Mysterious Mr. Sabin by E. Phillips Oppenheim (read books for money TXT) 📕

Then he came to England, and collected a vast amount of information concerning your navy and coast defences in many different ways—finally he sent a girl to play the part of typist to your father, whom he knew to be the greatest living authority upon all naval matters connected with your country. Every line he wrote was copied and sent to Mr. Sabin, until by some means your father’s suspicions were aroused, and the girl was dismissed. The last portion of your father’s work consisted of a set of drawings, of no fewer than twenty-seven of England’s finest vessels, every one of which has a large proportion of defective armour plating, which would render the vessels utterly useless in case of war. These drawings show the exact position of the defective plates, and it was to secure these illustrations that Mr. Sabin paid that daring visit to your father on Tuesday morning. Now, what he professes broadly is that he has elaborated a scheme, by means of which, combined with the aid of his inventions, a few torpedo boats can silence every fort in the Thames, and leave London at the mercy of any invaders. At the same time his plans include the absolutely safe landing of troops on the east and south coast, at certain selected spots. This scheme, together with some very alarming secret information affecting the great majority of your battleships, will, he asserts with absolute confidence, place your country at the mercy of any Power to whom he chooses to sell it. He offered it to Russia first, and then to Germany. Germany has accepted his terms and will declare war upon England the moment she has his whole scheme and inventions in her possession.”

Wolfenden and Densham looked at one another, partly incredulous, partly aghast. It was like a page from the Arabian Nights. Surely such a thing as this was not possible. Yet even that short silence was broken by the cry of the newsboys out in the street—

“GERMANY ARMING!

REPORTED DECLARATION OF WAR!”

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