CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE MEN WHO SAVED ENGLAND

Mr. Sabin leaned back in his chair with a long, deep sigh of content. The labour of years was concluded at last. With that final little sketch his work was done. A pile of manuscripts and charts lay before him; everything was in order. He took a bill of lading from his letter-case, and pinned it carefully to the rest. Then he glanced at his watch, and, taking a cigarette-case from his pocket, began to smoke.

There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Sabin, who had recognised the approaching footsteps, glanced up carelessly.

“What is it, Foo Cha? I told you that I would ring when I wanted you.”

The Chinaman glided to his side.

“Master,” he said softly, “I have fears. There is something not good in the air.”

Mr. Sabin turned sharply around.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Foo Cha was apologetic but serious.

“Master, I was followed from the house of the German by a man, who drove fast after me in a two-wheeled cab. He lost me on the way, but there are others. I have been into the street, and I am sure of it. The house is being watched on all sides.”

Mr. Sabin drew a quiet, little breath. For a moment his haggard face seemed almost ghastly. He recovered himself, however, with an effort.

“We are not in China, Foo Cha,” he said. “I have done nothing against the law of this country; no man can enter here if we resist. If we are really being watched, it must be by persons in the pay of the Russian. But they can do nothing; it is too late; Knigenstein will be here in half an hour. The thing will be settled then, once and for ever.”

Foo Cha was troubled still.

“Me afraid,” he admitted frankly. “Strange men this end and that end of street. Me no like it. Ah!”

The front door bell rang softly; it was a timid, hesitating ring, as though some one had but feebly touched the knob. Foo Cha and his master looked at one another in silence. There was something almost ominous in that gentle peal.

“You must see who it is, Foo Cha,” Mr. Sabin said. “It may be Knigenstein come early; if so, show him in at once. To everybody else the house is empty.”

Foo Cha bowed silently and withdrew. He struck a match in the dark passage, and lit the hanging gas-lamp. Then he opened the door cautiously.

One man alone was standing there. Foo Cha looked at him in despair; it was certainly not Knigenstein, nor was there any sign of his carriage in the street. The stranger was a man of middle height, squarely built and stout. He wore a long black overcoat, and he stood with his hands in his pockets.

“What you want?” Foo Cha asked. “What you want with me?”

The man did not answer at once, but he stepped inside into the passage. Foo Cha tried to shut the door in his face, but it was like pushing against a mountain.

“Where is your master?” he asked.

“Master? He not here,” Foo Cha answered, with glib and untruthful earnestness. “Indeed he is not here—quite true. He come to-morrow; I preparing house for him. What do you want? Go away, or me call policeman.”

The intruder smiled indulgently into the Chinaman’s earnest, upturned face.

“Foo Cha,” he said, “that is enough. Take this card to your master, Mr. Sabin.”

Foo Cha was ready to begin another torrent of expostulations, but in the gas-light he met the new-comer’s steadfast gaze, and he was silent. The stranger was dressed in the garb of a superior working man, but his speech and manner indicated a very different station. Foo Cha took the card and left him in the passage. He made his way softly into the sitting-room, and as he entered he turned the key in the lock behind him; there, at any rate, was a moment or two of respite.

“Master,” he said, “there is a man there whom we cannot stop. When me tell him you no here, he laugh at me. He will see you; he no go way. He laugh again when I try shut the door. He give me card; I no understand what on it.”

Mr. Sabin stretched out his hand and took the card from the Chinaman’s fingers. There seemed to be one or two words upon it, traced in a delicate, sloping handwriting. Mr. Sabin had snatched at the little piece of pasteboard with some impatience, but the moment he had read those few words a remarkable change came over him. He started as though he had received an electric shock; the pupils of his eyes seemed hideously dilated; the usual pallor of his face was merged in a ghastly whiteness. And then, after the first shock, came a look of deep and utter despair; his hand fell to his side, a half-muttered imprecation escaped from his trembling lips, yet he laid the card gently, even with reverence, upon the desk before him.

“You can show him in, Foo Cha,” he directed, in a low tone; “show him in at once.”

Foo Cha glided out disappointed. Something had gone terribly wrong, he was sure of that. He went slowly downstairs, his eyes fixed upon the dark figure standing motionless in the dimly-lit hall. He drew a sharp breath, which sounded through his yellow, protuberant teeth like a hiss. A single stroke of that long knife—it would be so easy. Then he remembered the respect with which Mr. Sabin had treated that card, and he sighed. Perhaps it would be a mistake; it might make evil worse. He beckoned to the stranger, and conducted him upstairs.

Mr. Sabin received his visitor standing. He was still very pale, but his face had resumed its wonted impassiveness. In the dim lamp-lit room he could see very little of his visitor, only a thick-set man with dark eyes and a closely-cropped black beard. He was roughly dressed, yet held himself well. The two men eyed one another steadily for several moments, before any speech passed between them.

