughly."

He slouched across the floor, entered his cupboard, and disappeared.
Fischer was suddenly aware of the moisture upon his forehead. There was
something animallike, absolutely inhuman, about this creature with whom
he had made his murderous bargain.

"I have no money here, of course," he reminded his companion.

"Don't know as I blame you, guv'nor," the other observed with a grin.
"I saw my toughs lay out a guy only the other day for flashing a
smaller wad than you'd carry. You know the rules, and I guess I'll ring
up the bank to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock. Does that go?"

"You'll find the deposit there," Fischer promised. "You'd better let me
know when he's ready to take the job on."

The Irishman walked to the foot of the steps with his visitor.

"Give Joe the double knock on the trapdoor," he directed, "and get out
of the saloon as quick as you can. There's a Dago about there keeps our
hands full. Got anything with you?"

Fischer nodded. His hand stole out of his overcoat pocket.

"Better give them one if they look like trouble," his host advised.
"They've plenty of spunk, but I can tell you they make tracks for their
holes if they hear one of those things bark."

"They shall hear it fast enough, if they try to hustle me," Fischer
observed grimly.

"You've some pluck," the Irishman declared, as he watched his departing
guest ascend the steps. "Sure, this is no place for cowards, anyway.
And good night and good luck to you! Jake will do your job slick, if
any one could."

Fischer beat his little tattoo upon the trapdoor, crawled through it
and underneath the flap in the counter, out into the saloon. He paused
for a moment to look around, on his way to the door. The fight was
apparently over, for every one was standing at the counter, drinking
with a swarthy-faced man whose cheeks were stained with blood. From a
distant corner came the sound of groans. The air seemed heavier than
ever with foul tobacco smoke. The man at the piano still thrashed out
his unmelodious chords. Some women in a corner were pretending to
dance. One or two of them looked curiously at Fischer, but he passed
out, unchallenged. Even the air of the slum outside seemed pure and
fresh after the heated den he had left. He reached the corner of the
street in safety and stepped quickly into his car. He threw both
windows wide open and murmured an order to the chauffeur. Then he
leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He was a man not
overburdened with imagination, but it seemed to him just then that he
would never be able altogether to forget the face of that ghastly,
dehumanised creature, crouching like some terrified wild animal in his
fetid refuge.




CHAPTER XXII


Mrs. Theodore Hastings was forty-eight years old, which her friends
said was the reason why her mansion on Fifth Avenue was furnished and
lit with the delicate sombreness of an old Italian palace. There was
about it none of the garishness, the almost resplendent brilliancy
associated with the abodes of many of our neighbours. Although her
masseuse confidently assured her that she looked twenty-eight, Mrs.
Hastings preferred not to put the matter to the test. She received her
carefully selected dinner guests in a great library with cedarwood
walls, furnished with almost Victorian sobriety, and illuminated by
myriads of hidden lights. Pamela, being a relative, received the
special consideration of an affectionately bestowed embrace.

"Pamela, my child, wasn't it splendid I heard that you were in New
York!" she exclaimed. "Quite by accident, too. I think you treat your
relatives shamefully."

Her niece laughed.

"Well, anyhow, you're the first of them I've seen at all, and directly
Jim told me he was coming to you, I made him ring up in case you had
room for me."

"Jimmy was a dear," Mrs. Hastings declared, "and, of course, there
couldn't be a time when there wouldn't be room for you. Even now, at
the last moment, though, I haven't quite made up my mind where to put
you. Choose, dear. Will you have a Western bishop or a rather dull
Englishman?"

"What is the name of the Englishman?" Pamela asked, with sudden
intuition.

"Lutchester, dear. Quite a nice name, but I know nothing about him. He
brought letters to your uncle. Rather a queer time for Englishmen to be
travelling about, we thought, but still, there he is. Seems to have
found some people he knows--and I declare he is coming towards you!"

"I met him in London," Pamela whispered, "and I never could get on with
bishops."

The dinner table was large, and arranged with that wonderful simplicity
which Mrs. Hastings had adopted as the keynote of her New York parties.
She had taken, in fact, simplicity under her wing and made a new thing
of it. There were more flowers than silver, and cut glass than heavy
plate. There seemed to be an almost ostentatious desire to conceal the
fact that Mr. Hastings had robbed the American public of a good many
million dollars.

"Of course," Pamela declared, as they took their places, and she nodded
a greeting to some friends around the table, "fate is throwing us
together in the most unaccountable manner."

"I accept its vagaries with resignation," Lutchester replied. "Besides,
it is quite time we met again. You promised to show me New York, and I
haven't seen you for days."

"I don't even remember the promise," Pamela laughed, "but in any case I
have changed my mind. I am not sure that you are the nice,
simple-minded person you profess to be. I begin to have doubts about
you."

"Interest grows with mystery," Lutchester remarked complacently. "Let
us hope that I am promoted in your mind."

"Well, I am not at all sure. Of course, I am not an Englishman, so it
is of no particular interest to me, but if you really came over here on
important affairs, I am not sure that I approve of your playing golf
the day after your arrival."

"That, perhaps, was thoughtless," he admitted, "but one gets so short
of exercise on board ship."

"Of course," Pamela observed tentatively, "I'd forgive you even now if
you'd only be a little more frank with me."

"I am prepared to be candour itself," he assured her.

"Tell me," she begged, "the whole extent of your mission in America?"

He glanced around.

"If we were alone," he replied, "I might court indiscretion so far as
to tell you."

"Then we will leave the answer to that question until after dinner,"
she said.

She talked to her left-hand neighbour for a few moments, and Lutchester
followed suit. They turned to one another again, however, at the first
opportunity.

"I have conceived," she told him, "a great admiration for Mr. Oscar
Fischer."

"A very able man," Lutchester agreed.

"He is not only that," Pamela continued, "but he is a man with large
principles and great ideas."

"Principles!" Lutchester murmured.

"Of course, you don't like him," Pamela went on, "and I don't wonder at
it. He is thoroughly German, isn't he?"

"Almost prejudiced, I'm afraid," Lutchester assented.

"Don't be silly," Pamela protested. "Why, he's German by birth, and
although you English people are much too pig-headed to see any good in
an enemy, I think you must admit that the way they all hang together--
Germans, I mean, all over the world--is perfectly wonderful."

"There have been a few remarks of the same sort," Lutchester reminded
her, "about the inhabitants of the British Empire--Canadians,
Australians, New Zealanders, for instance."

"As a matter of fact," Pamela admitted generously, "I consider that
your Colonials understand the word patriotism better than the ordinary
Englishman. With them, as with the Germans, it is almost a passionate
impulse. Your hearts may be in the right places, but you always give
one the impression of finding the whole thing rather a bore."

"Well, so it is," Lutchester insisted. "Who wants to give up a very
agreeable profession and enter upon a career of bloodshed, abandon all
one's habits, and lose most of one's friends? No, we are honest about
that, at any rate! Germany may be enjoying this war. We aren't."

"What was your profession?" Pamela inquired.

"Diplomacy," Lutchester confided. "I intended to become an ambassador."

"Do you think you have the requisite gifts?"

"What are they?"

"Secrecy, subtlety, caution, and highly-developed intelligence," she
replied. "How's that?"

"All those gifts," he assured her, "I possess."

She fanned herself for a moment and looked at him.

"We are not a modest race ourselves," she said, "but I think you can
give us a lead. By the bye, were you playing golf with Senator Hamblin
by accident the other afternoon?"

"You mean the old Johnny down at Baltusrol?" he asked coolly. "I picked
him up wandering about by the professionals' shed."

"Did you talk politics with him?"

"We gassed a bit about the war," Lutchester admitted cheerfully.

Pamela laughed. She leaned a little forward. The buzz of conversation
now was insistent all around them.

"Of you two," she whispered, "I prefer Fischer."

Lutchester considered the matter for some time.

"Well, there's no accounting for tastes," he said presently. "I
shouldn't have thought him exactly your type."

"He may not be," Pamela confessed, "but at least he has the courage to
speak what is in his mind."

Lutchester smiled.

"So Fischer has taken you into his confidence, has he?" he murmured.
"Well, now, that seems queer to me. I should have thought your
interests would have lain the other way."

"As an individual?"

"As an American."

"I am not wholly convinced of that."

"Come," he protested, "what is the use of a friend from whom you are
separated by an unnegotiable space?"

"What unnegotiable space?"

"The Atlantic."

"And why is the Atlantic unnegotiable?"

"Because of a little affair called the British fleet," Lutchester
pointed out.

"There is also," she reminded him drily, "a German fleet, and they
haven't met yet."

"Ah! I had almost forgotten there was such a thing," he murmured.
"Where do they keep it?"

"You know. You aren't nearly so stupid as you pretend to be," she said,
a little impatiently. "I should like you so much better if you would be
frank with me."

"What about those qualifications for my ambassadorial career?" he
reminded her--"Secrecy, subtlety, caution."

"The master of these," she whispered, rising to her feet in response to
her hostess's signal, "knows when to abandon them--"

Lutchester changed his place to a vacant chair by James Van Teyl's
side.

"I was going to ask you, Mr. Van Teyl," he inquired, "whether your
Japanese servant was altogether a success? I think I shall have to get
a temporary servant while I am over here."

"Nikasti was entirely Fischer's affair," Van Teyl replied, "and I can't
say much about him as I have given up my share of the apartments at the
Plaza. The fellow's all right, I dare say, but we hadn't the slightest
use for a valet. The man on the floor's good enough for any one."

"By the bye," Lutchester inquired, "is Fischer still in New York?"

"No, he's in Washington," Van Teyl replied. "I believe he's expected
back to-morrow.... Say, can I ask you a question?"

Lutchester almost imperceptibly drew his chair a little closer.

"Of course you can," he assented.

"What I want to know," Van Teyl continued confidentially, "is how you
get that long run on your cleek shots? I saw you play the sixteenth
hole, and it looked to me as though the ball were never going to stop."

Lutchester smiled.

"I have made a special study of that shot," he confided. "Yes, I can
tell you how it's done, but it needs a lot of practice. It's done in
turning over the wrists sharply just at the moment of impact. You get
everything there is to be got into the stroke that way, and you keep
the ball low, too."

"Gee, I must try that!" Van Teyl observed, making spasmodic movements
with his wrists. "When could we have a day down at Baltusrol?"

"It will have to be next week, I'm afraid, if you don't mind,"
Lutchester replied. "I've a good many appointments in New York, and I
may have to go to Washington myself. By the bye, I thought our host
lived there."

"So he does," Van Teyl assented. "Nowadays, though, it seems to have
become the fashion for politicians to own a house up in New York and do
some entertaining here. They're after the financial interest, I
suppose."

"Is your uncle a keen politician?"

"Keen as mustard," Van Teyl answered. "So's my aunt. She'd give her
soul to have the old man nominated for the Presidency."

"Any chance of it?"

"Not an earthly! He'll come a mucker, though, some day, trying. He'd
take any outside chance. For a clever man he's the vainest thing I
know."

Lutchester smiled enigmatically as he followed the example of the
others and rose to his feet.

"Even in America, then," he observed, "your great men have their
weaknesses."




CHAPTER XXIII


Fischer, exactly one week after his nocturnal visit to Fourteenth
Street, hurried out of the train at the Pennsylvania Station, almost
tore the newspapers from the news stand, glanced through them one by
one and threw them back. The attendant, open-mouthed, ventured upon a
mild protest. Fischer threw him a dollar bill, caught up his handbag,
and made for the entrance. He was the first passenger from the
Washington Limited to reach the street and spring into a taxi.

"The Plaza Hotel," he ordered. "Get along."

They arrived at the Plaza in less than ten minutes. Mr. Fischer tipped
the driver lavishly, suffered the hall porter to take his bag, returned
his greeting mechanically, and walked with swift haste to the tape
machine. He held up the strips with shaking fingers, dropped them
again, hurried to the lift, and entered his rooms. Nikasti was in the
sitting-room, arranging some flowers. Fischer did not even stop to
reply to his reverential greeting.

"Where's Mr. Van Teyl?" he demanded.

"Mr. Van Teyl has gone away, sir," was the calm reply. "He left here
the day before yesterday. There is a letter."

Fischer took no notice. He was already gripping the telephone receiver.

"982, Wall," he said--"an urgent call."

He stood waiting, his face an epitome of breathless suspense. Soon a
voice answered him.

"That the office of Neville, Brooks and Van Teyl?" he demanded. "Yes!
Put me through to Mr. Van Teyl. Urgent!"

Another few seconds of waiting, then once more he bent over the
instrument.

"That you, Van Teyl?... Yes, Fischer speaking. Oh, never mind about
that! Listen. What price are Anglo-French?... No, say about what?...
Ninety-five?... Sell me a hundred thousand.... What's that?... What?...
Of course it's a big deal! Never mind that. I'm good enough, aren't I?
There'll be no rise that'll wipe out half a million dollars. I've got
that lying in cash at Guggenheimer's. If you need the money, I'll bring
it you in half an hour. Get out into the market and sell. Damn you,
what's it matter about news! Right! Sorry, Jim. See you later."

Fischer put down the telephone and wiped his forehead. Notwithstanding
the fatigue in his face, there was a glint of triumph there. He laid
his hand upon Nikasti's shoulder.

"My friend," he said, "there's big proof coming of what I said to you
the other day. You'll find that letter you carry will mean a different
thing now. There's news in the air."

"There has been a great battle, perhaps?" Nikasti asked slowly.

"All that is to be known you will hear before evening," Fischer
replied. "Tell some one to send me some coffee. I have come through
from Washington. I am tired."

He sank a little abruptly into an easy-chair, took off his spectacles,
and leaned his head back upon the cushions. In the sunlight his face
was almost ghastly. A queer sense of weakness had suddenly assailed
him. His mind flitted back through a vista of sleepless nights, of
strenuous days, of passions held in leash, excitement ground down.

"I am tired," he said. "Telephone down to the office, Nikasti, for a
doctor."

Nikasti obeyed, and his summons was promptly answered. The doctor who
arrived was pleasantly but ominously grave. In the middle of his
examination the telephone rang. Fischer, without ceremony, moved to the
receiver. It was Van Teyl speaking.

"I've sold your hundred thousand Anglo-French," he announced. "It's
done the whole market in, though--knocked the bottom out of it. They've
fallen a point and a half. Shall I begin to buy back for you? You'll
make a bit."

"Not a share," Fischer answered fiercely. "Wait!"

"Have you any news you're keeping up your sleeve?" Van Teyl persisted.

"If I have, it's my own affair," was the curt reply, "and I don't tell
news over the telephone, anyway. Watch the market, and go on selling
where you can."

"I shall do as you order," Van Teyl replied, "but you're all against
the general tone here. By the bye, you got my letter?"

"I haven't opened it yet," Fischer snapped. "What's the matter?"

"Pamela and I have taken a little flat in Fifty-eighth Street. Seems a
little abrupt, but she didn't want to be alone, and she hates hotels.
We felt sure you'd understand."

"Yes, I understand," Fischer said. "Good-by! I'm busy."

The doctor completed his examination. When he had finished he mentioned
his fee.

"You work too hard, and you live in an atmosphere of too great strain.
The natural consequences are already beginning to show themselves. If I
give you medicine, it will only encourage you to keep on wasting
yourself, but you can have medicine if you like."

"Send me something to take for the next fortnight," Fischer replied.
"After that, I'll take my chance."

The doctor wrote a prescription and took his leave. Fischer leaned back
in his chair and closed his eyes. His mind travelled back through these
latter days of his over-strenuous life. In such minutes of relaxation,
few of which he permitted himself, he realised with bitter completeness
the catastrophe which had overtaken him--him, Oscar Fischer, of all men
on earth. Into his life of grim purposes, of lofty and yet narrow
ambitions, of almost superhuman tenacity, had crept the one weakening
strain whose presence in other men he had always scoffed at and
derived. There was a new and enervating glamour over the days, a new
and hatefully powerful rival for all his thoughts and dreams. Ten years
ago, he reflected sadly, this might have made a different man of him,
might have unlocked the gates into another, more peaceful and beautiful
world, visions of which had sometimes vaguely disturbed him in his cold
and selfish climb. Now it could only mean suffering. This was the first
stroke. It was the assertion of humanity which was responsible for his
present weakness. How far might it not drag him down?

There should be a fight, at any rate, he told himself, as an hour or
two later he made his way downtown. He paid several calls in the
vicinity of Wall Street, and finished up in Van Teyl's office. That
young man greeted him with a certain relief.

"You know the tone of the market's still against you, Fischer," he
warned him once more.

Fischer threw himself into the client's easy-chair. The furniture in
the office seemed less distinct than usual. He was conscious of a
certain haziness of outline in everything. Van Teyl's face, even, was
shrouded in a little mist. Then he suddenly found himself fighting
fiercely, fighting for his consciousness, fighting against a wave of
giddiness, a deadly sinking of the heart, a strange slackening of all
his nerve power. The young stockbroker rose hastily to his feet.

"Anything wrong, old fellow?" he asked anxiously.

"A glass of water," Fischer begged.

He was conscious of drinking it, vaguely conscious that he was winning.
Soon the office had regained its ordinary appearance, his pulse was
beating more regularly. He had once more the feeling of living--of
living, though in a minor key.

"A touch of liver," he murmured. "What did you say about the markets?"

"You look pretty rotten," Van Teyl remarked sympathetically. "Shall I
send out for some brandy?"

"Not for me," Fischer scoffed. "I don't need it. What price are
Anglo-French?"

"Ninety-four. You've only done them in a point, after all, and that's
nominal. I daresay I could get ten thousand back at that."

"Let them alone," was the calm reply. "I'll sell another fifty thousand
at ninety-four."

"Look here," Van Teyl said, swinging round in his chair, "I like the
business and I know you can finance it, but are you sure that you
realise what you are doing? Every one believes Anglo-French have
touched their bottom. They've only to go back to where they were--say
five points--and you'd lose half a million."

Fischer smiled a little wearily.

"That small sum in arithmetic," he remonstrated, "had already passed
through my brain. Send in your selling order, Jim, and come out to
lunch with me. I've come straight through from Washington--only got in
this morning."

Van Teyl called in his clerk and gave a few orders. Then he took up his
hat and left the office with his client.

"From Washington, eh?" he remarked curiously, as they passed into the
crowded streets. "So that accounts--"

He broke off abruptly. His companion's warning fingers had tightened
upon his arm.

