Mysterious Mr. Sabin, E. Phillips Oppenheim [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗

a German gunboat, and accorded royal honours. The thing was trivial as it stood, but its importance had been enhanced a thousandfold by later news. The German Emperor had sent a telegram, approving his consul’s action and forbidding him to recognise the new sovereign. There was no possibility of misinterpreting such an action; it was an overt and deliberate insult, the second within a week. Wolfenden read the news upon the pavements of Pall Mall, jostled from right to left by hurrying passers by, conscious too, all the while, of that subtle sense of excitement which was in the air and was visibly reflected in the faces of the crowd. He turned into his club, and here he found even a deeper note of the prevailing fever. Men were gathered around the tape in little clusters, listening to the click click of the instrument, and reading aloud the little items of news as they appeared. There was a burst of applause when the Prime Minister’s dignified and peremptory demand for an explanation eked out about four o’clock in the afternoon—an hour later it was rumoured that the German Ambassador had received his papers. The Stock Exchange remained firm—there was enthusiasm, but no panic. Wolfenden began to wish that he, too, were a soldier, as he passed from one to another of the eager groups of young men about his own age, eagerly discussing the chances of the coming campaign. He walked out into the streets presently, and made his way boldly down to the house which had been pointed out to him as the town abode of Mr. Sabin and his niece. He found it shut up and apparently empty. The servant, who after some time answered his numerous ringings, was, either from design or chance, more than usually stupid. He could not tell where Mr. Sabin was or when he would return—he seemed to have no information whatever as regards the young lady. Wolfenden turned away in despair and walked slowly back towards Pall Mall. At the bottom of Piccadilly he stopped for a moment to let a little stream of carriages pass by; he was about to cross the road when a large barouche, with a pair of restive horses, again blocked the way. Attracted by an unknown coronet upon the panel, and the quiet magnificence of the servants’ liveries, he glanced curiously at the occupants as the carriage passed him. It was one of the surprises of his life. The woman nearest to him he knew well by sight; she was the Duchess de Montegarde, one of the richest and most famous of Frenchwomen—a woman often quoted as exactly typical of the old French nobility, and who had furthermore gained for herself a personal reputation for delicate and aristocratic exclusiveness, not altogether shared by her compeers in English society. By her side—in the seat of honour—was Helène, and opposite to them was a young man with a dark, fiercely twisted moustache and distinctly foreign appearance. They passed slowly, and Wolfenden remained upon the edge of the pavement with his eyes fixed upon them.

He was conscious at once of something about her which seemed strange to him—some new development. She leaned back in her seat, barely pretending to listen to the young man’s conversation, her lips a little curled, her own face the very prototype of aristocratic languor! All the lines of race were in her delicately chiselled features; the mere idea of regarding her as the niece of the unknown Mr. Sabin seemed just then almost ridiculous. The carriage went by without her seeing him—she appeared to have no interest whatever in the passers-by. But Wolfenden remained there without moving until a touch on the arm recalled him to himself.

He turned abruptly round, and to his amazement found himself shaking hands vigorously with Densham!

“Where on earth did you spring from, old chap?” he asked. “Dick said that you had gone abroad.”

Densham smiled a little sadly.

“I was on my way,” he said, “when I heard the war rumours. There seemed to be something in it, so I came back as fast as express trains and steamers would bring me. I only landed in England this morning. I am applying for the post of correspondent to the London News.”

Wolfenden sighed.

“I would give the world,” he said, “for some such excitement as that!”

Densham drew his hand through Wolfenden’s arm.

“I saw whom you were watching just now,” he said. “She is as beautiful as ever!”

Wolfenden turned suddenly round.

“Densham,” he said, “you know who she is—tell me.”

“Do you mean to say that you have not found out?”

“I do! I know her better, but still only as Mr. Sabin’s niece!”

Densham was silent for several moments. He felt Wolfenden’s fingers gripping his arm nervously.

“Well, I do not see that I should be betraying any confidence now,” he said. “The promise I gave was only binding for a short time, and now that she is to be seen openly with the Duchess de Montegarde, I suppose the embargo is removed. The young lady is the Princess Helène Frances de Bourbon, and the young man is her betrothed husband, the Prince of Ortrens!”

Piccadilly became suddenly a vague and shadowy thoroughfare to Wolfenden. He was not quite sure whether his footsteps even reached the pavement. Densham hastened him into the club and, installing him into an easy chair, called for brandies and soda.

“Poor old Wolf!” he said softly. “I’m afraid you’re like I was—very hard hit. Here, drink this! I’m beastly sorry I told you, but I certainly thought that you would have had some idea.”

“I have been a thick-headed idiot!” Wolfenden exclaimed. “There have been heaps of things from which I might have guessed something near the truth, at any rate. What a fool she must have thought me!”

The two men were silent. Outside in the street there was a rush for a special edition, and a half cheer rang in the room. A waiter entered with a handful of copies which were instantly seized upon. Wolfenden secured one and read the headings.