“You are surprised,” the stranger said; “I do not wonder at it. Perhaps—you have been much engrossed, it is said—you had even forgotten.”

Mr. Sabin’s lips curled in a bitter smile.

“One does not forget those things,” he said. “To business. Let me know what is required of me.”

“It has been reported,” the stranger said, “that you have conceived and brought to great perfection a comprehensive and infallible scheme for the conquest of this country. Further, that you are on the point of handing it over to the Emperor of Germany, for the use of that country. I think I may conclude that the report is correct?” he added, with a glance at the table. “We are not often misinformed.”

“The report,” Mr. Sabin assented, “is perfectly correct.”

“We have taken counsel upon the matter,” the stranger continued, “and I am here to acquaint you with our decision. The papers are to be burnt, and the appliances to be destroyed forthwith. No portion of them is to be shown to the German Government or any person representing that country, nor to any other Power. Further, you are to leave England within two months.”

Mr. Sabin stood quite still, his hands resting lightly upon the desk in front of him. His eyes, fixed on vacancy, were looking far out of that shabby little room, back along the avenues of time, thronged with the fragments of his broken dreams. He realised once more the full glory of his daring and ambitious scheme. He saw his country revelling again in her old splendour, stretching out her limbs and taking once more the foremost place among her sister nations. He saw the pageantry and rich colouring of Imperialism, firing the imagination of her children, drawing all hearts back to their allegiance, breaking through the hard crust of materialism which had spread like an evil dream through the land. He saw himself great and revered, the patriot, the Richelieu of his days, the adored of the people, the friend and restorer of his king. Once more he was a figure in European history, the consort of Emperors, the man whose slightest word could shake the money markets of the world. He saw all these things, as though for the last time, with strange, unreal vividness; once more their full glory warmed his blood and dazzled his eyes. Then a flash of memory, an effort of realisation chilled him; his feet were upon the earth again, his head was heavy. That thick-set, motionless figure before him seemed like the incarnation of his despair.

“I shall appeal,” he said hoarsely; “England is no friend of ours.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“England is tolerant at least,” he said; “and she has sheltered us.”

“I shall appeal,” Mr. Sabin repeated.

The man shook his head.

“It is the order of the High Council,” he said; “there is no appeal.”

“It is my life’s work,” Mr. Sabin faltered.

“Your life’s work,” the man said slowly, “should be with us.”

“God knows why I ever——”

The man stretched out a white hand, which gleamed through the semi-darkness. Mr. Sabin stopped short.

“You very nearly,” he said solemnly, “pronounced your own death-sentence. If you had finished what you were about to say, I could never have saved you. Be wise, friend. This is a disappointment to you; well, is not our life one long torturing disappointment? What of us, indeed? We are like the waves which beat ceaselessly against the sea-shore, what we gain one day we lose the next. It is fate, it is life! Once more, friend, remember! Farewell!”

Mr. Sabin was left alone, a martyr to his thoughts. Already it was past the hour for Knigenstein’s visit. Should he remain and brave the storm, or should he catch the boat-train from Charing Cross and hasten to hide himself in one of the most remote quarters of the civilised world? In any case it was a dreary outlook for him. Not only had this dearly cherished scheme of his come crashing about his head, but he had very seriously compromised himself with a great country. The Emperor’s gracious letter was in his pocket—he smiled grimly to himself as he thought for a moment of the consternation of Berlin, and of Knigenstein’s disgrace. And then the luxury of choice was suddenly denied him; he was brought back to the present, and a sense of its paramount embarrassments by a pealing ring at the bell, and the trampling of horse’s feet in the street. He had no time to rescind his previous instructions to Foo Cha before Knigenstein himself, wrapped in a great sealskin coat, and muffled up to the chin with a silk handkerchief, was shown into the room.

The Ambassador’s usually phlegmatic face bore traces of some anxiety. Behind his spectacles his eyes glittered nervously; he grasped Mr. Sabin’s hand with unwonted cordiality, and was evidently much relieved to have found him.

“My dear Souspennier,” he said, “this is a great occasion. I am a little late, but, as you can imagine, I am overwhelmed with work of the utmost importance. You have finished now, I hope. You are ready for me?”

“I am as ready for you,” Mr. Sabin said grimly, “as I ever shall be!”

“What do you mean?” Knigenstein asked sharply. “Don’t tell me that anything has gone amiss! I am a ruined man, unless you carry out your covenant to the letter. I have pledged my word upon your honour.”

“Then I am afraid,” Mr. Sabin said, “that we are both of us in a very tight place! I am bound hand and foot. There,” he cried, pointing to the grate, half choked with a pile of quivering grey ashes, “lies the work of seven years of my life—seven years of intrigue, of calculation, of unceasing toil. By this time all my American inventions, which would have paralysed Europe, are blown sky high! That is the position, Knigenstein; we are undone!”