"Quite right!" Van Teyl confessed. "There's gossip enough about now,
and they seem to have tumbled to it that you're our client. The office
has been besieged this morning. Sorry, Ned, I'm busy," he went on, to a
man who tried to catch his arm. "See you later, Fred. I'll be in after
lunch, Mr. Borrodaile. No, nothing fresh that I know of."

Fischer smiled grimly.

"Got you into a kind of hornets' nest, eh?" he observed.

"It's been like this all the morning," Van Teyl told him. "They believe
I know something. Even the newspaper men are tumbling to it. We'll
lunch up at the club. Maybe we'll get a little peace there."

They stepped into the hall of a great building, and took one of the
interminable row of lifts. A few minutes later they were seated at a
side table in a dining room on the top floor of one of the huge modern
skyscrapers. Below them stretched a silent panorama of the city;
beyond, a picturesque view of the river. A fresh breeze blew in through
the opened window. They were above the noise, even, of the street cars.

"Order me a small bottle of champagne, James," Fischer begged, "and
some steak."

Van Teyl stared at his companion and laughed as he took up the wine
list.

"Well, that's the first time, Fischer, I've known you to touch a drop
of anything before the evening! I'll have a whisky and soda with you.
Thank God we're away from that inquisitive crowd for a few minutes! Are
you going to give me an idea of what's moving?"

Fischer watched the wine being poured into his glass.

"Not until this evening," he said. "I want you to bring your sister and
come and dine at the new roof-garden."

"I don't know whether Pamela has any engagement," Van Teyl began, a
little dubiously.

"Please go and see," Fischer begged earnestly. "The telephones are just
outside. Tell your sister that I particularly wish her to accept my
invitation. Tell her that there will be news."

Van Teyl went out to the telephone. Fischer sipped his champagne and
crumbled up his bread, his eyes fixed a little dreamily on the grey
river. He was already conscious of the glow of the wine in his veins.
The sensation was half pleasurable, in a sense distasteful to him. He
resented this artificial humanity. He had the feeling of a man who has
stooped to be doped by a quack doctor. And he was a little afraid.

His young companion returned triumphant.

"Had a little trouble with Pamela," he observed, as he resumed his
place at the table. "She was thinking of the opera with a girl friend
she picked up this morning. However, the idea of news, I think,
clinched it. We'll be at the Oriental at eight o'clock, eh?"

Fischer looked up from the fascinating patchwork below. Already there
was anticipation in his face.

"I am very glad," he said. "There will certainly be news."




CHAPTER XXIV


"Now indeed I feel that I am in New York," Pamela declared, as she
broke off one of the blossoms of the great cluster of deep red roses by
her side, and gazed downward over her shoulder at the far-flung carpet
of lights. "One sees little bits of America in every country of the
world, but never this."

Fischer, unusually grave and funereal-looking in his dinner clothes and
black tie, followed her gesture with thoughtful eyes. Everything that
was ugly in the stretching arms of the city seemed softened, shrouded
and bejewelled. Even the sounds, the rattle and roar of the overhead
railways, the clanging of the electric car bells, the shrieking of the
sirens upon the river, seemed somehow to have lost their harsh note, to
have become the human cry of the great live city, awaking and
stretching itself for the night.

"I agree with you," he said. "You dine at the Ritz-Carlton and you
might be in Paris. You dine here, and one knows that you are in
America."

"Yet even here we have become increasingly luxurious," Pamela remarked,
looking around. "The glass and linen upon the tables are quite French;
those shaded lights are exquisite. That little band, too, was playing
at the Ritz three years ago. I am sure that the maitre d'hotel who
brought us to our table was once at the Cafe de Paris."

"Money would draw all those things from Europe even to the Sahara,"
Fischer observed, "so long as there were plenty of it. But millions
could not buy our dining table in the clouds."

"A little effort of the imagination, fortunately," Pamela laughed,
looking upwards. "There are stars, but no clouds."

"I guess one of them is going to slip down to the next table before
long," Van Teyl observed, with a little movement of his head.

They all three turned around and looked at the wonderful bank of pink
roses within a few feet of them.

"One of the opera women, I daresay," the young man continued. "They are
rather fond of this place."

Pamela leaned forward. Fischer was watching the streets below; Only a
short distance away was a huge newspaper building, flaring with lights.
The pavements fringing it were thronged with a little stationary crowd.
A row of motor-bicycles was in waiting. A night edition of the paper
was almost due.

"Mr. Fischer," she asked, "what about that news?"

He withdrew his eyes from the street. Almost unconsciously he
straightened himself a little in his place. There was pride in his
tone. Behind his spectacles his eyes flashed.

"I would have told it you before," he said, "but you would not have
believed it. Soon--in a very few moments--the news will be known. You
will see it break away in waves from that building down there, so I
will bear with your incredulity. The German and British fleets have
met, and the victory has remained with us."

"With us?" Pamela repeated.

"With Germany," Fischer corrected himself hastily.

"Is this true?" James Van Teyl almost shouted. "Fischer, are you sure
of what you're saying? Why, it's incredible!"

"It is true," was the proud reply. "The German Navy has been a long
time proving itself. It has done so now. To-day every German citizen is
the proudest creature breathing. He knew before that his armies were
invincible. He knows now that his fleet is destined to make his country
the mistress of the seas. England's day is over. Her ships were badly
handled and foolishly flung into battle. She has lost many of her
finest units. Her Navy is to-day a crippled and maimed force. The
German fleet is out in the North Sea, waiting for an enemy who has
disappeared."

"It is inconceivable," Pamela gasped.

"I do not ask you to believe my word," Fischer exclaimed. "Look!"

As though the flood gates had been suddenly opened, the stream of
patient waiters broke away from the newspaper building below. Like
little fireflies, the motor-bicycles were tearing down the different
thoroughfares. Boys like ants, with their burden of news sheets, were
running in every direction. Motor-trucks had started on their furious
race. Even the distant echoes of their cries came faintly up. Fischer
called a messenger and sent him for a paper.

"I do not know what report you will see," he said, "but from whatever
source it comes it will confirm my story. The news is too great and
sweeping to be contradicted or ignored."

"If it's true," Van Teyl muttered, "you've made a fortune in my office
to-day. It looks like it, too. There was something wrong with
Anglo-French beside your selling for the last hour this afternoon. I
couldn't get buyers to listen for a moment."

"Yes, I shall have made a great deal of money," Fischer admitted,
"money which I shall value because it comes magnificently, but I hope
that this victory may help me to win other things."

He looked fixedly at Pamela, and she moved uneasily in her chair.
Almost unconsciously the man himself seemed somehow associated with his
cause, to be assuming a larger and more tolerant place in her thoughts.
Perhaps there was some measure of greatness about him after all. The
strain of waiting for the papers became almost intolerable. At last the
boy reappeared. The great black headlines were stretched out before
her. She felt the envelopment of Fischer's triumph. The words were
there in solid type, and the paper itself was one of the most reliable.

GREAT NAVAL BATTLE IN THE NORTH SEA.

BRITISH ADMIRALTY ADMITS SERIOUS LOSSES.

"QUEEN MARY," "INDEFATIGABLE," AND MANY FINE SHIPS LOST.

Pamela looked up from the sheet.

"It is too wonderful," she whispered, with a note of awe in her tone.
"I don't think that any one ever expected this. We all believed in the
British Navy."

"There is nothing," Fischer declared, "that England can do which
Germany cannot do better."

"And America best of all," Pamela said.

Fischer bowed.

"That is one comparison which will never now be made," he declared,
"for from to-night Germany and America will draw nearer together. The
bubble of British naval omnipotence is pricked."

"Meanwhile," Van Teyl observed, putting his paper away, "we are
neglecting our dinner. Nothing like a good dose of sensationalism for
giving us an appetite."

Fischer was watching his glass being filled with champagne. He seized
it by the stem. His eyes for a moment travelled upwards.

"I am an American citizen," he said, with a strange fervour in his
tone, "but for the moment I am called back. And so I lift my glass and
I drink--I alone, without invitation to you others--to those brave
souls who have made of the North Sea a holy battle-ground."

He drained his glass and set it down empty. Pamela watched him as
though fascinated. For a single moment she was conscious of a queer
sensation of personal pity for some shadowy and absent friend, of
something almost like a lump in her throat, a strange instinct of
antagonism towards the man by her side so enveloped in beatific
satisfaction--then she frowned when she realised that she had been
thinking of Lutchester, that her first impulse had been one of sympathy
for him. The moment passed. The service of dinner was pressed more
insistently upon them. James Van Teyl, who had been leaning back in his
chair, talking to one of the maitres d'hotel, dismissed him with a
little nod and entrusted them with a confidence.

"Say, do you know who's coming to the next table?" he exclaimed.
"Sonia!"

They were all interested.

"You won't mind?" Fischer asked diffidently.

"In a restaurant, how absurd!" Pamela laughed. "Why, I'm dying to see
her. I wonder how it is that some of these greatest singers in the
world lead such extraordinary lives that people can never know anything
of them."

"Society is tolerant enough nowadays," her brother observed, "but Sonia
won't give them even a decent chance to wink at her eccentricities. She
crossed, you know, on the Prince Doronda's yacht, for fear they
wouldn't let her land."

"Here she comes," Pamela whispered.

There was a moment's spellbound silence. Two maitres d'hotel were
hurrying in front. A pathway from the lift had been cleared as though
for a royal personage. Sonia, in white from head to foot, a dream of
white lace and chinchilla, with a Russian crown of pearls in her glossy
black hair, and a rope of pearls around her neck, came like a waxen
figure, with scarlet lips and flashing eyes, towards her table. And
behind her--Lutchester! Pamela felt her fingers gripping the
tablecloth. Her first impulse, curiously enough, was one of wild fury
with herself for that single instant's pity. Her face grew cold and
hard. She felt herself sitting a little more upright. Her eyes remained
fixed upon the newcomers.

Lutchester's behaviour was admirable. His glance swept their little
table without even a shadow of interest. He ignored with passive
unconcern the mistake of Van Teyl's attempted greeting. He looked
through Fischer as though he had been a ghost. He stood by Sonia's side
while she seated herself, and listened with courteous pleasure to her
excited admiration of the flowers and the wonderful vista. Then he took
his own place. In his right hand he was carrying an evening paper with
its flaming headlines.

"That," Fischer pronounced, struggling to keep the joy from his tone,
"is very British and very magnificent!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Pamela had imperfect recollections of the rest of the evening. She
remembered that she was more than usually gay throughout dinner-time,
but that she was the first to jump at the idea of a hurried departure
and a visit to a cabaret. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of
Sonia's face, saw the challenging light in her brilliant eyes, heard
little scraps of her conversation. The Frenchwoman spoke always in her
own language, with a rather shrill voice, which made Lutchester's
replies sound graver and quieter than usual. More than once Pamela's
eyes rested upon the broad lines of his back. He sat all the time like
a rock, courteous, at times obviously amusing, but underneath it all
she fancied that she saw some signs of the disturbance from which she
herself was suffering. She rose to her feet at last with a little sigh
of relief. It was an ordeal through which she had passed.

Once in the lift, her brother and Fischer discussed Lutchester's
indiscretion volubly.

"I suppose," Van Teyl declared, "that there isn't a man in New York who
wouldn't have jumped at the chance of dining alone with Sonia, but for
an Englishman, on a night like this," he went on, glancing at the
paper, "say, he must have some nerve!"

"Or else," Fischer remarked, "a wonderful indifference. So far as I
have studied the Anglo-Saxon temperament, I should be inclined to vote
for the indifference. That is why I think Germany will win the war.
Every man in that country prays for his country's success, not only in
words, but with his soul. I have not found the same spirit in England."

"The English people," Pamela interposed, "have a genius for concealment
which amounts to stupidity."

"I have a theory," Fischer said, "that to be phlegmatic after a certain
pitch is a sign of low vitality. However, we shall see. Certainly, if
England is to be saved from her present trouble, it will not be the
Lutchesters of the world who will do it, nor, it seems, her Navy."

They found their way to a large cabaret, where Pamela listened to an
indifferent performance a little wearily. The news of what was termed a
naval disaster to Great Britain was flashed upon the screen, and,
generally speaking, the audience was stunned. Fischer behaved
throughout the evening with tact and discretion. He made few references
to the matter, and was careful not to indulge in any undue
exhilaration. Once, when Van Teyl had left the box, however, to speak
to some friends, he turned earnestly to Pamela.

"Will it please you soon," he begged, "to resume our conversation of
the other day? However you may look at it, things have changed, have
they not? An invincible British Navy has been one of the fundamental
principles of beliefs in American politics. Now that it is destroyed,
the outlook is different. I could go myself to the proper quarter in
Washington, or Von Schwerin is here to be my spokesman. I have a fancy,
though, to work with you. You know why."

She moved uneasily in her place.

"I have no idea," she objected, "what it is that you have to propose.
Besides, I am only just a woman who has been entrusted with a few
diplomatic errands."

"You are the niece of Senator Hastings," Fischer reminded her, "and
Hastings is the man through whom I should like my proposal to go to the
President. It is an honest offer which I have to make, and although it
cannot pass through official channels, it is official in the highest
sense of the word, because it comes to me from the one man who is in a
position to make himself responsible for it."

Her brother came back to the box before Pamela could reply, but, as
they parted that night, she gave Fischer her hand.

"Come and see our new quarters," she invited. "I shall be at home any
time to-morrow afternoon."

It was one of the moments of Fischer's life. He bowed low over her
fingers.

"I accept, with great pleasure," he murmured.




CHAPTER XXV


Sonia had the air of one steeped in an almost ecstatic content. On her
return from the roof garden she had exchanged her wonderful gown for a
white silk negligee, and her headdress of pearls for a quaint little
cap. She was stretched upon a sofa drawn before the wide-flung French
windows of her little sitting-room at the Ritz-Carlton, a salon
decorated in pink and white, and filled almost to overflowing with the
roses which she loved. By her side, in an easy chair which she had
pressed him to draw up to her couch, sat Lutchester.

"This," she murmured, "is one of the evenings which I adore. I have no
work, no engagements--just one friend with whom to talk. My fine
clothes have done. I am myself," she added, stretching out her arms. "I
have my cigarettes, my iced sherbet, and the lights and murmur of the
city there below to soothe me. And you to talk with me, my friend. What
are you thinking of me--that I am a little animal who loves comfort too
much, eh?"

Lutchester smiled.

"We all love comfort," he replied. "Some of us are franker than others
about it."

She made a little grimace.

"Comfort! It is my own word, but what a word! It is luxury I
worship--luxury--and a friend. Is that, perhaps, another
word too slight, eh?"

He met the provocative gleam of her eyes with a smile of amusement.

"You are just the same child, Sonia," he remarked. "Neither climate nor
country, nor the few passing years, can change you."

"It is you who have grown older and sterner," she pouted. "It is you who
have lost the gift of living to-day as though to-morrow were not. There
was a time, was there not, John, when you did not care to sit always so
far away?"

She laid her hand--ringless, over-manicured, but delicately white----
upon his. He smoothed it gently.

"You see, Sonia," he sighed, "troubles have come that harden the hearts
even of the gayest of us."

She frowned.

"You are not going to remind me--" she began.

"If I reminded you of anything, Sonia," he interrupted, "I would remind
you that you are a Frenchwoman."

She stretched out her hand restlessly and took one of the Russian
cigarettes from a bowl by her side.

"You are not, by any chance, going to talk seriously, dear John?"

"I am," he assured her, "very seriously."

"Oh, la, la!" she laughed. "You, my dear, gay companion, you who have
shaken the bells all your life, you are going to talk seriously! And
to-night, when we meet again after so long. Ah, well, why should I be
surprised?" she went on, with a pout.

"You have changed. When one looks into your face, one sees the
difference. But to me, of all people in the world! Why talk seriously
to me! I am just Sonia, the gipsy nightingale. I know nothing of
serious things."

"You carry one very serious secret in your heart," he told her gravely,
"one little pain which must sometimes stab you. You are a Frenchwoman,
and yet--"

Lutchester paused for a moment. Sonia, too, seemed suddenly to have
awakened into a state of tense and vivid emotion. The cigarette burned
away between her fingers. Her great eyes were fixed upon Lutchester.
There was something almost like fear in their questioning depths.

"Finish! Finish!" she insisted. "Continue!"

"And yet," he went on, "your very dear friend, the friend for whose
sake you are here in America, is your country's enemy."

She raised herself a little upon the couch.

"That is not true," she declared furiously. "Maurice loves France. His
heart aches for the misery that has come upon her. It is your country
only which he hates. If France had but possessed the courage to stand
by herself, to resist when England forced her friendship upon her, none
of this tragedy would ever have happened. Maurice has told me so
himself. France could have peace today, peace at her own price."

"There is no peace which would leave France with a soul, save the peace
which follows victory," Lutchester replied sternly.

She crushed her cigarette nervously in her fingers, threw it away, and
lit another.

"I will not talk of these things with you," she cried. "It was not for
this that you sought me out, eh? Tell me at once? Were these the
thoughts you had in your mind when you sent your little note?--when you
chose to show yourself once more in my life?"

For the first time of his own accord, he drew his chair a little nearer
to hers. He took her hand. She gave him both unresistingly.

"Listen, dear Sonia," he said, "it is true that I am a changed man. I
am older than when we met last, and there are the other things. You
remember the Chateau d'Albert?"

"Of course!" she murmured. "And the young Duc d'Albert's wonderful
house party. We all motored there from Paris. You and I were together!
You have forgotten that, eh?"

"I lay in that orchard for two days," he went on grimly, "with a hole
in my side and one leg pretty nearly done for. I saw things I can never
forget, in those days, Sonia. D'Albert himself was killed. It was in
that first mad rush. Of the Chateau there remains but four blackened
walls."

"_Pauvre enfant_!" she murmured. "But you are well and strong again
now, is it not so? You will not fight again, eh? You were never a
soldier, dear friend."

"Just now," he confided, "I have other work to do. It is that other
work which has brought me to America."

She drew him a little closer to her. Her eyes questioned him.

"There is, perhaps, now," she asked, "a woman in your life?"

"There is," he admitted.

She made a grimace.

"But how clumsy to tell me, even though I asked," she exclaimed. "What
is she like? ... But no, I do not wish to hear of her! If she is all
the world to you, why did you send me that little note? Why are you
here?"

"Because we were once dear friends, Sonia," he said, "because I wish to
save you from great trouble."

She shrank from him a little fearfully.

"What do you mean?"

