The Yellow Crayon
“You may be able to help me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without compromising
yourself.”
“Impossible!” Felix declared. “But what did they want with Lucille?”
“That,” Mr. Sabin said, “is what I am desirous of knowing. It is what I
trust that you, my dear Felix, may assist me to discover.”
“You are determined, then, to follow her?”
Mr. Sabin helped himself to a liqueur from the bottle by his side.
“My dear Felix,” he said reproachfully, “you should know me better than
to ask me such a question.”
Felix moved uneasily in his chair.
“Of course,” he said, “it depends upon how much they want to keep you
apart. But you know that you are running great risks?”
“Why, no,” Mr. Sabin said. “I scarcely thought that. I have understood
that the society was by no means in its former flourishing condition.”
Felix laughed scornfully.
“They have never been,” he answered, “richer or more powerful. During
the last twelve months they have been active in every part of Europe.”
Mr. Sabin’s face hardened.
“Very well!” he said. “We will try their strength.”
“We!” Felix laughed shortly. “You forget that my hands are tied. I
cannot help you or Lucille. You must know that.”
“You cannot interfere directly,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “Yet you are
Lucille’s brother, and I am forced to appeal to you. If you will be my
companion for a little while I think I can show you how you can help
Lucille at any rate, and yet run no risk.”
The little party at the next table were breaking up at last. Lady Carey,
pale and bored, with tired, swollen eyes--they were always a little
prominent--rose languidly and began to gather together her belongings.
As she did so she looked over the back of her chair and met Mr. Sabin’s
eyes. He rose at once and bowed. She cast a quick sidelong glance at her
companions, which he at once understood.
“I have the honour, Lady Carey,” he said, “of recalling myself to your
recollection. We met in Paris and London not so very many years ago. You
perhaps remember the cardinal’s dinner?”
A slight smile flickered upon her lips. The man’s adroitness always
excited her admiration.
“I remember it perfectly, and you, Duke,” she answered. “Have you made
your home on this side of the water?”
Mr. Sabin shook his head slowly.
“Home!” he repeated. “Ah, I was always a bird of passage, you remember.
Yet I have spent three very delightful years in this country.”
“And I,” she said, lowering her tone and leaning towards him, “one very
stupid, idiotic day.”
Mr. Sabin assumed the look of a man who denies any personal
responsibility in an unfortunate happening.
“It was regrettable,” he murmured, “but I assure you that it was
unavoidable. Lucille’s brother must have a certain claim upon me, and it
was his first day in America.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she turned abruptly towards the door.
Her friends were already on the way.
“Come with me,” she said. “I want to speak to you.”
He followed her out into the lobby. Felix came a few paces behind. The
restaurant was still full of people, the hum of conversation almost
drowning the music. Every one glanced curiously at Lady Carey, who was a
famous woman. She carried herself with a certain insolent indifference,
the national deportment of her sex and rank. The women whispered
together that she was “very English.”
In the lobby she turned suddenly upon Mr. Sabin.
“Will you take me back to my hotel?” she asked pointedly.
“I regret that I cannot,” he answered. “I have promised to show Felix
some of the wonders of New York by night.”
“You can take him to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” Mr. Sabin said, “he leaves for the West.”
She looked closely into his impassive face.
“I suppose that you are lying,” she said shortly.
“Your candour,” he answered coldly, “sometimes approaches brutality.”
She leaned towards him, her face suddenly softened.
“We are playing a foolish game with one another,” she murmured. “I offer
you an alliance, my friendship, perhaps my help.”
“What can I do,” he answered gravely, “save be grateful--and accept?”
“Then--”
She stopped short. It was Mr. Sabin’s luck which had intervened. Herbert
Daikeith stood at her elbow.
“Lady Carey,” he said, “they’re all gone but the mater and I. Forgive my
interrupting you,” he added hastily.
“You can go on, Herbert,” she added. “The Duc de Souspennier will bring
me.”
Mr. Sabin, who had no intention of doing anything of the sort, turned
towards the young man with a smile.
“Lady Carey has not introduced us,” he said, “but I have seen you at
Ranelagh quite often. If you are still keen on polo you should have a
try over here. I fancy you would find that these American youngsters can
hold their own. All right, Felix, I am ready now. Lady Carey, I shall do
myself the honour of waiting upon you early to-morrow morning, as I have
a little excursion to propose. Good-night.”
She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly as she turned away. Mr.
Sabin smiled--faintly amused. He turned to Felix.
“Come,” he said, “we have no time to lose.”
CHAPTER VIII
“I regret,” Mr. Sabin said to Felix as they sat side by side in the
small coupe, “that your stay in this country will be so brief.”
“Indeed,” Felix answered. “May I ask what you call brief?”
Mr. Sabin looked out of the carriage window.
“We are already,” he said, “on the way to England.”
Felix laughed.
“This,” he said, “is like old times.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“The system of espionage here,” he remarked, “is painfully primitive. It
lacks finesse and judgment. The fact that I have taken expensive rooms
on the Campania, and that I have sent many packages there, that my
own belongings are still in my rooms untouched, seems to our friends
conclusive evidence that I am going to attempt to leave America by that
boat. They have, I believe, a warrant for my arrest on some ridiculous
charge which they intend to present at the last moment. They will not
have the opportunity.”
