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

insincerity. You are not a man to be trusted, Mr. Sabin.”

“Try me,” he begged.

“I will! I will tell you a secret.”

“I will lock it in the furthest chamber of my inner consciousness.”

“I am going to America for a purpose.”

“Wonderful woman,” he murmured, “to have a purpose.”

“I am going to get a divorce!”

Mr. Sabin was suddenly thoughtful.

“I have always understood,” he said, “that the marriage laws of America are convenient.”

“They are humane. They make me thankful that I am an American.”

Mr. Sabin inclined his head slightly towards the smoking-room.

“Does your unfortunate husband know?”

“He does; and he acquiesces. He has no alternative. But is that quite nice of you, Mr. Sabin, to call my husband an unfortunate man?”

“I cannot conceive,” he said slowly, “greater misery than to have possessed and lost you.”

She laughed gaily. Mr. Sabin permitted himself to admire that laugh. It was like the tinkling of a silver bell, and her teeth were perfect.

“You are incorrigible,” she said. “I believe that if I would let you, you would make love to me.”

“If I thought,” he answered, “that you would never allow me to make love to you, I should feel like following this cigar.” He threw it into the sea.

She sighed, and tapped her little French heel upon the deck.

“What a pity that you are like all other men.”

“I will say nothing so unkind of you,” he remarked. “You are unlike any other woman whom I ever met.”

They listened together to the bells sounding from the quarter deck. It was eleven o’clock. The deck behind them was deserted, and a fine drizzling rain was beginning to fall. Mrs. Watson removed the rug from her knees regretfully.

“I must go,” she said; “do you hear how late it is?”

“You will tell me all about America,” he said, rising and drawing back her chair, “to-morrow?”

“If we can find nothing more interesting to talk about,” she said, looking up at him with a sparkle in her dark eyes. “Good-night.”

Her hand, very small and white, and very soft, lingered in his. At that moment an unpleasant voice sounded in their ears.

“Do you know the time, Violet? The lights are out all over the ship. I don’t understand what you are doing on deck.”

Mr. Watson was not pleasant to look upon. His eyes were puffy, and swollen, and he was not quite steady upon his feet. His wife looked at him in cold displeasure.

“The lights are out in the smoke-room, I suppose,” she said, “or we should not have the pleasure of seeing you. Good-night, Mr. Sabin! Thank you so much for looking after me!”

Mr. Sabin bowed and walked slowly away, lighting a fresh cigarette. If it was acting, it was very admirably done.

CHAPTER XLIII THE COMING OF THE “KAISER WILHELM”

The habit of early rising was one which Mr. Sabin had never cultivated, and breakfast was a meal which he abhorred. It was not until nearly midday on the following morning that he appeared on deck, and he had scarcely exchanged his customary greeting with the captain, before he was joined by Mr. Watson, who had obviously been on the look-out for him.

“I want, sir,” the latter commenced, “to apologise to you for my conduct last night.”

Mr. Sabin looked at him keenly.

“There is no necessity for anything of the sort,” he said. “If any apology is owing at all, it is, I think, to your wife.”

Mr. Watson shook his head vigorously.

“No, sir,” he declared, “I am ashamed to say that I am not very clear as to the actual expressions I made, but Mrs. Watson has assured me that my behaviour to you was discourteous in the extreme.”

“I hope you will think no more of it. I had already,” Mr. Sabin said, “forgotten the circumstance. It is not of the slightest consequence.”

“You are very good,” Mr. Watson said softly.

“I had the pleasure,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “of an interesting conversation with your wife last night. You are a very fortunate man.”

“I think so indeed, sir,” Mr. Watson replied modestly.

“American women,” Mr. Sabin continued, looking meditatively out to sea, “are very fascinating.”

“I have always found them so,” Mr. Watson agreed.

“Mrs. Watson,” Mr. Sabin said, “told me so much that was interesting about your wonderful country that I am looking forward to my visit more than ever.”

Mr. Watson darted a keen glance at his companion. He was suddenly on his guard. For the first time he realised something of the resources of this man with whom he had to deal.

“My wife,” he said, “knows really very little of her native country; she has lived nearly all her life abroad.”

“So I perceived,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Shall we sit down a moment, Mr. Watson? One wearies so of this incessant promenading, and there is a little matter which I fancy that you and I might discuss with advantage.”

Mr. Watson obeyed in silence. This was a wonderful man with whom he had to deal. Already he felt that all the elaborate precautions of his coming had been wasted. He might be Mr. James B. Watson, the New York yacht owner and millionaire, to the captain and his seven passengers, but he was nothing of the sort to Mr. Sabin. He shrugged his shoulders, and followed him to a seat. After all silence was a safe card.

“I’m going,” Mr. Sabin said, “to be very frank with you. I know, of course, who you are.”