"Sonia," he continued, with a note of sternness in his tone, "during
the last two years you have gone back and forth between New York and
Paris, six times. I do not think that you can make that journey again."

She was standing now, with one hand gripping the edge of the table.

"John! ... John! ... What do you mean?" she demanded, and this time her
own voice was hard.

"I mean," he said, "that when you leave here for Paris you will be
watched day and night. The moment you set foot upon French soil you
will be arrested and searched. If anything is found upon you, such as a
message from your friend in Washington--well, you know what it would
mean. Can't you see, you foolish child, the risk you have been running?
Would you care to be branded as a spy?--you, a daughter of France?"

She struck at him. Her lace sleeves had fallen back, and her white arm,
with its little clenched fist, flashed through the twilight, aimlessly
yet passionately.

"You dare to call me a spy! You, John?" she shrieked. "But it is
horrible."

"It is the work of a spy," he told her gravely, "to bring a letter from
any person in a friendly capital and deliver it to an enemy. That is
what you have done, Sonia, many times since the beginning of the war,
so far without detection. It is because you are Sonia that I have come
to save you from doing it again."

She groped her way back to the couch. She threw herself upon it with
her back towards him, her head buried in her hands.

"The letters are only between friends," she faltered. "They have
nothing to do with the war."

"You may have believed that," Lutchester replied gently, "but it is not
true. You have been made the bearer of confidential communications from
the Austrian Embassy here to certain people in Paris whom we will not
name. I have pledged my word, Sonia, that this shall cease."

She sprang to her feet. All the feline joy of her languorous ease
seemed to have departed. She was quivering and nervous. She stood over
her writing-table.

"A telegraph blank!" she exclaimed. "Quick! I will not see Maurice
again. Oh, how I have suffered! This shall end it. See, I have written
'Good-by!' He will understand. If he comes, I will not see him. Ring
the bell quickly. There--it is finished!"

A page-boy appeared, and she handed him the telegram. Then she turned a
little pathetically to Lutchester.

"Maurice was foolish--very often foolish," she went on unsteadily, "but
he has loved me, and a woman loves love so much. Now I shall be lonely.
And yet, there is a great weight gone from my mind. Always I wondered
about those letters. You will be my friend, John? You will not leave me
all alone?"

He patted her hand.

"Dear Sonia," he whispered, "solitude is not the worst thing one has to
bear, these days. Try and remember, won't you, that all the men who
might have loved you are fighting for your country, one way or
another."

"It is all so sad," she faltered, "and you--you are so stern and
changed."

"It is with me only as it is with the whole world," he told her.
"To-night, though, you have relieved me of one anxiety."

Her eyes once more were for a moment frightened.

"There was danger for poor little me?"

He nodded.

"It is past," he assured her.

"And it is you who have saved me," she murmured. "Ah, Mr. John," she
added, as she walked with him to the door, "if ever there comes to me a
lover, not for the days only but _pour la vie,_ I hope that he may be
an Englishman like you, whom all the world trusts."

He laughed and raised her fingers to his lips.

"Over-faithful, you called us once," he reminded her.

"But that was when I was a child," she said, "and in days like these we
are children no longer."




CHAPTER XXVI


Lutchester left Sonia and the Ritz-Carlton a few minutes before
midnight, to find a great yellow moon overhead, which seemed to have
risen somewhere at the back of Central Park. The broad thoroughfare up
which he turned seemed to have developed a new and unfamiliar beauty.
The electric lamps shone with a pale and almost unnatural glow. The
flashing lights of the automobiles passing up and down were almost
whimsically unnecessary. Lutchester walked slowly up Fifth Avenue in
the direction of his hotel.

Something--the beauty of the night, perhaps, or some faint aftermath of
sentimentality born of Sonia's emotion--tempted him during those few
moments to relax. He threw aside his mask and breathed the freer for
it. Once more he was a human being, treading the streets of a real
city, his feet very much upon the earth, his heart full of the simplest
things. All the scheming of the last few days was forgotten, the great
issues, the fine yet devious way to be steered amidst the rocks which
beset him; even the depression of the calamitous news from the North
Sea passed away. He was a very simple human being, and he was in love.
It was all so unpractical, so illusionary, and yet so real. Events,
actual happenings--he thrust all thoughts of these away from his mind.
What she might be thinking of him at the moment he ignored. He was
content to let his thoughts rest upon her, to walk through the moonlit
street, his brain and heart revelling in that subtle facility of the
imagination which brought her so easily to his presence. It was such a
vividly real Pamela, too, who spoke and walked and moved by his side.
His memory failed him nowhere, followed faithfully the kaleidoscopic
changes in her face and tone, showed him even that long, grateful,
searching glance when their eyes had met in Von Teyl's sitting-room.
There had been times when she had shown clearly enough that she was
anxious to understand, anxious to believe in him. He clung to the
memory of these; pushed into the background that faint impression he
had had of her at the roof-garden, serene and proud, yet with a faint
look of something like pain in her startled eyes.

A large limousine passed him slowly, crawling up Fifth Avenue.
Lutchester, with all his gifts of observation dormant, took no notice
of its occupant, who leaned forward, raised the speaking-tube to his
lips, and talked for a moment to his chauffeur. The car glided round a
side street and came to a standstill against the curb. Its solitary
passenger stepped quietly out and entered a restaurant. The chauffeur
backed the car a little, slipped from his place, and followed
Lutchester.

By chance the little throng of people here became thicker for a few
moments and then ceased. Lutchester drew a little sigh of relief as he
saw before him almost an empty pavement. Then, just as he was relapsing
once more into thought, some part of his subconscious instinct suddenly
leaped into warning life. Without any actual perception of what it
might mean, he felt the thrill of imminent danger, connected it with
that soft footfall behind him, and swung round in time to seize a
deadly uplifted hand which seemed to end in a shimmer of dull steel.
His assailant flung himself upon Lutchester with the lithe ferocity of
a cat, clinging to his body, twisting and turning his arm to wrest it
free. It was a matter of seconds only before his intended victim, with
a fierce backward twist, broke the man's wrist and, wrenching himself
free from the knees which clung around him, flung him forcibly against
the railings which bordered the pavement. Lutchester paused for a
moment to recover his breath and looked around. A man from the other
side of the street was running towards them, but no one else seemed to
have noticed the struggle which had begun and finished in less than
thirty seconds. The man, who was half-way across the thoroughfare,
suddenly stopped short. He shouted a warning to Lutchester, who swung
around. His late assailant, who had been lying motionless, had raised
himself slightly, with a revolver clenched in his left hand.
Lutchester's spring on one side saved his life, for the bullet passed
so close to his cheek that he felt the rush and heat of the air. The
man in the center of the road was busy shouting an alarm vociferously,
and other people on both sides of the thoroughfare were running up.
Lutchester's eyes now never left the dark, doubled-up figure upon the
pavement. His whole body was tense. He was prepared at the slightest
movement to spring in upon his would-be murderer. The man's eyes seemed
to be burning in his white face. He called out to Lutchester hoarsely.

"Don't move or I shall shoot!"

He looked up and down the street. One of the nearest of the hastening
figures was a policeman. He turned the revolver against his own temple
and pulled the trigger....

Lutchester and a policeman walked slowly back along Fifth Avenue.
Behind them, a little crowd was still gathered around the spot from
which the body of the dead man had already been removed in an
ambulance.

"I really remember nothing," Lutchester told his companion, "until I
heard the footsteps behind me, and, turning round, saw the knife. This
is simply an impression of mine--that he might have descended from the
car which passed me and stopped just round the corner of that street."

"He's a chauffeur, right enough," the inspector remarked. "It don't
seem to have been a chance job, either. Looks as though he meant doing
you in. Got any enemies?"

"None that I know of," Lutchester answered cautiously. "Why, the car's
there still," he added, as they reached the corner.

"And no chauffeur," the other muttered.

The officer searched the car and drew out a license from the flap
pocket. The commissionaire from the restaurant approached them.

"Say, what are you doing with that car?" he demanded.

"Better fetch the gentleman to whom it belongs," the inspector
directed.

"What's up, anyway?" the man persisted.

"You do as you're told," was the sharp reply.

The commissionaire disappeared. The officer studied the license which
he had just opened.

"What's the name?" Lutchester inquired.

The man hesitated for a moment, then passed it over.

"Oscar H. Fischer," he said. "Happen to know the name?"

Lutchester's face was immovable. He passed the license back again. They
both turned round. Mr. Fischer had issued from the restaurant.

"What's wrong?" he asked hastily. "The commissionaire says you want me,
Mr. Officer?"

The inspector produced his pocketbook.

"Just want to ask you a few questions about your chauffeur, sir."

Fischer glanced at the driver's seat of the car, as though aware of the
man's disappearance for the first time.

"What's become of the fellow?" he inquired.

"Shot himself," the inspector replied, "after a deliberate attempt to
murder this gentleman."

Mr. Fischer's composure was admirable. There was a touch of gravity
mingled with his bewilderment. Nevertheless, he avoided meeting
Lutchester's eyes.

"You horrify me!" he exclaimed. "Why, the fellow's only been driving
for me for a few hours."

"That so?" the officer remarked, with a grunt. "Get any references with
him?"

"As a matter of fact, I did not," Fischer admitted frankly. "I
discharged my chauffeur yesterday, at a moment's notice, and this man
happened to call just as I was wanting the car out this afternoon. He
promised to bring me references to-morrow from Mr. Gould and others. I
engaged him on that understanding. He told me that his name was Kay--
Robert Kay. That is all that I know about him, except that he was an
excellent driver. I am exceedingly sorry Mr. Lutchester," he went on,
turning towards him, "that this should have happened."

"So you two know one another, eh?" the officer observed.

"Oh, yes, we know one another!" Lutchester admitted drily.

"I shall have to ask you both for your names and addresses," the
official continued. "I think I won't ask you any more questions at
present. Seems to me headquarters had better take this on."

"I shall be quite at your service," Lutchester promised.

The man made a few more notes, saluted, and took his leave. Fischer and
Lutchester remained for a moment upon the pavement.

"It is a dangerous custom," Lutchester remarked, "to take a servant
without a reference."

"It will be a warning to me for the remainder of my life," Fischer
declared.

"I, too, have learnt something," Lutchester concluded, as he turned
away.




CHAPTER XXVII


Fischer, as he waited for Pamela the following afternoon in the
sitting-room of her flat on Fifty-eighth Street, felt that although the
practical future of his life might be decided in other places, it was
here that its real climax would be reached. Pamela herself was to
pronounce sentence upon him. He was feeling scarcely at his best. An
examination in the courthouse, which he had imagined would last only a
few minutes, had been protracted throughout the afternoon. The district
attorney had asked him a great many questions, some rather awkward
ones, and the inquiry itself had been almost grudgingly adjourned for a
few hours. And here, in Pamela's sitting-room, the first things which
caught his eye were the headlines of one of the afternoon papers:

WESTERN MILLIONAIRE ENGAGES
THE GIRL HESTE'S MURDERER
AS CHAUFFEUR!

ATTEMPTED MURDER AND SUICIDE
IN FIFTH AVENUE
LAST NIGHT.

Fischer pushed the newspaper impatiently away, and, in the act of doing
so, the door was opened and Pamela entered. She came towards him with
outstretched hand.

"I see you are looking at the account of your misdeeds," she said, as
she seated herself behind a tea tray. "Will you tell me why a cautious
man like you engages, without reference, a chauffeur who turns out to
be a murderer?"

Fischer frowned irritably.

"For four hours," he complained, "several lawyers and a most
inquisitive police captain have been asking me the same question in a
hundred different ways. I engaged the man because I needed a chauffeur
badly. He was to have brought his references this morning. I was only
trusting him for a matter of a few hours."

"And during those few hours," she observed, "he seems to have developed
a violent antipathy to Mr. Lutchester."

"I do not understand the affair at all," Mr. Fischer declared, "and, if
I may say so, I am a little weary of it. I came here to discuss another
matter altogether."

She leaned back in her place.

"What have you come to discuss, Mr. Fischer?"

"That depends so much upon you," he replied. "If you give me any
encouragement, I can put before you a great proposition. If your
prejudices, however, remain as I think they always have been, on the
side of England, why then I can do nothing."

"If I counted for anything," Pamela said, "I mean to say if it mattered
to any one what my attitude was, I would start by admitting that my
sympathies are somewhat on the side of the Allies. On the other hand,
my sympathies amount to nothing at all compared with my interest in the
welfare of the United States. I am perfectly selfish in that respect."

"Then you have an open mind to hear what I have to say," Fischer
remarked. "I am glad of it. You encourage me to proceed."

"That is all very well," Pamela said, stirring her tea, "but I cannot
help asking once more why you come to me at all? What have I to do with
any proposition you may have to make?"

"Just this," he explained. "I have a serious and authentic proposition
to make to the American Government. I cannot make it officially--
although it comes from the highest of all sources--for the most obvious
reasons. It may seem better worth listening to to-day, perhaps, than a
week ago, so far as you are concerned. That is because you believed in
British invincibility upon the sea. I never did."

"Go on, please," Pamela begged. "I am still waiting to realise my
position in all this."

"I should like," Fischer declared, "my proposition to reach the
President through Senator Hastings, and Senator Hastings is your
uncle."

"I see," Pamela murmured.

"My offer itself is a very simple one," Fischer continued. "Your secret
service is so bad that you probably know nothing of what is happening.
Ours, on the other hand, is still marvellously good, and what I am
going to tell you is surely the truth. Japan is accumulating great
wealth. She is saving her ships and men for one purpose, and one purpose
only. Europe could not bribe her highly enough to take a more active part
in this war. Her price was one which could not be paid. She demanded a
free hand with the United States."

"This," Pamela admitted, "is quite interesting, but it is entirely in
the realms of conjecture, is it not?"

"Not wholly," Fischer insisted. "At the proper time I should be
prepared to bring you evidence that tentative proposals were made by
Japan to both England and France, asking what would be their attitude,
should she provide them with half a million men and undertake
transport, if at the conclusion of the war she desired a settlement
with the United States. The answer from France and England was the
same--that they could not countenance an inimical attitude towards the
States."

"You are bound to admit, then," Pamela remarked, "that England played
the game here."

"The bribe was not big enough," Fischer replied drily. "England would
sell her soul, but not for a mess of pottage. To proceed, however,
Japan has practically kept out of the war. She is enjoying a prosperity
never known before, and for every million pounds' worth of munitions
she exports to Russia, she puts calmly on one side twenty-five per
cent, to accumulate for her own use. At the conclusion of the war she
will be in a position she has never occupied before, and while the rest
of the world is still gasping, she will proceed to carry out what has
been the dream of her life--the invasion of your Western States."

"I admit that this is plausible," Pamela confessed, "but you are only
pointing out a very obvious danger, for which I imagine that we are
already fairly well prepared."

"Believe me," Fischer said earnestly, "you are not. It is this fact
which makes the whole situation so vital to you. Later on in our
negotiations, I will show you proof of your danger. Meanwhile, let me
proceed to the offer which I am empowered to make, which comes direct
from the one person in Germany whose word is unshakable."

Pamela changed her position a little, as though to escape from the
sunlight which was finding its way underneath the broad blinds. Her
eyes were fixed upon her visitor. She listened intently to every word
he had to say. Despite some vague feeling of mistrust, which she
acknowledged to herself might well have been prejudiced, she found the
situation interesting, even stimulating. Her few excursions into the
world of high politics had never brought her into such a position as
this. She felt both flattered and interested--attracted, too, in some
nameless way, by the man's personality, his persistence, his daring,
his whole-heartedness. The situation was instinct with interest to her.

"But why make it to me?" she murmured.

"You are to be my delegate," he answered. "Take the substance of what I
say to you, to your uncle. Try, for your country's sake, to interest
him in it. The offer which I make shall save you a vast amount of
sacrifice. It shall save your dislocating the industries of the country
and sowing the seeds of a disturbing and yet inadequate militarism. I
offer you, in short, a German alliance against Japan."

"The value of that offer," Pamela remarked thoughtfully, "would depend
rather upon the issue of the present war, wouldn't it?"

Fischer's face darkened. His tone was almost irritable.

"That is already preordained," he said firmly. "You see, I will be
quite frank with you. Germany has lost her chance of sweeping and
complete victory. The result of the war will be a return to the
status-quo-ante. Yet, believe me, Germany will be strong enough to
settle some of the debts she owes, and the debt to Japan is one of
these."

"Still, there is the practical question of getting men and ships over
from Germany to America," Pamela persisted.

"It is already solved," was the swift reply. "At the proper time I will
show you and prove how it can be done. At present, not one word can
pass my lips. It is one of the secrets on which the future of Germany
depends."

"And the price?" Pamela asked.

"That America adopts our view as to the high seas traffic," Fischer
replied. "This would mean the stopping of all supplies, munitions and
ammunition from America to England. We offer you an alliance. We ask
only for your real and actual neutrality for the remainder of the war.
We offer a great and substantial advantage, a safeguard for your
country's future, in return for what? Simply that America will pursue
the course of honour and integrity to all nations."

"America," Pamela declared, "has never failed in this."

Fischer shrugged his shoulders.

"There is more than one point of view," he reminded her. "Will you take
my message with you to Washington to-morrow?"

"Yes," Pamela promised, "I will do that. The rest, of course, remains
with others. I do not myself go so far, even," she added, "as to
declare myself in sympathy with you."

"And yet," he insisted, with swift violence, "it is your sympathy which
I desire more than anything in the world--your sympathy, your help,
your companionship; a little--a very little at first--of your love."

"I am afraid that I am not a very satisfactory person from that point
of view," Pamela confessed. "I have a great sympathy with every man who
is really out for the great things, but so far as you are concerned,
Mr. Fischer, or any one else," she went on, after a moment's
hesitation, "I have no personal feeling."

"That shall come," he declared.

"Then please wait a little time before you talk to me again like this,"
she said, rising and holding out her hand. "At present there is no sign
of it."

"There is so much that I could offer you," he pleaded, gripping the
hand which she had given him in farewell, "so much that I could do for
your country. Believe me, I am not talking idly."

"I do believe that," she admitted. "You are a very clever man, Mr.
Fischer, and I think that you represent all that you claim. Perhaps, if
we really do negotiate--"

"But you must!" he interrupted impatiently. "You must listen to me for
every reason--politically for your country's sake, personally because I
shall offer you and give you happiness and a position you could never
find elsewhere."