“But there is no other steamer sailing to-morrow, is there?” Felix
asked.
“Not from New York,” Mr. Sabin answered, “but it was never my intention
to sail from New York. We are on our way to Boston now, and we sail in
the Saxonia at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“We appear to be stopping at the Waldorf,” Felix remarked.
“It is quite correct,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Follow me through the hall
as quickly as possible. There is another carriage waiting at the other
entrance, and I expect to find in it Duson and my dressing-case.”
They alighted and made their way though the crowded vestibules. At
the Thirty-fourth Street entrance a carriage was drawn up. Duson was
standing upon the pavement, his pale, nervous face whiter than ever
under the electric light. Mr. Sabin stopped short.
“Felix,” he said, “one word. If by any chance things have gone wrong
they will not have made any arrangements to detain you. Catch the
midnight train to Boston and embark on the Saxonia. There will be
a cable for you at Liverpool. But the moment you leave me send this
despatch.”
Felix nodded and put the crumpled-up piece of paper in his pocket.
The two men passed on. Duson took off his hat, but his fingers were
trembling. The carriage door was opened and a tall, spare man descended.
“This is Mr. Sabin?” he remarked.
Mr. Sabin bowed.
“That is my name,” he admitted, “by which I have been generally called
in this democratic country. What is your business with me?”
“I rather guess that you’re my prisoner,” the man answered. “If you’ll
step right in here we can get away quietly.”
“The suggestion,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “sounds inviting, but I am
somewhat pressed for time. Might I inquire the nature of the charge you
have against me?”
“They’ll tell you that at the office,” the man answered. “Get in,
please.”
Mr. Sabin looked around for Felix, but he had disappeared. He took out
his cigarette-case.
“You will permit me first to light a cigarette,” he remarked.
“All right! Only look sharp.”
Mr. Sabin kept silence in the carriage. The drive was a long one. When
they descended he looked up at Duson, who sat upon the box.
“Duson,” he said, and his voice, though low, was terrible, “I see that I
can be mistaken in men. You are a villain.”
The man sprung to his feet, hat in hand. His face was wrung with
emotion.
“Your Grace,” he said, “it is true that I betrayed you. But I did it
without reward. I am a ruined man. I did it because the orders which
came to me were such as I dare not disobey. Here are your keys, your
Grace, and money.”
Mr. Sabin looked at him steadily.
“You, too, Duson?”
“I too, alas, your Grace!”
Mr. Sabin considered for a moment.
“Duson,” he said, “I retain you in my service. Take my luggage on board
the Campania to-morrow afternoon, and pay the bill at the hotel. I shall
join you on the boat.”
Duson was amazed. The man who was standing by laughed.
“If you take my advice, sir,” he remarked, “you’ll order your clothes
to be sent here. I’ve a kind of fancy the Campania will sail without you
to-morrow.”
“You have my orders, Duson,” Mr. Sabin said. “You can rely upon seeing
me.”
The detective led the way into the building, and opened the door leading
into a large, barely furnished office.
“Chief’s gone home for the night, I guess,” he remarked. “We can fix up
a shakedown for you in one of the rooms behind.”
“I thank you,” Mr. Sabin said, sitting down in a high-backed wooden
chair; “I decline to move until the charge against me is properly
explained.”
“There is no one here to do it just now,” the man answered. “Better make
yourself comfortable for a bit.”
“You detain me here, then,” Mr. Sabin said, “without even a sight of
your warrant or any intimation as to the charge against me?”
“Oh, the chief’ll fix all that,” the man answered. “Don’t you worry.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
In a magnificently furnished apartment somewhere in the neighbourhood of
Fifth Avenue a small party of men were seated round a card table piled
with chips and rolls of bills. On the sideboard there was a great
collection of empty bottles, spirit decanters and Vichy syphons. Mr.
Horser was helping himself to brandy and water with one hand and holding
himself up with the other. There was a knock at the door.
A man who was still playing looked up. He was about fifty years of age,
clean shaven, with vacuous eyes and a weak mouth. He was the host of the
party.
“Come in!” he shouted.
A young man entered in a long black overcoat and soft hat. He looked
about him without surprise, but he seemed to note Mr. Horser’s presence
with some concern. The man at the table threw down his cards.
“What the devil do you want, Smith?”
“An important despatch from Washington has just arrived, sir. I have
brought it up with the codebook.”
“From Washington at this time of the night,” he exclaimed thickly. “Come
in here, Smith.”
He raised the curtains leading into a small anteroom, and turned up the
electric light. His clerk laid the message down on the table before him.
“Here is the despatch, Mr. Mace,” he said, “and here is the
translation.”
“English Ambassador demands immediate explanation of arrest of Duke
Souspennier at Waldorf to-night. Reply immediately what charge and
evidence. Souspennier naturalised Englishman.”
Mr. Mace sprang to his feet with an oath. He threw aside the curtain
which shielded the room from the larger apartment.
“Horser, come here, you damned fool!”
Horser, with a stream of magnificent invectives, obeyed the summons. His
host pointed to the message.
“Read that!”
Mr. Horser read and his face grew even more repulsive. A dull purple
flush suffused his cheeks, his eyes were bloodshot, and the veins on his
forehead stood out like cords. He leaned for several moments against the