Knigenstein was shaking like a child; he laid his hand upon Mr. Sabin’s arm, and gripped it fiercely.

“Souspennier,” he said, “if you are speaking the truth I am ruined, and disgraced for ever. The Emperor will never forgive me! I shall be dismissed and banished. I have pledged my word for yours; you cannot mean to play me false like this. If there is any personal favour or reward, which the Emperor can grant, it is yours—I will answer for it. I will answer for it, too, that war shall be declared against France within six months of the conclusion of peace with England. Come, say that you have been jesting. Good God! man, you are torturing me. Why, have you seen the papers to-night? The Emperor has been hasty, I own, but he has already struck the first blow. War is as good as declared. I am waiting for my papers every hour!”

“I cannot help it,” Mr. Sabin said doggedly. “The thing is at an end. To give up all the fruits of my work—the labour of the best years of my life—is as bitter to me as your dilemma is to you! But it is inevitable! Be a man, Knigenstein, put the best face on it you can.”

The utter impotence of all that he could say was suddenly revealed to Knigenstein in Mr. Sabin’s set face and hopeless words. His tone of entreaty changed to one of anger; the veins on his forehead stood out like knotted string, his mouth twitched as he spoke, he could not control himself.

“You have made up your mind,” he cried. “Very well! Russia has bought you, very well! If Lobenski has bribed you with all the gold in Christendom you shall never enjoy it! You shall not live a year! I swear it! You have insulted and wronged our country, our fatherland! Listen! A word shall be breathed in the ears of a handful of our officers. Where you go, they shall go; if you leave England you will be struck on the cheek in the first public place at which you show yourself. If one falls, there are others—hundreds, thousands, an army! Oh! you shall not escape, my friend. But if ever you dared to set foot in Germany——”

“I can assure you,” Mr. Sabin interrupted, “that I shall take particular care never to visit your delightful country. Elsewhere, I think I can take care of myself. But listen, Knigenstein, all your talk about Russia and playing you false is absurd. If I had wished to deal with Lobenski, I could have done so, instead of with you. I have not even seen him. A greater hand than his has stopped me, a greater even than the hand of your Emperor!”

Knigenstein looked at him as one looks at a madman.

“There is no greater hand on earth,” he said, “than the hand of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Germany.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

“You are a German,” he said, “and you know little of these things, yet you call yourself a diplomatist, and I suppose you have some knowledge of what this means.”

He lifted the lamp from the table and walked to the wall opposite to the door. Knigenstein followed him closely. Before them, high up as the fingers of a man could reach, was a small, irregular red patch—something between a cross and a star. Mr. Sabin held the lamp high over his head and pointed to the mark.

“Do you know what that means?” he asked.

The man by his side groaned.

“Yes,” he answered, with a gesture of abject despair, “I know!”

Mr. Sabin walked back to the table and set down the lamp.

“You know now,” he said coolly, “who has intervened.”

“If I had had any idea,” Knigenstein said, “that you were one of them I should not have treated with you.”

“It was many years ago,” Mr. Sabin said with a sigh. “My father was half a Russian, you know. It served my purpose whilst I was envoy at Teheran; since then I had lost sight of them; I thought that they too had lost sight of me. I was mistaken—only an hour ago I was visited by a chief official. They knew everything, they forbade everything. As a matter of fact they have saved England!”

“And ruined us,” Knigenstein groaned. “I must go and telegraph. But Souspennier, one word.”

Mr. Sabin looked up.

“You are a brave man and a patriot; you want to see your country free. Well, why not free it still? You and I are philosophers, we know that life after all is an uncertain thing. Hold to your bargain with us. It will be to your death, I do not deny that. But I will pledge the honour of my country, I will give you the holy word of the Emperor, that we will faithfully carry out our part of the contract, and the whole glory shall be yours. You will be immortalised; you will win fame that shall be deathless. Your name will be enshrined in the heart of your country’s history.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head slowly.

“My dear Knigenstein,” he said “pray don’t misunderstand me. I do not cast the slightest reflection upon your Emperor or your honour. But if ever there was a country which required watching, it is yours. I could not carry your pledges with me into oblivion, and there is no one to whom I could leave the legacy. That being the case, I think that I prefer to live.”

Knigenstein buttoned up his coat and sighed.

“I am a ruined man, Souspennier,” he said, “but I bear you no malice. Let me leave you a little word of warning, though. The Nihilists are not the only people in the world who have the courage and the wit to avenge themselves. Farewell!”

Mr. Sabin broke into a queer little laugh as he listened to his guest’s departing footsteps. Then he lit a cigarette, and called to Foo Cha for some coffee.