For a moment her eyes seemed to be looking through him, as though some
vision of things outside the room were troubling her. Her finger had
already touched the bell and a servant was standing upon the threshold.

"We shall meet in Washington," Mr. Fischer concluded, with an air of a
prophet, as he took his leave.




CHAPTER XXVIII


It was within half an hour of closing time that same afternoon when
Lutchester walked into James Van Teyl's office. The young man greeted
him with some surprise.

"Will you do some business for me?" Lutchester asked, without any
preliminaries.

"Sure!"

"How many Anglo-French will you buy for me? I can obtain credit by
cable to-morrow through any bank for twenty or thirty thousand pounds."

"You want to buy Anglo-French?" Van Teyl repeated softly.

His visitor nodded.

"Any news?"

Lutchester hesitated, and Van Teyl continued with an apologetic
gesture.

"I beg your pardon. That's not my job, anyway, to ask questions. I'll
buy you twenty-five thousand, if you like. Guess they can't drop much
lower."

Lutchester sat down.

"Thank you," he said, "I will wait."

A little ripple of excitement went through the office as Van Teyl
started his negotiations. It seemed to Lutchester that several
telephones and half a dozen perspiring young men were called into his
service. In the end Van Teyl made out a note and handed it to him.

"I could have done better for you yesterday," he observed. "The market
is strengthening all the time. There are probably some rumours."

A boy went by along the pavement outside waving a handful of papers.
His cry floated in through the open window:

REPORTED LOSS OF MANY MORE GERMAN
BATTLESHIPS.
BRITISH CLAIM VICTORY.

Van Teyl grinned.

"You got here just in time," he murmured, "but I suppose you knew all
about this."

"I have known since three o'clock," Lutchester replied, "that all the
reports of a German victory were false. You will find, when the truth
is known, that the German losses were greater than the British."

"Then if that's so," Van Teyl remarked, "I've got one client who'll
lose a hatful which you ought to make. Coming up town?"

"I should like, if I may?" Lutchester said, "to be permitted to pay my
respects to your sister."

"Why, that's fine!" Van Teyl exclaimed unconvincingly. "We'll take the
subway up."

They left the office and plunged into the indescribable horrors of
their journey. When they stepped out into the sunlit street in another
atmosphere, Van Teyl laid his hand upon his companion's arm in friendly
fashion.

"Say, Lutchester," he began, "I don't know that you are going to find
Pamela exactly all that she might be in the way of amiability and so
on. I know these things are done on the other side, but here it's
considered trying your friends pretty high to take a lady of Sonia's
reputation where you are likely to meet your friends. No offence, eh?"

"Certainly not," Lutchester replied. "I was sorry, of course, to see
you last night. On the other hand, Sonia is an old friend, and my
dinner with her had an object. I think I could explain it to your
sister."

"I don't know that I should try," Van Teyl advised. "For all her
cosmopolitanism, Pamela has some quaint ideas. However, I thought I'd
warn you, in case she's a bit awkward."

Pamela, however, had no idea of being awkward. She welcomed Lutchester
with a very sweet smile, and gave him the tips of her fingers.

"I was wondering whether we should see you again before we went," she
said. "We are leaving for Washington to-morrow."

"By the three o'clock train, I hope?" he ventured.

She raised her eyebrows.

"Why, are you going, too?"

"I hope so."

"I should have thought most of the munition works," she observed, "were
further north."

"They are," he acknowledged, "but I have business in Washington. By the
bye, will you both come out and dine with me to-night?"

Van Teyl glanced at his sister. She shook her head.

"I am so sorry," she said, "but we are engaged. Perhaps we shall see
something of you in Washington."

"I have no doubt you will," Lutchester replied "All the same," he
added, "it would give me very great pleasure to entertain you at dinner
this evening."

"Why particularly this evening?" she asked.

He looked at her with a queer directness, and Pamela felt certain very
excellent resolutions crumbling. She suffered her brother to leave the
room without a word.

"Because," he explained, "I think you will find a different atmosphere
everywhere. There will be news in the evening papers."

"News?" she repeated eagerly. "You know I am always interested in
that."

"The reports of a German naval victory were not only exaggerated,"
Lutchester said calmly; "they were untrue. Our own official
announcement was clumsy and tactless, but you will find it amplified
and explained to-night."

Pamela listened with an interest which bordered upon excitement.

"You are sure?" she exclaimed.

"Absolutely," he replied. "My notification is official."

"So you think if we dined with you, the atmosphere to-night would be
different?" she observed, with a sudden attempt at the recondite.

Lutchester looked into her eyes without flinching. Pamela, to her
annoyance, was worsted in the momentary duel.

"We cannot always choose our atmosphere," he reminded her.

"Mademoiselle Sonia is perhaps connected with the regulation of the
munition supplies from America?"

"Mademoiselle Sonia," Lutchester asserted, "is an old friend of mine.
Apart from that, it was my business to talk to her."

"Your business?"

Lutchester assented with perfect gravity.

"Within a day or two," he said, "now, if you made a point of it, I
could explain a great deal."

Pamela threw herself into a chair almost irritably.

"You have the cult of being mysterious, Mr. Lutchester," she declared.
"To be quite frank with you, you seem to be the queerest mixture of any
man I ever knew."

"It is the fault of circumstances," he regretted, "if I am sometimes
compelled to present myself to you in an unfavourable light. Those
circumstances are passing. You will soon begin to value me at my true
worth."

"We had half promised," Pamela murmured, "to go out with Mr. Fischer
this evening."

"The more reason for my intervention," Lutchester observed. "Fischer is
not a fit person for you to associate with."

She laughed curiously.

"People who saw you at the roof-garden last night might say that you
were scarcely a judge," Pamela retorted.

"People who did not know the circumstances might have considered me
guilty of an indiscretion," Lutchester admitted, "but they would have
been entirely wrong. On the other hand, your friend Fischer is a
would-be murderer, a liar, and is at the present moment engaged in
intrigues which are a most immoral compound of duplicity and cunning."

"I shall begin to think," Pamela murmured, "that you don't like Mr.
Fischer!"

"I detest him heartily," Lutchester confessed.

"I find him singularly interesting," Pamela announced, sitting up in
her chair.

"I dare say you do," Lutchester replied. "Women are always bad judges
of our sex. All the same, you are not going to marry him."

"How do you know he wants to marry me?" Pamela demanded.

"Instinct!"

"And what do you mean by saying that I am not going to marry him?"

"Because," Lutchester announced, "you are going to marry some one
else."

Pamela rose to her feet. There was a little spot
of colour in her cheeks.

"Am I indeed!" she exclaimed. "And whom, pray?"

"That I will tell you at Washington," Lutchester promised.

"You know his name, then?"

"I know him intimately," was the cool reply. "What about our dinner
to-night?"

"We are going to dine with Mr. Fischer," Pamela decided.

"I really don't think so," Lutchester objected. "For one thing, Mr.
Fischer will probably have to attend the police court again later on."

"What about?"

"For having hired a famous murderer to try and get rid of me."
Lutchester explained suavely.

"Do you really believe that?" Pamela scoffed. "Why should he want to
get rid of you? What harm can you do him?"

"I am trying to find out," Lutchester replied grimly. "Still, since you
ask the question, the pocketbook which is on its way to Germany, and
which I picked up when Nikasti was taken ill--"

"Oh, yes, I know about that!" Pamela interrupted. "That is the one
thing that always sets me thinking about you. What did you do it for?
How did you know what it meant to me?"

"Divination, I imagine," Lutchester answered, "or perhaps I was
thinking what it might mean to Mr. Fischer."

She looked at him and her face was a study in mixed expressions. Her
forehead was a little knitted, her eyes almost strained in their desire
to read him; her lips were petulant.

"Dear me, what a puzzle you are!" she exclaimed. "All the same, I am
going to wait for Mr. Fischer. It doesn't matter whether one dines or
sups. I suppose he will get away from the police court sometime or
other."

"But anyway," he protested, "you've heard all that Mr. Fischer has to
say. Now I, on the other hand, haven't shown you my hand yet."

"Heard all that Mr. Fischer has to say?" she repeated.

"Certainly! Wasn't he here for several hours with you this afternoon?
Didn't he promise you an alliance with Germany against Japan, if you
could persuade certain people at Washington to change their tone and
attitude towards the export of munitions?"

"This," she declared, trying to keep a certain agitation from her tone,
"is mere bluff."

Lutchester was suddenly very serious indeed.

"Listen," he said, "I can prove to you, if you will, that it is not
bluff. I can prove to you that I really know something of what I am
talking about."

"There is nothing I should like better," she declared.

"To begin with then," Lutchester said, "the pocketbook which Nikasti is
supposed to have stolen from your room, the pocketbook of young Sandy
Graham, which Mr. Fischer has sent to Germany, does not contain the
formula of the new explosive, or any other formula that amounts to
anything."

"Just how do you know that?" she demanded.

"To continue," Lutchester said, playing with a little ornament upon the
mantelpiece, "you have an appointment--within half an hour, I
believe--with Mr. Paul Haskall, who is a specialist in explosives,
having an official position with the American Government."

She had ceased to struggle any longer with her surprise. She looked at
him fixedly but remained silent.

"It is your belief," he proceeded, "that you are going to hand over to
him the formula of which we were speaking."

"It is no belief," she replied. "It is certainty. I took it myself from
Graham's pocket."

Lutchester nodded.

"Good! Have you opened it?"

"I have," she declared. "It is without doubt, the formula."

"On the other hand, I am here to assure you that it is not," Lutchester
replied.

Her hand was tearing at the cushion by her side. She moistened her
lips. There was something about Lutchester hatefully convincing.

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "Is this a trick. You won't get it!
No one but Mr. Haskall will get that formula from me!"

Lutchester smiled.

"It will only puzzle him when he gets it! To tell you the truth, the
formula is rubbish."

"I don't believe you," she said firmly. "If you think you are going to
interfere with my handing it over to him, you are mistaken."

"I have no wish to do anything of the sort," Lutchester assured her.
"Make a bargain with me. Mr. Haskall will be here soon. Unfasten the
little package you are carrying somewhere about your person, hand him
the envelope and watch his face. If he tells you that what you have
offered him is a coherent and possible formula for an explosive, then
you can look upon me for ever afterwards as the poor, foolish person
you sometimes seem to consider me. If, on the other hand, he tells you
that it is rubbish, I shall expect you at the Ritz-Carlton at half-past
eight."

There was a ring at the bell. She rose to her feet.

"I accept," she declared. "That is Mr. Haskall. And, by the bye, Mr.
Lutchester, don't order too elaborate a dinner, for I am very much
afraid you will have to eat it all yourself. Now, au revoir," she
added, as the door was opened in obedience to her summons and a servant
stood prepared to show him out. "If we don't turn up to-night, you will
know the reason."

"I am very hopeful," Lutchester replied, as he turned away.




CHAPTER XXIX


At five-and-twenty minutes past eight that evening Lutchester, who was
waiting in the entrance hall of the Ritz-Carlton, became just a little
restless. At half-past, his absorption in an evening paper, over the
top of which he looked at every newcomer, was almost farcical. At
five-and-twenty to nine Pamela arrived. He advanced down the lounge to
meet her. Her face was inscrutable, her smile conventional. Yet she had
come! He looked over his shoulder towards the men's coat room.

"Your brother?"

"I sent Jim to his club," she said. "I want to have a confidential talk
with you, Mr. Lutchester."

"I am very flattered," he told her, with real earnestness.

She vanished for a few moments in the cloakroom, and reappeared, a
radiant vision in deep blue silk. Her hair was gathered in a coil at
the top of her head, and surmounted with an ornament of pearls.

"You are looking at my headdress," she remarked, as they walked into
the room. "It is the style you admire, is it not?"

He murmured something vague, but he knew that he was forgiven. They
were ushered to their places by a portly maitre d'hotel, and she
approved of his table. It was set almost in an alcove, and was
partially hidden from the other diners.

"Is this seclusion vanity or flattery?"

"As a matter of fact, it is rather a popular table," he told her. "We
have an excellent view of the room, and yet one can talk here without
being disturbed."

"To talk to you is exactly what I wish to do," she said, as they took
their places. "We commence, if you please, with a question. Mr. Fischer
thought that he had that formula and he hasn't. I could have sworn that
it was in my possession--and it isn't. Where is it?"

"I took it to the War Office before I left England," he told her
simply. "They will have the first few tons of the stuff ready next
month."

"You!" she cried, "But where did you get it?"

"I happened to be first, that's all," he explained. "You see, I had the
advantage of a little inside information. I could have exposed the
whole affair if I had thought it wise. I preferred, however, to let
matters take their course. Young Graham deserved all he got there, and
I made sure of being the first to go through his papers. I'm afraid I
must confess that I left a bogus formula for you."

"I had begun to suspect this," Pamela confessed. "You don't mind being
put into the witness box, do you?" she added, as she pushed aside the
menu with a little sigh of satisfaction. "How wonderfully you order an
American dinner!"

"I am so glad I have chosen what you like," he said, "and as to being
in the witness box--well, I am going to place myself in the
confessional, and that is very much the same thing, isn't it?"

"To begin at the beginning, then--about that destroyer?"

"My mission over here was really important," he admitted. "I couldn't
catch the _Lapland_, so the Admiralty sent me over."

"And your golf with Senator Hamblin? It wasn't altogether by accident
you met him down at Baltusrol, was it?"

"It was not," he confessed, "I had reason to suspect that certain
proposals from Berlin were to be put forward to the President either
through his or Senator Hastings' mediation. There were certain facts in
connection with them, which I desired to be the first to lay before the
authorities."

She looked around the room and recognised some of her friends. For some
reason or other she felt remarkably light-hearted.

"For a poor vanquished woman," she observed, turning back to
Lutchester, "I feel extraordinarily gay to-night. Tell me some more."

He bowed.

"Mademoiselle Sonia," he proceeded, "has been a friend of mine since
she sang in the cafes of Buda Pesth. I dined with her, however, because
it had come to my knowledge that she was behaving in a very foolish
manner."

Pamela nodded understandingly.

"She was the friend of Count Maurice Ziduski, wasn't she?"

"She is no longer," Lutchester replied. "She sailed for France this
morning without seeing him. She has remembered that she is a
Frenchwoman."

"It was you who reminded her!"

"Love so easily makes people forgetful," he said, "and I think that
Sonia was very fond of Maurice Ziduski. She is a thoughtless,
passionate woman, easily swayed through her affections, and she had no
idea of the evil she was doing."

"So that disposes of Sonia," Pamela reflected.

"Sonia was only an interlude," Lutchester declared. "She really doesn't
come into this affair at all. The one person who does come into it,
whom you and I must speak of, is Fischer."

"A most interesting man," Pamela sighed. "I really think his wife would
have a most exciting life."

"She would!" Lutchester agreed. "She'd probably be allowed to visit him
once every fourteen days in care of a warder."

"Spite!" Pamela exclaimed, with a suspicious little quiver at the
corner of her lips.

Lutchester shook his head.

"Fischer is too near the end of his rope for me to feel spiteful," he
said, "though I am quite prepared to grant that he may be capable of
considerable mischief yet. A man who has the sublime effrontery to
attempt to come to an agreement with two countries, each behind the
other's back, is a little more than Machiavellian, isn't he?"

"Is that true of Mr. Fischer?"

"Absolutely," Lutchester assured her. "He is over here for the purpose
of somehow or other making it known informally in Washington that
Germany would be willing to pledge herself to an alliance with America
against Japan, after the war, if America will alter her views as to the
export of munitions to the Allies."

"Well, that's a reasonable proposition, isn't it, from his point of
view?" Pamela remarked. "It may not be a very agreeable one from yours,
but it is certainly one which he has a right to make."

"Entirely," Lutchester agreed, "but where he goes wrong is that his
primary object in coming here was to meet Hie chief of the Japanese
Secret Service, to whom he has made a proposition of precisely similar
character."

Pamela set down her glass.

"You are not in earnest!"

"Absolutely."

"Nikasti?"

"Precisely! He came all the way from Japan to confer with Fischer.
Probably, if we knew the whole truth, those rooms at the Plaza Hotel,
and the social partnership of your brother and Fischer, were arranged
for no other reason than to provide a safe personality for Nikasti in
this country, and a safe place for him to talk things over with
Fischer."

"Mr. Fischer was paying nearly the whole of the expenses of the Plaza
suite," Pamela observed thoughtfully.

"Naturally," Lutchester replied. "Your brother's name was a good, safe
name to get behind. But to conclude with our friend Nikasti. He is
supposed to leave New York next Saturday, and to carry to the Emperor
of Japan an autograph letter from a nameless person, promising him, if
Japan will cease the export of munitions to Russia, the aid of Germany
in her impending campaign against America."

"An autograph letter, did you say?" Pamela almost gasped.

"An autograph letter," Lutchester repeated firmly. "Now don't you agree
with me that Fischer's game is just a little too daring?"

"It is preposterous!" she cried.

"I have a theory," Lutchester continued, "that Fischer was never
intended to use more than one of these letters. It was intended that he
should study the situation here, approach one side, and, if
unsuccessful, try the other. Fischer, however, conceived a more
magnificent idea. He seems to be trying both at the same time. It is
the sublime egotism of the Teutonic mind."

"It is monstrous!" Pamela exclaimed indignantly.

"It is almost as monstrous," Lutchester agreed, "as his daring to raise
his eyes to you, although, so far as you are concerned, I believe that
he is as honest as the man knows how to be."

"And why," she asked, "do you credit him with so much good faith?"

"Because," Lutchester replied, "if he had not been actuated by personal
motives, he would never have sought you out as an intermediary. There
are other sources open to him, by means of which he could make equally
sure of reaching the President's ear. His idea was to impress you. It
was foolish but natural."

Pamela was deep in thought. There was an angry spot of colour burning
in her cheek.

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lutchester," she persisted, "that this
afternoon, say, when with every appearance of earnestness he was
begging me to put these propositions before my uncle, he had really
made precisely similar overtures to Japan?"

"I give you my word that this is the truth," Lutchester assured her
solemnly.

She looked at him with something almost like wonder in her eyes.

"But you?" she exclaimed. "How do you know this? How can you be sure of
it?"

"I have seen the autograph letter which Nikasti has in his possession,"
he announced.

"You mean that Mr. Fischer showed it to you?" she exclaimed
incredulously.

Lutchester hesitated.