“MOBILIZATION DECLARED. All Leave Cancelled.

Cabinet Council Still Sitting.”

“Densham, do you realise that we are really in for war?”

Densham nodded.

“I don’t think there can be any doubt about it myself. What a thunderbolt! By the bye, where is your friend, Mr. Sabin?”

Wolfenden shook his head.

“I do not know; I came to London partially to see him. I have an account to settle when we do meet; at present he has disappeared. Densham!”

“Well!”

“If Miss Sabin has become the Princess Helène of Bourbon, who is Mr. Sabin?”

“I am not sure,” Densham answered, “I have been looking into the genealogy of the family, and if he is really her uncle, there is only one man whom he can be—the Duke de Souspennier!”

“Souspennier! Wasn’t he banished from France for something or other—intriguing for the restoration of the Monarchy, I think it was?”

Densham nodded.

“Yes, he disappeared at the time of the Commune, and since then he is supposed to have been in Asia somewhere. He has quite a history, I believe, and at different times has been involved in several European complications. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he isn’t our man. Mr. Sabin has rather the look of a man who has travelled in the East, and he is certainly an aristocrat.”

Wolfenden was suddenly thoughtful.

“Harcutt would be very much interested in this,” he declared. “What’s up outside?”

There had been a crash in the street, and the sound of a horse plunging; the two men walked to the windows. The débris of a hansom was lying in the road, with one wheel hopelessly smashed, a few yards off. A man, covered with mud, rose slowly up from the wreck. Densham and Wolfenden simultaneously recognised him.

“It is Felix,” Wolfenden exclaimed. “Come on!”

They both hurried out into the street. The driver of the hansom, who also was covered with mud, stood talking to Felix while staunching the blood from a wound in his forehead.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he was saying, “I hope you’ll remember as it was your orders to risk an accident, sooner than lose sight of t’other gent. Mine’s a good ’oss, but what is he against a pair and a light brougham? and Piccadilly ain’t the place for a chase of this sort! It’ll cost me three pun ten, sir, to say nothing of the wheel——”

Felix motioned him impatiently to be silent, and thrust a note into his hand.

“If the damage comes to more than that,” he said, “ask for me at the Russian Embassy, and I will pay it. Here is my card.”

Felix was preparing to enter another cab, but Wolfenden laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“Won’t you come into my club here, and have a wash?” he suggested. “I am afraid that you have cut your cheek.”

Felix raised his handkerchief to his face, and found it covered with blood.

“Thank you, Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “I should be glad to; you seem destined always to play the part of the Good Samaritan to me!”

They both went with him into the lavatory.

“Do you know,” he asked Wolfenden, when he had sponged his face, “whom I was following?”

Wolfenden shook his head.

“Mr. Sabin?” he suggested.

“Not Mr. Sabin himself,” Felix answered, “but almost the same thing. It was Foo Cha, his Chinese servant who has just arrived in England. Have you any idea where Mr. Sabin is?”

They both shook their heads.

“I do not know,” Wolfenden said, “but I am very anxious to find out. I have an account to settle with him!”

“And I,” Felix murmured in a low tone, “have a very much longer one against him. To-night, if I am not too late, there will be a balance struck between us! I have lost Foo Cha, but others, better skilled than I am, are in search of his master. They will succeed, too! They always succeed. What have you against him, Lord Wolfenden?”

Wolfenden hesitated; yet why not tell the man the truth? He had nothing to gain by concealment.

“He forced himself into my father’s house in Norfolk and obtained, either by force or craft, some valuable papers. My father was in delicate health, and we fear that the shock will cost him his reason.”

“Do you want to know what they were?” Felix said. “I can tell you! Do you want to know what he required them for? I can tell you that too! He has concocted a marvellous scheme, and if he is left to himself for another hour or two, he will succeed. But I have no fear; I have set working a mightier machinery than even he can grapple with!”

They had walked together into the smoke-room; Felix seemed somewhat shaken and was glad to rest for a few minutes.

“Has he outstepped the law, been guilty of any crime?” Wolfenden asked; “he is daring enough!”

Felix laughed shortly. He was lighting a cigarette, but his hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold the match.

“A further reaching arm than the law,” he said, dropping his voice, “more powerful than governments. Even by this time his whereabouts is known. If we are only in time; that is the only fear.”

“Cannot you tell us,” Wolfenden asked, “something of this wonderful scheme of his—why was he so anxious to get those papers and drawings from my father—to what purpose can he possibly put them?”

Felix hesitated.

“Well,” he said, “why not? You have a right to know. Understand that I myself have only the barest outline of it; I will tell you this, however. Mr. Sabin is the Duc de Souspennier, a Frenchman of fabulous wealth, who has played many strange parts in European history. Amongst other of his accomplishments, he is a mechanical and strategical genius. He has studied under Addison in America, one subject only, for three years—the destruction of warships and fortifications by electrical contrivances unknown to the general world.