"There are methods," he said, "which those who fight in the dark places
for their country are forced sometimes to make use of. I have seen the
letter. I have half convinced those who represent Japan in this matter
of Fischer's duplicity. With your help I am hoping wholly to do so."

Pamela leaned for a moment back in her chair.

"Really," she declared, "I am beginning to have the feeling that I am
living almost too rapidly. Let us have a breathing spell. I wonder what
all these other people are talking about."

"Probably," he suggested, with a little glance around, "about
themselves. We will follow their example. Will you marry me, please,
Miss Van Teyl?"

"We haven't even come to the ice yet," she sighed, "and you pass from
high politics to flagrant personalities. Are you a sensationalist, Mr.
Lutchester?"

"Not in the least," he protested. "I simply asked you an extremely
important question quite calmly."

"It isn't a question that should be asked calmly," she objected.

"I have immense self-control," he told her, "but if you'd like me to
abandon it--"

"For heaven's sake, no!" she interrupted. "Tell me more about Mr.
Fischer."

"You won't forget to answer my little question later on, will you?" he
begged. "To proceed, then. I spent some little time this afternoon with
your chief of the police here, and I fancy that the person you speak of
is becoming a little too blatant even for a broad-minded country like
this. He belongs to an informal company of wealthy sympathisers with
Germany, who propose to start a campaign of destruction at all the
factories manufacturing munitions for the Allies. They have put
aside--I believe it is several million dollars, for purposes of
bribery. They don't seem to realise, as my friend pointed out to me
this afternoon, that the days for this sort of thing in New York have
passed. Some of them will be in prison before they know where they
are."

"Exactly why did you come to America?" she asked, a little abruptly.

"To meet Nikasti and to look after Fischer."

"Well, you seem to have done that pretty effectually!"

"Also," he went on calmly, "to keep an eye upon you."

"Professionally?"

"You ask me to give away too many secrets," he whispered, leaning
towards her.

She made a little grimace.

"Tell me some more about your little adventure in Fifth Avenue?" she
begged.

He smiled grimly.

"You wouldn't believe me," he reminded her, "but it really was one of
Fischer's little jokes. It very nearly came off, too. As a matter of
fact," he went on, "Fischer isn't really clever. He is too obstinate,
too convinced in his own mind that things must go the way he wants them
to, that Fate is the servant of his will. It's a sort of national
trait, you know, very much like the way we English bury our heads in
the sand when we hear unpleasant truths. The last thing Fischer wants
is advertisement, and yet he goes to some of his Fourteenth Street
friends and unearths a popular desperado to get rid of me. The fellow
happens most unexpectedly to fail, and now Fischer has to face a good
many awkward questions and a good deal of notoriety. No, I don't think
Fischer is really clever."

Pamela sighed.

"In that case, I suppose I shall have to say 'No' to him," she decided.
"After waiting all this time, I couldn't bear to be married to a fool."

"You won't be," he assured her cheerfully.

"More British arrogance," she murmured. "Now see what's going to happen
to us!"

A tall, elderly man, with smooth white hair plastered over his
forehead, very precisely dressed, and with a gait so careful as to be
almost mincing, was approaching their table. Pamela held out her hands.

"My dear uncle!" she exclaimed. "And I thought that you and aunt never
dined at restaurants!"

Mr. Hastings stood with his fingers resting lightly upon the table. He
glanced at Lutchester without apparent recognition.

"You remember Mr. Lutchester?" Pamela murmured.

Mr. Hastings' manner lacked the true American cordiality, but he
hastened to extend his hand.

"Of course!" he declared. "I was not fortunate enough, however, to see
much of you the other evening, Mr. Lutchester. We have several mutual
friends whom I should be glad to hear about."

"I shall pay my respects to Mrs. Hastings, if I may, very shortly,"
Lutchester promised.

"Are you with friends here, uncle?" Pamela inquired.

"We are the guests of Mr. Oscar Fischer," the Senator announced.

Pamela raised her eyebrows.

"So you know Mr. Fischer, uncle?"

"Naturally," Mr. Hastings replied, with some dignity. "Oscar Fischer is
one of the most important men in the State which I represent. He is a
man of great wealth and industry and immense influence."

Pamela made a little grimace. Her uncle noticed it and frowned.

"He has just been telling us of his voyage with you, Pamela. Perhaps,
if Mr. Lutchester can spare you," he went on, with a little bow across
the table, "you will come and take your coffee with us. Your aunt is
leaving for Washington, probably to-morrow, and wishes to arrange for
you to travel with her. Mr. Lutchester may also, perhaps, give us the
pleasure of his company for a few minutes," he added, after a slight
but obvious pause.

"Thank you," Pamela answered quickly, "I am Mr. Lutchester's guest this
evening. If you are still here, I shall love to come and speak to aunt
for a moment later on. If not, I will ring up to-morrow morning."

The bland, almost episcopal serenity of Senator Hastings' face was
somewhat disturbed. It was obvious that the situation displeased him.

"I think, Pamela," he said, "that you had better come and speak to your
aunt before you leave."

His bow to Lutchester was the bow of a politician to an adversary. He
made his way back in leisurely fashion to the table from which he had
come, exchanging a few words with many acquaintances. Pamela watched
him with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I am becoming so unpopular," she murmured. "I can read in my uncle's
tone that my aunt and he disapprove of our dining together here. And as
for Mr. Fischer. I'm afraid he'll break off our prospective alliance."

Lutchester smiled.

"Prospective is the only word to use," he observed. "By the bye, are
you particularly fond of your uncle?"

"Not riotously," she admitted. "He has been kind to me once or twice,
but he's rather a starchy old person."

"In that case," Lutchester decided, "we won't interfere."




CHAPTER XXX


Fischer had by no means the appearance of a discomfited man that
evening, when some time later Pamela and Lutchester approached the
little group of which he seemed, somehow, to have become the central
figure. It was a small party, but, in its way, a distinguished one.
Pamela's aunt was a member of an historic American family, and a woman
of great social position, not only in New York but in Washington
itself. Of the remaining guests, one was a financial magnate of
world-wide fame, and the other, Senator Joyce, a politician of such
eminence that his name was freely mentioned as a possible future
president. Mrs. Hastings greeted Pamela and her escort without
enthusiasm.

"My dear child," she exclaimed, "how extraordinary to find you here!"

"Is it?" Pamela observed indifferently. "You know Mr. Lutchester, don't
you, aunt?"

Mrs. Hastings remembered her late dinner guest, but her recognition was
icy and barely polite. She turned away at once and resumed her
conversation with Fischer. Lutchester was not introduced to either of
the other members of the party. He laid his hand on the back of an
empty chair and turned it round for Pamela, but she stopped him with a
word of thanks. Something had gone from her own naturally pleasant
tone. She held her hand higher, even, than her aunt's, as she turned a
little insistently towards her.

"So sorry, aunt," she announced, "but we are going now. Good night!"

Mrs. Hastings disapproved.

"We have seen nothing of you yet, Pamela," she said stiffly. "You had
better stay with us and we will drop you on our way home."

Pamela shook her head.

"I am coming with you to-morrow, you know," she reminded her aunt.
"To-night I am Mr. Lutchester's guest and he will see me home."

Mrs. Hastings drew her niece a little closer to her.

"Is this part of your European manners, Pamela?" she whispered, "that
you dine alone in a restaurant with an acquaintance? Let me tell you
frankly that I dislike the idea most heartily. My chaperonage is always
at your service, and any girl of your age in America would be delighted
to avail herself of it."

"It is very kind of you, aunt," Pamela replied, "but in a general way I
finished with chaperons long ago."

"Where is Jimmy?" Mrs. Hastings inquired.

"He was coming with us to-night," Pamela explained, "but I asked him
particularly to stay away. I have seen so little of Mr. Lutchester
since he arrived, and I want to talk to him."

The financial magnate awoke from a comatose inertia and suddenly
gripped Lutchester by the hand.

"Lutchester," he repeated to himself. "I thought I knew your face.
Stayed with your uncle down at Monte Carlo once. You came there for a
week."

Lutchester acknowledged his recollection of the fact and the two men
exchanged a few commonplace remarks. Mrs. Hastings took the opportunity
to try and induce Pamela to converse with Fischer.

"We have all been so interested to-night," she said, "in hearing what
Mr. Fischer has to say about the situation on the other side."

Pamela was primed for combat.

"Has Mr. Fischer been telling you fairy tales?" she laughed.

"Fairy tales?" her aunt repeated severely. "I don't understand."

Fischer's steel grey eyes flashed behind his spectacles.

"I'm afraid that Miss Van Teyl's prejudices," he observed bitterly,
"are very firmly fixed."

"Then she is no true American," Mrs. Hastings pronounced didactically.

"Oh, I can assure you that I am not prejudiced," Pamela declared,
"only, you see, I, too, have just arrived from the other side, and I
have been able to use my own eyes and judgment. If there is any
prejudice in the matter, why should it not come from Mr. Fischer? He
has the very good excuse of his German birth."

"Mr. Fischer is an American citizen," Mrs. Hastings reminded her niece,
"and personally, I think that the American of German birth is one of
the most loyal and long-suffering persons I know. I cannot say as much
for the English people who are living over here. And as to fairy
stories--"

Pamela intervened, turning towards Fischer with a little laugh.

"Oh, he can't even deny those! What about the great German victory in
the North Sea, Mr. Fischer? Do you happen to have seen the latest
telegrams?"

"Our first reports were perhaps a little too glowing," Mr. Fischer
acknowledged. "That, under the circumstances, is, I think, only
natural. But the facts remain that the invincible English and the
untried German fleets have met, to the advantage of the German."

Pamela shook her head.

"I cannot even allow that," she objected. "The advantage, if there was
any, rested on the other side. But I just want you to remember what we
were told in that first wonderful outpouring of fabricated news--that
the naval supremacy of England was gone for ever, that the freedom of
the seas was assured, that German merchant vessels were steaming home
from all directions! No, Mr. Fischer! Between ourselves, I think that
your cause needs a few fairy stories, and I look upon you as one of the
greatest experts in the world when it comes to concocting them."

Fischer, who had risen to his feet half way through Pamela's speech,
was obviously a little taken aback by her direct attack. Mrs. Hastings
took no pains to conceal her annoyance.

"For a young girl of your age, Pamela," she said sternly, "I consider
that you express your opinions far too freely. Your attitude, too, is
unjustifiable."

"Ah, well, you see, I am a little prejudiced against Mr. Fischer,"
Pamela laughed, turning towards him. "He happened to defeat one of my
pet schemes."

"But I am ready to further your dearest one," he reminded her, dropping
his voice, and leading her a little on one side. "What about our
alliance?"

"You scarcely need my aid," she observed, with a shrug of the
shoulders.

He remonstrated vigorously. There was a revived hopefulness in his
tone. Perhaps, after all, here was the secret of her displeasure with
him.

"You wonder, perhaps, to see me with your uncle. I give you my word
that it is a dinner of courtesy only. I give you my word that I have
not opened my lips on political matters. I have been waiting for your
answer."

"I have lost faith in you," she told him calmly. "I am not even certain
that you possess the authority you spoke of."

"If that is all," he replied eagerly, "you shall see it with your own
eyes. You are staying with your uncle and aunt in Washington, are you
not? I shall call upon you immediately I arrive, and bring it with me."

She nodded.

"Well, that remains a challenge, then, Mr. Fischer. And now, if you are
quite ready," she added, turning to Lutchester.... "Good-by,
everybody!"

"Aren't your ears burning?" Pamela asked, after Lutchester had handed
her into a taxicab and taken his place by her side. "I can absolutely
feel them talking about us."

"I seem to be most regrettably unpopular," Lutchester remarked.

"Even now I am puzzled about that," Pamela confessed, "but you see my
aunt considers herself the arbitress of what is right or wrong in
social matters, and she is exceedingly narrow-minded. In her eyes it is
no doubt a greater misdemeanour for me to have dined at the
Ritz-Carlton alone with you, than if I had conspired against the
Government."

"And this, I thought, was the land of freedom for your sex!"

"Ah, but my aunt is rather an exception," Pamela reminded him. "The one
thing I cannot understand, however, is that she should have allowed
herself to be seen dining with Mr. Oscar Fischer at the Ritz-Carlton. I
should have thought that would have been almost as heinous to her as my
own little slip from grace."

"Is your aunt by way of being interested in politics?" Lutchester
inquired.

"Not in a general way," Pamela replied, "but she is intensely
ambitious, and she'd give her soul if Uncle Theodore could get a
nomination for the Presidency."

"Perhaps she is taking up the German-American cause, then," Lutchester
suggested. "It is a possible platform, at any rate."

"I foresee a new party," Pamela murmured thoughtfully. "Now I come to
think of it, Mr. Elsworthy, the fat old gentleman who knew your uncle,
is very pro-German."

He leaned towards her.

"We have had enough politics," he insisted. "There is the other thing.
Couldn't I have my answer?"

She let him take her fingers. In the cool darkness through which they
were rushing her face seemed white, her head was a little averted. He
tried to draw her to him, but she was unyielding.

"Please not," she begged. "I like you--and I'm glad I like you," she
added, "but I don't feel certain about anything. Couldn't we be just
friends a little longer?"

"It must be as you say, but I am horribly in love with you," he
confessed. "That may sound rather a bald way of saying so, but it's the
truth, Pamela, dear."

His clasp upon her fingers was tightened. She turned towards him. Her
expression was serious but delightful.

"Well, let me tell you this much, at least," she confided. "I have
never before in my life been so glad to hear any one say so.... And
here we are at home, and there's Jimmy on the doorstep. What is it,
Jimmy," she asked, waving her hand.

He came down towards her in a state of great excitement.

"Say, we've had to open up the office again!" he exclaimed. "The
telegrams are rolling in now. That so-called German naval victory was a
fake. The Britishers came out right on top. You know you stand to net at
least half a million, Mr. Lutchester? The worst of it is I have another
client who's going to lose it."

Pamela shook her head at Lutchester.

"The possibility of increased responsibilities," he whispered. "A
married man needs something to fall back upon."




CHAPTER XXXI


The offices of Messrs. Neville, Brooks, and Van Teyl were the scene of
something like pandemonium. Van Teyl himself, bathed in perspiration,
rushed into his room for the twentieth time. He almost flung the
newspaper man who was waiting for him through the door.

"No, we don't know a darned thing," he declared. "We've no special
information. The only reason we're up to our neck in Anglo-French is
because we've two big clients dealing."

"It's just a few personal notes about those clients we'd like to
handle."

"Oh, get out as quick as you can!" Van Teyl snapped. "This isn't a
bucket shop or a pool room. The names of our clients concerns ourselves
only."

"What do you think Anglo-French are going to do, Mr. Van Teyl?"

"I can't tell," was the prompt answer, "but I can tell what's going to
happen if you don't clear out."

The newspaper man took a hurried leave. Van Teyl seized the telephone
receiver, only to put it down with a little shout of relief as the door
opened and Lutchester entered.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed. "Why, I've been ringing you up for an hour
and a half."

"Sorry," Lutchester replied, "I was down at the barber's the first time
you got through, and then I had some cables to send off."

"Look here," Van Teyl continued, gripping him by the shoulder, "is six
hundred and forty thousand dollars, or thereabouts, profit enough for
you on your Anglo-French?"

"It sounds adequate," Lutchester confessed, laying his hat and cane
carefully upon the table and drawing up an easy-chair. "How much is Mr.
Fischer going to lose?"

"God knows! If you allow me to sell at the present moment, you'll ease
the market, and he'll lose about what you make."

"And if I decide to hold my Anglo-French?"

"You'll have to provide us with about a couple of million dollars," Van
Teyl replied, "and I should think you would pretty well break Fischer
for a time. Frankly, he's an important client, and we don't want him
broken, even temporarily."

"What do you want me to do, then?"

"Give us authority to sell," Van Teyl begged. "Can't you hear them
yapping about in the office outside? They're round me all the time like
a pack of hounds. Honestly, if I don't sell some Anglo-French before
lunch-time to-day, they look like wrecking the office."

Lutchester knocked the end of a cigarette thoughtfully against the side
of his chair.

"All right," he decided, "I don't want you to suffer any inconvenience.
Besides, I am going to Washington this afternoon. You can keep on
selling as long as the market's steady. Directly it sags, hold off. If
necessary, even buy a few more. You understand me? Don't sell a single
block under to-day's price. Keep the market at that figure. It's an
easy job, because next week Anglo-French will go up again."

Van Teyl was moved to a rare flash of admiration.

"You're a cool hand, Lutchester," he declared, "considering you're not
a business man."

"Fischer's the man who'll need to keep cool," Lutchester remarked,
lighting his cigarette. "What about a little lunch?"

The stockbroker scarcely heard him. He had struck a bell, and the
office seemed suddenly filled with clerks. Van Teyl's words were
incoherent--a string of strange directions, punctuated by slang which
was, so far as Lutchester was concerned, unintelligible. The whole
place seemed to wake into a clamour of telephone bells, shouts, the
clanging and opening of the lift gates, and the hurried tramp of
footsteps in the corridors outside. Lutchester rose to his feet. He was
looking very comfortable and matter-of-fact in his grey tweed suit and
soft felt hat.

"Perhaps," he observed pleasantly, "I am out of place here. Drop me a
line and let me know how things are going to the Hotel Capitol at
Washington."

"That's all right," Van Teyl promised. "I'll get you on the
long-distance 'phone. I was coming myself with Pamela for a few days,
but this little deal of yours has set things buzzing.... Say, who's
that?"

The door opened, and Fischer paused upon the threshold. Certainly, of
all the people concerned, the two speculators themselves seemed the
least moved by the excitement they were causing. Fischer was dressed
with his usual spick-and-span neatness, and his appearance betrayed no
sign of flurry or excitement. He nodded grimly to Lutchester.

"My congratulations," he said. "You seem to have rigged the Press here
to some purpose."

Lutchester raised his eyebrows.

"I don't even know a newspaper man in New York," he declared.

The newcomer gave vent to a little gesture of derision.

"Then you've some very clever friends! You'd better make the most of
their offices. The German version of the naval battle will be confirmed
and amplified within twenty-four hours, and then your Anglo-French will
touch mud."

"If that is your idea," Lutchester remarked suavely, "why buy now? Why
not wait till next week? Come," he went on, "I will have a little
flutter with you, if you like, Fischer. I will bet you five thousand
dollars, and Van Teyl here shall hold the stakes, that a week hence
to-day Anglo-French stand higher than they do at this moment."

Fischer hesitated. Then he turned away.

"I am not a sportsman, Mr. Lutchester," he said.

Lutchester brushed away a little dust from his coat sleeve.

"No," he murmured, "I agree with you. Good morning!"

Lutchester walked out into the sun-baked streets, and with his absence
Fischer abandoned his almost unnatural calm. He strode up and down the
room, fuming with rage. At every fresh click of the tape machine, he
snatched at the printed slip eagerly and threw it away with an oath. No
one took any notice of him. Van Teyl rushed in and out, telephones
clanged, perspiring clerks dashed in with copies of contracts to add to
the small pile upon the desk. There came a quiet moment presently. Van
Teyl wiped the perspiration from his forehead and drank a tumblerful of
water.

"Fischer," he asked, "what made you go into this so big? You must have
known there was always the risk of your wireless report beating it up a
little too tall."

"It wasn't our report at all that I went by," Fischer confessed
gloomily. "It was the English Admiralty announcement that did it. Can
you conceive," he went on, striking the table with his fist, "any
nation at war, with a grain of common sense or an ounce of
self-respect, issuing a statement like that?--an apology for a defeat
which, damn it all, never happened! Say the thing was a drawn battle,
which is about what it really was. It didn't suit the Germans to fight
it to a finish. They'd everything to lose and little to gain. So in
effect they left the Britishers there and passed back behind their own
minefield. So far as regards reports, that was victory enough for any
one except those muddle-headed civilians at Whitehall. They deceived
the world with that infernal bulletin, and incidentally me. It was on
that statement I gave you my orders, not on ours."

"It's a damned unfortunate business!" Van Teyl sighed. "You're only
half way out yet, and it's cost you nearly three hundred thousand."

A dull spot of purple colour burned in Fischer's cheeks. His upper lip
was drawn in, his appearance for a moment was repulsive.

"It isn't the money I mind," he muttered. "It's Lutchester."

Van Teyl was discreetly silent. Fischer seemed to read his thoughts. He
leaned across the table.

"A wonderful fellow, your friend Lutchester," he sneered. "An Admirable
Crichton of finance and diplomacy and love-making, eh? But the end
isn't just yet. I promise you one thing, James Van Teyl. He isn't going
to marry your sister."

"I'd a damned sight sooner she married him than you!" Van Teyl blazed
out.

Fischer was taken aback. He had held for so long the upper hand with
this young man that for the moment he had forgotten that circumstances
were changed between them. Van Teyl rose to his feet. The bonds of the
last few months had snapped. He spoke like a free man.

"Look here, Fischer," he said, "you've had me practically in your power
for the best part of a year, but now I'm through with you. I'm out of
your debt, no thanks to you, and I'm going to keep out. I am working on
your business as hard as though you were my own brother, and I'll go on
doing it. I'll get you out of this mess as well as I can, and after
that you can take your damned business where you please."

"So that's it, is it?" Fischer scoffed. "A rich brother-in-law coming
along, eh? ... No, don't do that," stepping quickly backwards as Van
Teyl's fist shot out.

"Then keep my sister's name out of this conversation," Van Teyl
insisted. "If you are wise, you'll clear out altogether. They're at it
again."

Fischer, however, glanced at the clock and remained. At the next lull,
he hung down the tape and turned to his companion.

"Say, there's no use quarrelling, James," he declared. "I'm going to
leave you to it now. Guess I said a little more than I meant to, but I
tell you I hate that fellow Lutchester. I hate him just as though I
were the typical German and he were the typical Britisher, and there
was nothing but a sea of hate between us. Shake hands, Jim."

Van Teyl obeyed without enthusiasm. Fischer drew a chair to the table
and wrote out a cheque, which he passed across.

"I'll drop into the bank and let them know about this," he said. "You
can make up accounts and let me hear how the balance stands. I'll wipe
it out by return, whatever it is."

Fischer passed out of the offices a few minutes later, followed by many
curious eyes, and stepped into his automobile. A young man who had
brushed against him pushed a note into his hand. Fischer opened it as
his car swung slowly through the traffic:--

Guards at all Connecticut factories doubled. O'Hagan caught last night
in precincts of small arms factory. Was taken alive, disobeying orders.
Be careful.

Fischer tore the note into small pieces. His face was grimmer than ever
as he leaned back amongst the cushions. There were evil things awaiting
him outside Wall Street.




CHAPTER XXXII


Lutchester breathed the air of Washington and felt almost homesick. The
stateliness of the city, its sedate and quiescent air after the turmoil
of New York, impressed him profoundly. Everywhere its diplomatic
associations made themselves felt. Congress was in session, and the
faces of the men whom he met continually in the hotels and restaurants
seemed to him some index of the world power which flung its
far-reaching arms from beneath the Capitol dome.

One afternoon a few days after his arrival he called at the Hastings'
house, a great Colonial mansion within a stone's throw of his own
headquarters. The mention of his name, however, seemed to chill all the
hospitality out of the smiling face of the southern butler who answered
his ring. Miss Van Teyl was out, and from the man's manner it was
obvious that Miss Van Teyl would continue to be out for a very long
time. Lutchester retraced his steps to the British Embassy, where he
had spent most of the morning, and made his way to the sitting-room of
one of the secretaries. The Honourable Philip Downing, who was eagerly
waiting for a cable recalling him to take up a promised commission,
welcomed him heartily.

"Things are slack here to-day, old fellow. Let's go out to the Country
Club and have a few sets of tennis or a game of golf, whichever you
prefer," he suggested. "I've done my little lot till the evening."

"Show on to-night, isn't there?" Lutchester inquired.

"Just a reception. You're going to put in an appearance?"

"I fancy so. Have you got your list of guests handy?"

The young man dived into a drawer and produced a few typewritten
sheets.

"Alphabetical list of acceptances, with here and there a few personal
notes," he pointed out, with an air of self-satisfaction. "I go through
this list with the chief while he's changing for dinner."

Lutchester ran his forefinger down the list.

"Senator Theodore and Mrs. Hastings," he quoted. "By the bye, they have
a niece staying with them."

"Want a card for her?" the Honourable Philip inquired with a grin.

"I should like it sent off this moment," Lutchester replied.

The young man took a square, gilt-edged card from a drawer by his side,
filled it out at Lutchester's dictation, rang the bell, and dispatched
it by special messenger.

"I've got my little buzzer outside," he observed. "We'll make tracks
for the club, if you're ready."

The two men played several sets of tennis and afterwards lounged in two
wicker chairs, underneath a gigantic plane tree in a corner of the
lawn. The place was crowded, and Philip Downing was an excellent
showman.

"Washington," he explained, "has never been so divided into opposite
camps, and this is almost the only common meeting ground. Every one has
to come here, of course. The German Staff play tennis and the Austrians
all go in for polo. Here comes Ziduski. He's most fearfully popular
with the ladies here--does us a lot of harm, they say. He's a great
sticker for etiquette. He used to nod and call me Phil. Now you watch.
He'll bow from his waist, as though he had corsets on. As a matter of
fact, he's a good sportsman."

Count Ziduski's bow was stiff enough but his intention was obvious. He
stopped before the two men, exchanged a somewhat stilted greeting with
Philip Downing, and turned to Lutchester.

"I believe," he said, "that I have the honour of addressing Mr.
Lutchester?"

Lutchester rose to his feet.

"That is my name," he admitted.

"We have met in Rome, I think, and in Paris," the Count reminded him.
"If I might beg for the favour of a few moments' conversation with
you."

The two men strolled away together. The Count plunged at once into the
middle of things.

"It is you, sir, I believe, whom I have to thank for the abrupt
departure of Mademoiselle Sonia from New York?"

"Quite true," Lutchester admitted.

"Under different circumstances," the Count proceeded, "I might regard
such interference in my affairs in a different manner. Here, of course,
that is impossible. I speak to you out of regard for the lady in
question. You appear in some mysterious manner to have discovered the
fact that she was in the habit of bringing entirely unimportant and
non-political messages from dear friends in France."

"Mademoiselle Sonia," Lutchester said calmly, "had for a brief space of
time forgotten herself. She was engaged in carrying out espionage work
on your behalf. I believe I may say that she will do so no more."

The Count was a man of medium height, thin, with complexion absolutely
colourless, and deep-set, tired eyes. At this moment, however, he
seemed endowed with the spirit of a new virility. The cane which he
grasped might have been a dagger. His smooth tones nursed a threat.

"Mr. Lutchester," he declared, "if harm should come to her through your
information, I swear to God that you shall pay!"

Lutchester's manner was mild and unprovocative.

"Count," he replied, "we make no war upon women. Sonia has repented,
and the knowledge which I have of her misdeeds will be shared by no
one. She has gone back to her country to work for the Red Cross there.
So far as I am concerned, that is the end."

The two men walked a few steps further in unbroken silence. Then the
Count raised his hat.

"Mr. Lutchester," he said, "yours is the reply of an honourable enemy.
I might have trusted you, but Sonia is half of my life. I offer you my
thanks."

He strolled away, and Lutchester rejoined his young friend.

"The lion and the lamb seem to have parted safely!" the latter
exclaimed. "Now sit by my side and I will show you interesting things.
Those four irreproachable young men over there in tennis flannels are
all from the German Embassy. The two elder ones behind are Austrians.
All those women are the wives of Senators who sympathise with Germany.
Their husbands look like it, don't they? To-day they have an addition
to their ranks--the thin, elderly man there, whose clothes were
evidently made in London. That's Senator Hastings. He is a personal
friend of the President. Jove, what a beautiful girl with Mrs.
Hastings!"

"That," Lutchester told him, "is the young lady to whom you have just
sent a card of invitation for to-night."

"Then here's hoping that she comes," Philip Downing observed, finishing
his glass of mint julep. "Is she a pal of yours?"

"Yes, I know her," Lutchester admitted.

"Let's go and butt in, then," Downing suggested. "I love breaking up
these little gatherings. You'll see them all stiffen when we come near.
I hope they haven't got hold of Hastings, though."

The two men rose to their feet and crossed the lawn. Fischer, who had
suddenly appeared in the background, whispered something in Mrs.
Hastings' ear. She swung around to Pamela, a second too late. Pamela,
with a word of excuse to the young man with whom she was talking,
stepped away from the circle and held out her hand to Lutchester.

"So you have really come to Washington!" she exclaimed.

"As a rescuer," Lutchester replied. "I feel that I have a mission. We
cannot afford to lose your sympathies. May I introduce Philip Downing?"

Pamela shook hands with the young man and took her place between them.

"I've been envying you your seat under the tree," she said. "Couldn't
we go there for a few moments?"

Mrs. Hastings detached herself and approached them. She received Philip
Downing's bow cordially, and she was almost civil to Lutchester.

"I can't have my niece taken away," she protested. "We are just going
in to tea, Pamela."

Pamela shook her head.

"I am going to sit under that tree with Mr. Lutchester and Mr.
Downing," she declared. "Tea doesn't attract me in the least, and that
tree does."

Mrs. Hastings accepted defeat with a somewhat cynical gracefulness. She
closed her lorgnette with a little snap.

"You leave us all desolated, my dear Pamela," she said. "You remind me
of what your poor dear father used to say--'Almost any one could live
with Pamela if she always had her own way.'"

Pamela laughed as she strolled across the lawn.

"Aren't one's relatives trying!" she murmured.




CHAPTER XXXIII


Philip Downing very soon justified the profession to which he belonged
by strolling off with some excuse about paying his respects to some
acquaintances. Pamela and Lutchester immediately dropped the somewhat
frivolous tone of their conversation.

"You know that things are moving with our friend Fischer?" she began.

"I gathered so," Lutchester assented.

"His scheme is growing into shape," she went on. "You know what
wonderful people his friends are for organising. Well, they are going
to start a society all through the States and nominate for its
president--Uncle Theodore."

"Will they have any show at all?" Lutchester asked curiously.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Who can tell? The German-Americans are very powerful indeed all
through the West, and then the pacifists will join them. You see, I
believe that although the soul of the country is with the Allies,
England is the most tactless country in the world. She is always giving
little pinpricks to the Government over here, either about maritime law
or one thing or another. Then all those articles in the papers about
America being too proud to fight, the sneering tone of some, even, of
the leading reviews, did a lot of harm. Uncle Theodore is going to
stand for what they call the true neutrality. That is to say, no
munitions, no help for either side."

"Well, I don't know anything about American politics," Lutchester
confessed, "but I shouldn't think he'd have an earthly chance."

"Money is immensely powerful," she went on reflectively, "and many of
the great money interests of the country are controlled by
German-Americans. Mr. Fischer has almost thrown me over politically,
but Uncle Theodore is crazy about the idea of a German pledge to
protect America against Japan. That is going to be the great argument
which he will keep up his sleeve until after the nomination."

"Fischer's trump card," Lutchester observed. "He hasn't shown you a
certain autograph letter yet, I suppose?"

She shook her head.

"He may have shown it to Uncle Theodore. I'm afraid he doesn't mean to
approach me again. He seems to have completely changed his attitude
towards me since the night he saw us at the Ritz-Carlton dining
together. He was going to show me the letter the first day after his
arrival in Washington. Instead of that, he has been in the house for
hours at a time without making the slightest attempt to see me."

"Faithless fellow!" Lutchester murmured. "Nothing like an Englishman,
after all, for absolute fidelity."

"Do you really think so?" Pamela inquired anxiously. "Do you think I
should be safe in trusting my heart and future to an Englishman?"

"To one particular Englishman, yes!" was the firm reply. "I was rather
hoping you might have made up your mind."

"Too many things to think about," she laughed. "How long are you going
to stay in Washington?"

"A few hours or days or weeks--until I have finished the work that
brought me here."

"And what exactly is that?"

"You ask me lightly," he replied, "but, if you are willing, I have
decided to take you into my confidence. Our friend Nikasti will be here
to-morrow. He was to have sailed for Japan yesterday, but he has
postponed his voyage for a few days. Do you know much about the
Japanese, Miss Pamela?"

"Very little," she acknowledged.

"Well, I will tell you one thing. They are not very good at forgiving.
There was only one way I could deal with Nikasti in New York, and it
was a brutal way. I have seen him twice since. He wouldn't look me in
the eyes. I know what that means. He hates me. In a sense I don't
believe he would allow that to interfere in any way with his mission.
In another sense it would. The Allies, above all things, have need of
Japan. We want Japan and America to be friends. We don't want Germany
butting in between the two. Baron Yung is a very clever man, but he is
even more impenetrable than his countrymen generally are. Our people
here admit that they find it difficult to progress with him very far.
They believe that secretly he is in sympathy with Nikasti's reports--
but you don't know about those, I suppose?"

"I don't think I do," she admitted.

"Nikasti was sent to England some years ago to report upon us as a
country. Japan at that time was meditating an alliance with one of the
great European Powers. Obviously it must be Germany or England. Nikasti
travelled all through England, studied our social life, measured our
weaknesses; did the same through Germany, returned to Japan, and gave
his vote in favour of Germany. I have even seen a copy of his report.
He laid great stress upon the absolute devotion to sport of our young
men, and the entire absence of any patriotic sentiment or any means of
national defence. Well, as you know, for various reasons his counsels
were over-ridden, and Japan chose the British alliance. That was
entirely the fault of imperfect German diplomacy. At a time like this,
though, I cannot help thinking that some elements of his former
distrust still remain in Nikasti's mind, and I have an idea that Baron
Yung is, to a certain extent, a sympathiser. I've got to get at the
bottom of this before I leave the States. If I need your help, will you
give it me?"

"If I can," she promised.

They saw Mrs. Hastings' figure on the terrace, waving, and Pamela rose
reluctantly to her feet.

"I don't suppose," Lutchester continued, as they strolled across the
lawn, "that you have very much influence with your uncle, or that he
would listen very much to anything that you have to say, but if he is
really in earnest about this thing, he is going to play a terribly
dangerous game. As things are at present, he has a very pleasant and
responsible position as the supporter and friend of very able men. With
regard to this new movement, he may find the whole ground crumble away
beneath his feet. Fischer is playing the game of a madman. It isn't
only political defeat that might come to him, but disgrace--even
dishonour."

"You frighten me," Pamela confessed gravely.

Lutchester sighed.

"Your uncle," he went on, "is one of those thoroughly conceited,
egotistical men who will probably listen to no one. You see, I have
found out a little about him already. But they tell me that her social
position means a great deal to your aunt. Neither her birth nor her
friends could save her if Fischer drags your uncle to his chariot
wheels."

"Do you think, perhaps, that you underestimate Mr. Fischer's position
over here?" she asked thoughtfully.

"I don't think I do," he replied, "but here is something which you have
scarcely appreciated. Fischer has had the effrontery to link himself up
with a little crowd of Germans all through the States, who are making
organised attempts to destroy the factories where ammunitions are being
made for the Allies. That sort of thing, you know, would bring any one,
however, distantly connected with it, to Sing Sing.... One moment," he
added quickly, as Mrs. Hastings stepped forward to meet them; "the
reception at the British Embassy to-night?"

"The others are going," she said. "My aunt didn't feel she was
sufficiently--"

"We sent you a card round especially this afternoon," Lutchester
interrupted. "You'll come?"

"How nice of you! Of course I will," she promised.




CHAPTER XXXIV


"Small affair, this," Downing observed, as he piloted Lutchester
through the stately reception rooms of the Embassy. "You see, we are
all living a sort of touchy life here, nowadays. We try to be civil to
any of the German or Austrian lot when we meet, but of course they
don't come to our functions. And every now and then some of those
plaguey neutrals get the needle and they don't come, so we never know
quite where we are, Guadopolis has been avoiding us lately, and I hear
he was seen out at the Lakewood Country Club with Count Reszka, the
Rumanian Minister, a few days ago. Gave the Chief quite a little
flurry, that did."

"There's an idea over in London," Lutchester remarked, "that a good
deal of the war is being shaped in Washington nowadays."

"That is the Chief's notion," Downing assented. "I know he's pining to
talk to you, so we'll go and do the dutiful."

Lutchester was welcomed as an old friend by both the Ambassador and his
wife. The former drew him to a divan from which he could watch the
entrance to the rooms, and sat by his side.

"I am glad they sent you out, Lutchester," he said earnestly. "If ever
a country needed watching by a man with intelligence and experience,
this one does to-day."

"Do you happen to know that fellow Oscar Fischer?" Lutchester asked.

"I do, and I consider him one of the most dangerous people in the
States for us," the Ambassador declared. "He has a great following,
huge wealth, and, although he is not a man of culture, he doesn't go
about his job in that bull-headed way that most of them do."

"He's trying things on with Japan," Lutchester observed. "I think I
shall manage to checkmate him there all right. But there's another
scheme afloat that I don't follow so closely. You know Senator
Hastings, I suppose?"

The Ambassador nodded.

"Senator Theodore Hastings," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, he's
rather a dark horse. He is supposed to be the President's bosom friend,
but I hear whispers that he'd give his soul for a nomination, adopt any
cause or fight any one's battle."

"That's my own idea of him," Lutchester replied, "and I think you will
find him in the field with a pretty definite platform before long."

"You think he's mixed up with Fischer?" the Ambassador inquired.

"I'm sure he is," Lutchester assented. "Not only that, but they have
something up their sleeve. I think I can guess what it is, but I'm not
sure. How have things seemed to you here lately?"

"To tell you the truth, I haven't liked the look of them," the
Ambassador confided. "There's something afoot, and I can't be sure what
it is. Look at the crowd to-night. Of course, all the Americans are
here, but the diplomatic attendance has never been so thin. The
Rumanian Minister and his wife, the Italian, the Spanish, and the
Swedish representatives are all absent. I have just heard, too, that
Baron von Schwerin is giving a dinner-party."

Lutchester looked thoughtfully at the little stream of people. The
Ambassador left him for a few moments to welcome some late comers. He
returned presently and resumed his seat by Lutchester's side.

"Of course," he continued, lowering his voice, "all formal
communications between us and the enemy Embassies have ceased, but it
has come to be an understood thing, to avoid embarrassments to our
mutual friends, that we do not hold functions on the same day. I heard
that Von Schwerin was giving this dinner-party, so I sent round this
morning to inquire. The reply was that it was entirely a private one.
One of our youngsters brought us in a list of the guests a short time
ago. I see Hastings is one of them, and Fischer, and Rumania and Greece
will be represented. Now Hastings was to have been here, and as a rule
the neutrals are very punctilious."

"I suppose the way that naval affair was represented didn't do us any
good," Lutchester observed.

"It did us harm, without a doubt," was the lugubrious admission.
"Still, fortunately, these people over here are clever enough to
understand our idiosyncrasies. I honestly think we'd rather whine about
a defeat than glory in a victory."

"Diplomatically, too," Lutchester remarked thoughtfully, "I should have
said that things seemed all right here. The President comes in for a
great deal of abuse in some countries. Personally, I think he has been
wonderful."

The Ambassador nodded.

"You and I both know, Lutchester," he said, "that the last thing we
want is to find America dragged into this war. Such a happening would
be nothing more nor less than a catastrophe in itself, to say nothing
of the internal dissensions here. On the other hand, as things are now,
Washington is becoming a perfect arena for diplomatic chicanery, and I
have just an instinct--I can't define it in any way--which leads me to
believe that some fresh trouble has started within the last twenty-four
hours."

Lady Ridlingshawe motioned to her husband with her fan, and he rose at
once to his feet.

"I must leave you to look after yourself for a time, Lutchester," he
concluded. "You'll find plenty of people here you know. Don't go until
you've seen me again."

Lutchester wandered off in search of Pamela. He found her with Mrs.
Hastings, surrounded by a little crowd of acquaintances. Pamela waved
her fan, and they made way for him.

"Mr. Lutchester, I have been looking everywhere for you!" she
exclaimed. "What a secretive person you are! Why couldn't you tell me
that Lady Ridlingshawe was your cousin? I want you to take me to her,
please, I met her sister out in Nice."

She laid her fingers upon his arm, and they passed out of the little
circle.

"All bluff, of course," she murmured. "Find the quietest place you can.
I want to talk to you."

They wandered out on to a balcony where some of the younger people were
taking ices. She leaned over the wooden rail.

"Listen," she said, "I adore this atmosphere, and I am perfectly
certain there is something going on--something exciting, I mean. You
know that the Baron von Schwerin has a dinner-party?"

"I know that," he assented.

"Uncle Theodore is going with Mr. Fischer. He was invited at the last
moment, and I understand that his presence was specially requested."

Lutchester stood for a short time in an absorbed and sombre silence. In
the deep blue twilight his face seemed to have fallen into sterner
lines. Without a doubt he was disturbed. Pamela looked at him
anxiously.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Nothing definite, only for the last few hours I have felt that things
here are reaching a crisis. There is something going on around us,
something which seems to fill Fischer and his friends with confidence,
something which I don't quite understand, and which it is my business
to understand. That is really what is worrying me."

She nodded sympathetically and glanced around for a moment.

"Let me tell you something," she whispered. "This evening my uncle came
into my room just before dinner. There is a little safe built in the
wall for jewellery. He begged for the loan of it. His library safe, he
said, was out of order. I couldn't see what he put in, but when he had
closed the door he stood looking at it for a moment curiously. I made
some jesting remark about its being a treasure chest, but he answered
me seriously. 'You are going to sleep to-night, Pamela,' he said,
'within a few yards of a dozen or so of written words which will change
the world's history.'"

Lutchester was listening intently. There was a prolonged pause.

"Well?" he asked, at last.

She glanced at the little Yale key which hung from her bracelet.

"Nothing! I was just wondering how I should be able to sleep through
the night without opening the safe."

"But surely your uncle didn't give you the key!"

She shook her head.

"I don't suppose he knows I have such a thing," she replied. "He has a
master-key himself to all the safes, which he used. This is one the
housekeeper gave me as soon as I arrived."

Lutchester looked out into the darkness.

"Tell me," he inquired, "is that your house--the next one to this?"

"That's the old Hastings' house," she assented. "They are all family
mansions along here."

"It looks an easy place to burgle," he remarked.

She laughed quietly.

"I should think it would be," she admitted. "There are any quantity of
downstair windows. We don't have burglaries in Washington, though
--certainly not this side of the city."

A little bevy of young people had found their way into the gardens.
Lutchester waited until they had passed out of earshot before he spoke
again.

"I have reason to believe," he continued, "that in the course of their
negotiations Fischer has deposited with your uncle a certain autograph
letter, of which we have already spoken, making definite proposals to
America if she will change her attitude on the neutrality question."

"The written words," Pamela murmured.

Lutchester's hand suddenly closed upon her wrist. She was surprised to
find his fingers so cold, yet marvellously tenacious.

"You are going to lose that key and I am going to find it," he said,
quietly. "I am sorry--but you must."

"I am going to do nothing of the sort," Pamela objected.

His fingers remained like a cold vice upon her wrist. She made no
effort to draw it away.

"Listen," he said; "do you believe that the Hastings-cum-Fischer party
is going to be the best thing that could happen for America?"

"I certainly do not," she admitted.

"Then do as I beg. Let me take that key from your bracelet. You shall
have no other responsibility."

"And what are you going to do with it?"

"You must leave that to me," he answered. "I will tell you as much as I
can. I stopped Nikasti sailing for Japan, but I made a mortal enemy of
him at the same time. He has come to Washington to consult with his
Ambassador. They are together tonight. It is my mission to convince
them of Germany's duplicity."

"I see.... And you think that these written words--?"

"Give the key to me," he begged, "and ask no questions."

She shook her head.

"I should object most strongly to nocturnal disturbers of my slumbers!"

It seemed to her that his frame had become tenser, his tone harder. The
grip of his fingers was still upon her wrist.

"Even your objection," he said, "might not relieve you of the
possibility of their advent."

"Don't be silly," she answered, "and, above all, don't try to threaten
me. If you want my help--"

She looked steadfastly across at the looming outline of the Hastings'
house.

"I do want your help," he assured her.

"How long should you require the letter for?"

"One hour," he replied.

She led him down some steps on to the smooth lawns which encircled the
house. They passed in and out of some gigantic shrubs until at last
they came to a paling. She felt along it for a few yards.

"There is a gate there," she told him. "Can you do anything with it?"

It was fastened by an old lock. He lifted it off its hinges, and they
both passed through.

"Keep behind the shrubs as much as you can," she whispered. "There is a
way into the house from the verandah here."

They reached at last the shadow of the building. She paused.

"Wait here for me," she continued. "I would rather enter the house
without being seen, if I can, but it doesn't really matter. I can make
some excuse for coming back. Don't move from where you are."

She glided away from him and disappeared. Lutchester waited, standing
well back in the shadow of the shrubs. From the Embassy came all the
time the sound of music, occasionally even the murmur of voices; from
the dark house in front of him, nothing. Suddenly he heard what seemed
to be the opening of a window, and then soft footsteps. Pamela appeared
round the corner of the building, a white, spectral figure against that
background of deep blue darkness. She came on tiptoe, running down the
steps and holding her skirts with both hands.

"Not a soul has seen me," she whispered. "Take this quickly."

She thrust an envelope into his hands, and something hard with it.

"That's Uncle Theodore's seal," she explained. "He sealed up the
envelope when he put it in there. Now come back quickly to the Embassy.
You must please hurry with what you want to do. If I have left when you
return, you must come back to exactly this place. That window"--she
pointed upwards--"will be wide open. You must throw a pine cone or a
pebble through it. I shall be waiting."

"I understand," he assured her.

They retraced their steps. Once more they drew near to the Embassy. The
night had grown warmer and more windows had been opened. They reached
the verandah. She touched his hand for a moment.

"Well," she said, "I don't know whether I have been wise or not. Try
and be back in less than an hour, if you can. I am going in alone."

She left him, and Lutchester, after a few brief words with the
Ambassador, hurried away to his task. In twenty minutes he stood before
a tall, grey-stone building, a few blocks away, was admitted by a
Japanese butler, and conducted, after some hesitation, into a large
room at the back of the house. An elderly man, dressed for the evening,
with the lapel of his coat covered with orders, was awaiting him.

"I am a stranger to you, Baron," Lutchester began.

"That does not matter," was the grave reply. "Ten minutes ago I had an
urgent telephone call from our mutual friend. His Excellency told me
that he was sending a special messenger, and begged me to give you a
few minutes. I have left a conference of some importance, and I am
here."

"A few minutes will be enough," Lutchester promised. "I am engaged by
the English Government upon Secret Service work. I came to America,
following a man named Fischer. You have heard of him?"

"I have heard of him," the Ambassador acknowledged.

"In New York," Lutchester continued, "he met one of your countrymen,
Prince Nikasti, a man, I may add," Lutchester went on, "for whom I have
the highest respect and esteem, although quite openly, years ago, he
pronounced himself unfavourably disposed towards my country. The object
of Fischer's meeting with Prince Nikasti was to convey to him certain
definite proposals on behalf of the German Government. They wish for a
rapprochement with your country. They offer certain terms, confirmation
of which Fischer brought with him in an autograph letter."

There was a moment's silence. Not a word came from the man who seemed
to have learnt the gift of sitting with absolute immovability. Even his
eyes did not blink. He sat and waited.

"The proposals made to you are plausible and deserving of
consideration," Lutchester proceeded. "Do not think that there exists
in my mind, or would exist in the mind of any Englishman knowing of
them, any feeling of resentment that these proposals should have been
received by you for consideration. Nothing in this world counts to
those who follow the arts of diplomacy, save the simple welfare of the
people whom he represents. It is therefore the duty of every patriot to
examine carefully all proposals made to him likely to militate to the
advantage of his own people. You have a letter, offering you certain
terms to withdraw from your present alliances. Here is a letter from
the same source, in the same handwriting, written to America. Break the
seal yourself. It was brought to this country by Fischer, in the same
dispatch box as yours, to be handed to some responsible person in the
American Government. It was handed to Senator Theodore Hastings. It is
to form part of his platform on the day when his nomination as
President is announced. It must be back in his safe within
three-quarters of an hour. Break the seal and read it."

The Japanese held out his hand, broke the seal of the envelope, and
read. His face remained immovable. When he had finished he looked up at
his visitor.

"I am permitted to take a copy?" he asked.

"Certainly!"

He touched a bell, spoke down a mouthpiece, and with almost necromantic
swiftness two young men were in the room. A camera was dragged out, a
little flash of light shot up to the ceiling, and the attaches vanished
as quickly as they had come. The Ambassador replaced the document in
its envelope, handed a stick of sealing-wax and a candle to Lutchester,
who leaned over and resealed the envelope.

"The negative?" he enquired.

"Will be kept under lock and key," the Ambassador promised. "It will
pass into the archives of Japanese history. In future we shall know."

Once more he touched a bell. The door was opened. Lutchester found
himself escorted into the street. He was back at the Embassy in time to
meet a little stream of departing guests. Lady Ridlingshawe patted him
on the shoulder with her fan.

"Deserter!" she exclaimed, reproachfully, "Wherever have you been
hiding?"

Lutchester made some light reply and passed on. He made his way out
into the gardens. The darkness now was a little more sombre, and he had
to grope his way to the palings. Soon he stood before the dark outline
of the adjoining house. In the window towards which he was making his
way a single candle in a silver candlestick was burning. He paused
underneath and listened. Then he took a pine cone which he had picked
up on his way and threw it through the open window. The candle was
withdrawn. A shadowy form leaned out.

"I'm quite alone," she assured him softly. "Can you throw it in?"

He nodded.

"I think so."

His first effort was successful. The seal followed, wrapped up in his
handkerchief. A moment or two later he saw Pamela's face at the window.

"Good night!" she whispered. "Quickly, please. There is still some one
about downstairs."

The light was extinguished. Lutchester made his way cautiously back,
replaced the gate upon its hinges and reached the shelter of the Embassy,
denuded now of guests. He found Downing in the smoking-room.

"Can I get a whisky and soda?" Lutchester asked, in response to the
latter's vociferous greeting.

"Call it a highball," was the prompt reply, "and you can have as many
as you like. Have you earned it?" he added, a little curiously.

"I almost believe that I have," Lutchester assented.




CHAPTER XXXV


Mr. Oscar Fischer and his friend, Senator Theodore Hastings, stood side
by side, a week later, in the bar of one of the most fashionable of New
York hotels. They were passing away the few minutes before Pamela and
her aunt would be ready to join them in the dining room above.

"Very little news, I fancy," Hastings remarked, glancing at the tape
which was passing through his companion's fingers.

"Nothing--of any importance," Fischer replied. "Nothing."

The older man glanced searchingly at his companion, the change in whose
tone was ominous. Fischer was standing with the tape in his hand, his
eyes glued upon a certain paragraph. The Senator took out his
eyeglasses and looked over his friend's shoulder.

"What's this?" he demanded. "Eh?"

Fischer was fighting a great battle and fighting it well.

"Something wrong, apparently, with Frank Roughton," he observed; "an
old college friend of mine. They made him Governor of----only last
year."

Hastings read the item thoughtfully.

Governor Roughton this morning tendered his resignation as Governor of
the State of----. We understand that it was at once accepted. Numerous
arrests have taken place with reference to the great explosion at the
Bembridge powder factory.

"Looks rather fishy, that," Hastings observed thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry for Roughton," Fischer declared. "He was a perfectly
straight man, and I am sure he has done his best."

"Great friend of yours?" the other asked curiously.

"We were intimately acquainted," was the brief answer.

The two men finished their cocktails in silence. On their way upstairs
the Senator took his companion's arm.

"Fischer," he said, "you'll forgive me if I put a certain matter to you
plainly?"

"Naturally!"

"Within the last few days," Hastings proceeded, "there have been seven
explosions or fires at various factories throughout the States. It is a
somewhat significant circumstance," he added, after a slight pause,
"that every one of these misfortunes has occurred at a factory where
munitions of some sort for the Allies have been in process of
manufacture. Shrewd men have naturally come to the conclusion that
there is some organisation at work."

"I should doubt it," Fischer replied. "You must remember that there is
always a great risk of disasters in factories where explosives are
being handled. It is a new thing to many of the manufacturers here,
and it is obvious that they are not making use of all the necessary
precautions."

"I see," Hastings observed, reflectively. "So that is how you would
explain this epidemic of disasters, eh?"

"Certainly!"

"At the same time, Fischer, to set my mind entirely at rest," Hastings
continued, "I should like your assurance that you have nothing whatever
to do with any organisation, should there be such a thing, including in
its object the destruction of American property."

"I will do more than answer your question in the direct negative," was
the firm reply. "I will assure you that no such organisation exists."

"I am relieved to hear it," Hastings confessed. "This resignation of
Roughton, however, seems a strange thing. Most of these fires have
occurred in his State.... Ah! there is Senator Joyce waiting for us,
and Pamela and Mrs. Hastings."

Mr. Hastings as a host was in his element. His manners and tact, which
his enemies declared were far too perfect, were both admirably
displayed in the smaller ways of life. He guided the conversation into
light yet opportune subjects, and he utterly ignored the fact that
Senator Joyce, one of the great politicians of the day, whose support
of his nomination was already more than half promised, seemed distrait
and a little cold. It was Pamela who quite inadvertently steered the
conversation into a dangerous channel.

"What has Governor Roughton been doing, Mr. Fischer?" she asked.

There was a moment's silence. Pamela's question had fallen something
like a bombshell amongst the little party. It was their guest who
replied.

"The matter is occupying the attention of the country very largely at
the moment, Miss Van Teyl," he said. "It is perhaps unfortunate that
Governor Roughton seems to have allowed his sympathies to be so clearly
known."

"He is a German by birth, is he not?" Pamela inquired.

"Most decidedly not," Fischer asserted. "I was at Harvard with him."

"All the same," Pamela murmured under her breath, "I think that he was
born at Stuttgart."

"He is an American citizen," Senator Joyce observed, "and has reached a
high position here. We of the Administration may be wrong," he
continued, "but we believe, and we think that we have a right to
believe, that when any man of conscience and ideals takes the oath, he
is free from all previous prejudices. He is an American citizen--
nothing more and nothing less."

"Of course, that is magnificent," Pamela declared, "but it isn't common
sense, is it, and you haven't answered my original question yet."

"I am not in a position to do so, Miss Van Teyl," Joyce replied. "The
trouble probably is that Governor Roughton has been considered
incompetent as so many of these disasters have taken place unhindered
in his State."

"There was a rumour," Pamela persisted, "that he was under arrest."

"Quite untrue, I am sure," Fischer muttered.

There was a general diversion of the conversation, but the sense of
uneasiness remained. Pamela and Mrs. Hastings, at the conclusion of the
little banquet, acting upon a hint from their host, made their way to
one of the small drawing-rooms for their coffee. Left alone, the three
men drew their chairs closer together. Joyce's fine face seemed somehow
to have become a little harder and more unsympathetic. He sipped the
water, which was his only beverage, and pushed away the cigars in which
he generally indulged.

"Mr. Hastings," he pronounced, "I have given the subject of supporting
your nomination my deepest consideration. I was at one time, I must
confess, favourably disposed towards the idea. I have changed my mind.
I have decided to give my support to the present Administration."

Fischer's face was dark with anger. He even allowed an expletive to
escape from his lips. Hastings, however, remained master of himself.

"I will not conceal from you, Mr. Joyce," he confessed, "that I am
exceedingly disappointed. You have fully considered everything, I
presume--our pledge, for instance, to nominate you as my successor?"

"I have considered everything," Joyce replied. "The drawback in my
mind, to be frank with you, is that I doubt whether you would receive
sufficient support throughout the country. It is my idea," he went on,
"although I may be wrong, of course, that the support of the
German-Americans who, you must allow me to maintain, are an exceedingly
unneutral part of America, will place you in an unpopular position.
Should you succeed in getting yourself elected, which I very much
doubt, you will be an unpopular President. I would rather wait my
time."

"You have changed your views," Fischer muttered.

"To be perfectly frank with you, I have," Joyce acknowledged. "These
outrages throughout the States are, to my mind, blatant and criminal.
Directly or indirectly, the German-American public is responsible for
them--indirectly, by inflammatory speeches, reckless journalism, and
point-blank laudation of illegal acts; directly--well, here I can speak
only from my own suspicions, so I will remain silent. But my mind is
made up. A man in this country, as you know," he added, "need make only
one mistake and his political future is blasted. I am not inclined to
risk making that one mistake."

Hastings sighed. He was making a brave effort to conceal a great
disappointment.

"One cannot argue with you, Mr. Joyce," he regretted. "You have come to
a certain conclusion, and words are not likely to alter it. There is no
one I would so dearly have loved to number amongst my supporters, but I
see that it is a privilege for which I may not hope.... We will, if you
are ready, Fischer, join the ladies."

They rose from the table a few minutes later.

Fischer, who had been eagerly watching his opportunity, drew Senator
Joyce on one side for a moment as they passed down the crowded
corridor.

"Mr. Joyce," he said, "I have heard your decision to-night with deeper
regret than I can express, yet more than ever it has brought home one
truth to me. Our position towards you was a wrong one. We offered you a
reversion when we should have offered you the thing itself."

Senator Joyce swung around.

"Say, Mr. Fischer, what are you getting at?" he asked bluntly.

"I mean that it is Hastings and I who should have been your supporters,
and you who should have been our candidate," Fischer suggested boldly.
"What about it? It isn't too late."

"Nothing doing, sir," was the firm reply. "Theodore Hastings may not be
exactly my type of man, but I am not out to see him cornered like that,
and besides, to tell you the honest truth, Mr. Fischer," he added,
pausing at the door, "when I stand for the Presidency, I want to do so
not on the nomination of you or your friends, or any underground
schemers. I want the support of the real American citizen. I want to be
free from, all outside ties and obligations. I want to stand for
America, and America only, I not only want to be President, you see,
but I want to be the chosen President of the right sort of people.... I
am going to ask you to excuse me to the ladies and our host, Mr.
Fischer," he concluded, holding out his hand. "I had a note asking me
to visit the Attorney General, which I only received on my way here. I
have an idea that it is about this Roughton business."

Fischer returned to the others alone. Hastings was clearly disturbed at
his guest's departure. His friend and supporter, however, affected to
treat it lightly.

"Joyce is like all these lawyers," he declared. "He is simply waiting
to see which way the wind blows. I have come across them many times.
They like to wait till parties are evenly balanced, till their support
makes all the difference, and clinch their bargain then."

"I should have said," Pamela remarked, "that Mr. Joyce was a man above
that sort of thing."

"Every man has his price and his weak spot," her uncle observed
didactically. "Joyce's price is the Presidency. His weak spot is
popular adulation. I agree with Fischer. He will probably join us
later."

Mr. Hastings was summoned to the telephone, a moment or two later. Mrs.
Hastings sat down to write a note, and Pamela moved her place over to
Fischer's side. His face brightened at her spontaneous movement. She
shook her head, however, at the little compliment with which he
welcomed her.

"This afternoon," she said softly, "I met Mr. Lutchester."

"Is he back in New York?" Fischer asked, frowning.

Pamela nodded.

"He told me something which I feel inclined to tell you," she
continued, glancing into her companion's haggard face with a gleam of
sympathy in her eyes. "You'll probably see it in the newspapers
to-morrow morning. Governor Roughton's resignation was compulsory. He
is under arrest."

"For negligence?"

"For participation," was the grave reply. "Mr. Lutchester has been down
to--the city where these things took place. He only got back late this
afternoon."

"Lutchester again!" Fischer muttered.

"You see, it's rather in his line," Pamela reminded him. "He is over
here to superintend the production of munitions from the factories
which are working for the British Government."

"He is over here as a sort of general mischief-maker!" Fischer
exclaimed fiercely. "Do I understand that he has been down in----?"

Pamela nodded.

"He went down with one of the heads of the New York police."

She turned away, but Fischer caught at her wrist.

"You know more than this!" he cried hoarsely.

The agony in the man's face and tone touched her. After all, he was
fighting for the great things. There was nothing mean about Fischer,
nothing selfish about his lying and his crimes.

"I have told you all that I can," she whispered, "but if you hurried,
you could catch the _New York_ to-night--and I think I should advise
you to go."




CHAPTER XXXVI


Fischer, on leaving his unsuccessful dinner party, drove direct to the
residence of Mr. Max H. Bookam, in Fifth Avenue. The butler who
admitted him looked a little blank at his inquiry.

"Mr. Bookam was expected home yesterday, sir," he announced. "He has
not arrived, however."

"Has there been any telegram from him?--any news as to the cause of his
non-return?" Fischer persisted.

"I believe that Mr. Kaye, his secretary, has some information, sir,"
the man admitted. "Perhaps you would like to see him."

Fischer did not hesitate, and was conducted at once to the study in
which Mr. Bookam was wont to indulge in various nefarious Stock
Exchange adventures. The room was occupied on this occasion by a
dejected-looking young man, with pasty face and gold spectacles. The
apartment, as Fischer was quick to notice, showed signs of a strange
disorder.

"Where's Mr. Bookam?" he asked quickly.

The young man walked to the door, shook it to be sure that it was
closed, and came back again. His tone was ominous, almost dramatic.

"In the State Prison at----, sir," he announced.

"What for?" Fischer demanded, breathing a little thickly.

"I have no certain information," the secretary replied, with a
noncommittal air. "All I know is that I had a long-distance telephone
to burn certain documents, but before I could do so the room and the
house were searched by New York detectives, whose warrant it was
useless to resist."

"But what's the charge against Mr. Bookam?"

"It's something to do with the disasters in----," the young man
confided. "The Governor of the State, who is Mr. Bookam's cousin, is in
the same trouble.... Better sit down a moment, sir. You're looking
white."

Mr. Fischer threw himself into an easy-chair. He felt like a man who
has built a mighty piece of machinery, has set it swinging through
space, and watches now its imminent collapse; watches some tiny but
ghastly flaw, pregnant with disaster, growing wider and wider before
his eyes.

"What papers did the police take away with them?" he asked.

"There wasn't very much for them," the secretary replied. "There was a
list of the names of the proposed organisation which, owing to your
very wise intervention, was never formed. There was a list of factories
throughout the United States in which munitions are being made, with a
black mark against those holding the most important contracts. And
there was a letter from Governor Roughton."

"Mr. Bookam hasn't drawn any cheques lately for large amounts?" Fischer
inquired eagerly.

"There are three in his private cheque-book, sir, the counterfoils of
which are not filled in," was the somewhat dreary admission.

Fischer groaned as he received the news.

"Have you any idea about those cheques?" he demanded.

"I am afraid," the other acknowledged, "that Mr. Bookam was not very
discreet. I reminded him of your advice--that the money should be
passed through Sullivan--but he didn't seem to think it worth while."

"Look here, let me know the worst at once," Fischer insisted. "Do you
believe that any one of those cheques was made payable to any of the
men who are under arrest?"

"I am afraid," the secretary declared sadly, "that the proceeds of one
were found on the person of Ed. Swindles, intact."

Fischer sat for a moment with his head buried in his hands. "That any
man could have been such a fool. An organisation would have been a
thousand times safer. Max Bookam was only a very worthy and industrious
clothing manufacturer, with an intense love for the Fatherland and a
great veneration for all her institutions. What he had done, he had
done whole-heartedly but foolishly. He was a man who should never have
been trusted for a moment in the game. After all, the pawns count...."

Fischer took his leave and reached his hotel a little before midnight.
Already he had begun to look over his shoulder in the street. He found
his rooms empty with a sense of relief, marred by one little
disappointment. Nikasti was to have been there to bid him farewell--
Nikasti on his way back to Japan. He ascertained from the office of the
hotel that there had been no telephone message or caller. Then he
turned to his correspondence, some presentiment already clutching at
his strained nerves. There was a letter in a large envelope, near the
bottom of the pile, addressed to him in Nikasti's fine handwriting. He
tore open the envelope, and slow horror seized him as he realised its
contents. A long photograph unrolled itself before his eyes. The first
few words brought confusion and horror to his sense. His brain reeled.
This was defeat, indeed! It was a photograph of that other autograph
letter. The one which he had given to Nikasti to carry to Japan lay--
gross sacrilege!--about him in small pieces. There was no other line,
no message, nothing but this damning proof of his duplicity.

A kind of mental torture seized him. He fought like a caged man for
some way out. Every sort of explanation occurred to him only to be
rejected, every sort of subterfuge, only to be cast aside with a kind
of ghastly contempt. He felt suddenly stripped bare. His tongue could
serve him no more. He snatched at the telephone receiver and rang up
the number for which he searched eagerly through the book.

"Is that the office of the American Steamship Company?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What time will the _New York_ sail?"

"In three-quarters of an hour. Who's speaking?"

"Mr. Oscar Fischer. Keep anything you have for me."

He threw down the receiver for fear of a refusal, packed a few things
feverishly in a dressing bag, dashed the rest of his correspondence
into his pocket, and with the bag in one hand, and an overcoat over the
other arm, he hastened out into the street. He was obliged at first to
board a street car. Afterwards he found a taxicab, and drove under the
great wooden shed as the last siren was blowing. He hurried up the
gangway, a grim, remorseful figure, a sense of defeat gnawing at his
heart, a bitter, haunting fear still with him even when, with a shriek
of the tugs, the great steamer swung into the river. He was leaving
forever the work to which he had given so much of his life, leaving it
a fugitive and dishonoured. The blaze of lights, the screaming of the
great ferry-boats, all the triumphant, brazen noises of the mighty
city, sounded like a requiem to him as in the darkest part of the
promenade deck he leaned over the railing and nursed his agony, the
supreme agony of an ambitious man--failure.




CHAPTER XXXVII


"What has become," Mrs. Theodore Hastings asked her niece one afternoon
about a month later, "of your delightful friend, Mr. Lutchester?"

Pamela laid down her book and looked across at her aunt with wide-open
eyes.

"Why, I thought you didn't like him, aunt?"

"I cannot remember saying so, my dear," Mrs. Hastings replied. "I had
nothing against the man himself. It was simply his attitude with regard
to some of your uncle's plans, of which we disapproved."

Pamela nodded. They were seated on the piazza of the Hastings' country
house at Manchester.

"I see!... And uncle's plans," she went on reflectively, "have become a
little changed, haven't they?"

Mrs. Hastings coughed.

"There is no doubt," she admitted, "that your Uncle Theodore was
inveigled into supporting, to a certain extent, a party whose leaders
have shown themselves utterly irresponsible. The moment these horrible
things began to come out, however, your uncle finally cut himself loose
from them."

"Very wise of him," Pamela murmured.

"Who could have believed," Mrs. Hastings demanded, "that men like Oscar
Fischer, Max Bookam and a dozen other well-known and prominent
millionaires, would have stooped to encourage the destruction of American
property and lives, simply through blind devotion to the country of their
birth. I could understand," she went on, "both your uncle and I perfectly
understood that their sympathies were German rather than English, but
we shared a common belief that notwithstanding this they were Americans
first and foremost. It was in this belief that your uncle was led into
temporary association with them."

"Bad luck," Pamela sighed. "I am afraid it hasn't done Uncle Theodore
any good."

Mrs. Hastings went on with her knitting for a moment.

"My child," she said, "it has probably imperilled, if it has not
completely ruined, one of the great hopes which your uncle and I have
sometimes entertained. We are both of us, however, quite philosophical
about it. Even at this moment I am convinced that if these men had
acted with discretion, and been content to wield political influence
rather than to have resorted to such fanatical means, they would have
represented a great power at the next election. As things are, I admit
that their cause is lost for the time. I believe that your uncle is
contemplating an early visit to England. He is of the opinion that
perhaps he has misunderstood the Allied point of view, and he is going
to study matters at first hand."

Pamela nodded.

"I think he is very wise, aunt," she declared. "I quite expect that he
will come back a warm advocate of the Allies. No one would have a ghost
of a chance who went to the country here on the other ticket."

"I believe that that is your uncle's point of view," Mrs. Hastings
assented.... "Why don't you ask Mr. Lutchester down for a couple of
days?"

"If you mean it, I certainly will," Pamela agreed.

"Quite incidentally," her aunt continued, "I heard the nicest possible
things about him in Washington. Lady Ridlingshawe told me that the
Lutchesters are one of the oldest families in England. He is a cousin
of the Duke of Worcester, and is extraordinarily well connected in
other directions. I must say he has a most distinguished appearance.
A well-bred Englishman is so different from these foreigners."

Pamela laid down her book and drew her writing block towards her.

"I'll write and invite him down at once," she suggested.

"Your uncle will be delighted," Mrs. Hastings purred....

Lutchester received his invitation in New York and arrived in
Manchester three days later. Pamela met him at the station with a
couple of boatmen by her side.

"If you wouldn't mind sailing home?" she proposed. "The house is
practically on an island, and the tide is just right. These men will
take your luggage."

They walked down to the little dock together.

Pamela talked all the time, but Lutchester was curiously tongue-tied.

"You'll find Uncle Theodore, and aunt, too, most amusing," she
confided. "It is perfectly obvious that there is nothing uncle regrets
so much as his temporary linking up with Fischer and his friends; in
fact, he is going to Europe almost at once--I am convinced for no other
reason than to give him an excuse, upon his return, for blossoming out
as a fervent supporter of the Allies."

"Are you going too?" Lutchester inquired. "Shall I? Well, I am not
really sure," she declared, as they reached the little wooden dock. "I
suppose I shall, especially if I can find something to do. I may even
turn nurse."

"You will be able to find plenty to do," he assured her. "If nothing
else turns up, you can help me."

They stepped on to the yacht. Pamela, a radiant vision in white, with
white flannel skirt, white jersey and tam-o'-shanter, took the helm,
and was busy for a few moments getting clear. Afterwards she leaned
back amongst the cushions, with Lutchester by her side.

"In the agitation of missing that buoy," he reminded her, "you forgot
to answer my last suggestion."

"Is there any way in which I could help you?" she asked.

"You can help me in the greatest of all ways," he replied promptly.
"You can give me just that help which only the woman who cares can give
to the man who cares for her, and if that isn't exciting enough," he
went on, after a moment's pause, "well, I dare say I can find you some
work in the censor's department."

"Isn't censoring a little dull?" she murmured.

"Then you choose--"

Her hand slipped into his. A little breeze filled their sails at that
moment. The wonderful blue water of the bay sparkled with a million
gleams of sunshine. Lutchester drew a great breath of content.

"That's aunt on the landing-stage, watching us through her glasses,"
Pamela pointed out, making a feeble attempt to withdraw her hand.

"It will save us the trouble," he observed, resisting her effort, "of
explanations."

Lutchester found his host and hostess unexpectedly friendly. They even
accepted with cheerful philosophy the news that Lutchester's work in
America was almost finished for the time, and that Pamela was to
accompany him to Europe almost immediately. After dinner, when the two
men were left at the table, Hastings became almost confidential.

"So far as regards the sympathies of this country, Mr. Lutchester," he
said, "the final die has been cast within the last few weeks. There has
always been," he proceeded, "a certain irritation existing between even
the Anglo-Saxon Americans and your country. We have fancied so often
that you have adopted little airs of superiority towards us, and that
your methods of stating your intentions have not always taken account
of our own little weaknesses. Then America, you know, loves a good
fight, and the Germans are a wonderful military people. They were
fighting like giants whilst you in England were still slacking. But it
is Germany herself, or rather her sons and friends, who have destroyed
her chances for her. Fischer, for instance," he went on, fingering his
wineglass. "I have always looked upon Oscar Fischer as a brilliant and
far-seeing man. He was one of those who set themselves deliberately to
win America for the Germans. A more idiotic bungle than he has made of
things I could scarcely conceive. He has reproduced the diplomatic
methods which have made Germany unpopular throughout the world. He has
tried bullying, cajolery, and false-hood, and last of all he has
plunged into crime. No German-American will henceforth ever have weight
in the counsels of this country. I do not mind confessing," Mr.
Hastings continued, as he himself filled his guest's glass and then his
own, "that I myself was at one time powerfully attracted towards the
Teuton cause. They are a nation wonderful in science, wonderful in
warfare, with strong and admirable national characteristics. Yet they
are going to lose this war through sheer lack of tact, for the want of
that kindliness, that generosity of temperament, which exists and makes
friends in nations as in individuals. The world for Germany, you know,
and hell for her enemies!... But I am keeping you."

Lutchester drank his wine and rose to his feet.

"Pamela is sitting on the rocks there," Mr. Hastings observed. "I think
that she wants to sail you over to Misery Island. We get some unearthly
meal there at ten o'clock and come back by moonlight. It is a sort of
torture which we always inflict upon our guests. My wife and I will
follow in the launch."

"To Misery Island!" Lutchester repeated.

His host smiled as he led the way to the piazza steps. Pamela had
already stepped into the boat, and with the help of a boatman was
adjusting the sail. She waved her hand gaily and pointed to the level
stretch of placid water, still faintly brilliant in the dying sunlight.

"You think that we shall reach Misery Island before the tide turns?"
she called out.

Lutchester stepped lightly into the boat and took the place to which
she pointed.

"I am content," he said, "to take my chance."


THE END










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