Mr. Watson shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you?” he remarked dryly.

Mr. Sabin bowed, with a faint smile at the corner of his lips.

“Certainly,” he answered, “you are Mr. James B. Watson of New York, and the lady with you is your wife. Now I want to tell you a little about myself.”

“Most interested, I’m sure,” Mr. Watson murmured.

“My real name,” Mr. Sabin said, turning a little as though to face his companion, “is Victor Duc de Souspennier. It suits me at present to travel under the name by which I was known in England and by which you are in the habit of addressing me. Mr. Watson, I’m leaving England because a certain scheme of mine, which, if successful, would have revolutionised the whole face of Europe, has by a most unfortunate chance become a failure. I have incurred thereby the resentment, perhaps I should say the just resentment, of a great nation. I am on my way to the country where I concluded I should be safest against those means of, shall I say, retribution, or vengeance, which will assuredly be used against me. Now what I want to say to you, Mr. Watson, is this—I am a rich man, and I value my life at a great deal of money. I wonder if by any chance you understand me.”

Mr. Watson smiled.

“I’m curious to know,” he said softly, “at what price you value yourself.”

“My account in New York,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “is, I believe, something like ten thousand pounds.”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Watson remarked, “is a nice little sum for one, but an awkward amount to divide.”

Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette and breathed more freely. He began to see his way.

“I forgot the lady,” he murmured. “The expense of cabling is not great. For the sake of argument, let us say twenty thousand.”

Mr. Watson rose.

“So far as I’m concerned,” he said, “it is a satisfactory sum. Forgive me if I leave you for a few minutes, I must have a little talk with Mrs. Watson.”

Mr. Sabin nodded.

“We will have a cigar together after lunch,” he said. “I must have my morning game of shuffleboard with the captain.”

Mr. Watson went below, and Mr. Sabin played shuffleboard with his usual deadly skill.

A slight mist had settled around them by the time the game was over, and the fog-horn was blowing, the captain went on the bridge, and the engines were checked to half speed.

Mr. Sabin leaned over the side of the vessel, and gazed thoughtfully into the dense white vapour.

“I think,” he said softly to himself, “that after all I’m safe.”

There was perfect silence on the ship. Even the luncheon gong had not sounded, the passengers having been summoned in a whisper by the deck steward. The fog seemed to be getting denser and the sea was like glass. Suddenly there was a little commotion aft, and the captain leaning forward shouted some brief orders. The fog-horn emitted a series of spasmodic and hideous shrills, and beyond a slight drifting the steamer was almost motionless.

Mr. Sabin understood at once that somewhere, it might be close at hand, or it might be a mile away, the presence of another steamer had been detected.

The same almost ghostlike stillness continued, orders were passed backward and forward in whispers. The men walked backward and forward on tip-toe. And then suddenly, without any warning, they passed out into the clear air, the mist rolled away, the sun shone down upon them again, and the decks dried as though by magic. Cheerful voices broke in upon the chill and unnatural silence. The machinery recommenced to throb, and the passengers who had finished lunch went upon deck. Every one was attracted at once by the sight of a large white steamer about a mile on the starboard side.

Mr. Watson joined the captain, who was examining her through his glass.

“Man-of-war, isn’t she?” he inquired.

The captain nodded.

“Not much doubt about that,” he answered; “look at her guns. The odd part of it is, too, she is flying no flag. We shall know who she is in a minute or two, though.”

Mr. Sabin descended the steps on his way to a late luncheon. As he turned the corner he came face to face with Mr. Watson, whose eyes were fixed upon the coming steamer with a very curious expression.

“Man-of-war,” Mr. Sabin remarked. “You look as though you had seen her before.”

Mr. Watson laughed harshly.

“I should like to see her,” he remarked, “at the bottom of the sea.”

Mr. Sabin looked at him in surprise.

“You know her, then?” he remarked.

“I know her,” Mr. Watson answered, “too well. She is the Kaiser Wilhelm, and she is going to rob me of twenty thousand pounds.”

CHAPTER XLIV THE GERMANS ARE ANNOYED

Mr. Sabin ate his luncheon with unimpaired appetite and with his usual care that everything of which he partook should be so far as possible of the best. The close presence of the German man-of-war did not greatly alarm him. He had some knowledge of the laws and courtesies of maritime life, and he could not conceive by what means short of actual force he could be inveigled on board of her. Mr. Watson’s last words had been a little disquieting, but he probably held an exaggerated opinion as to the powers possessed by his employers. Mr. Sabin had been in many tighter places than this, and he had sufficient belief in the country of his recent adoption to congratulate himself that it was an English boat on which he was a passenger. He proceeded to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Watson, who, in a charming costume of blue and white, and a fascinating little hat, had just come on to luncheon.

“I have been talking,” he remarked, after a brief pause in their conversation, “to your husband this morning.”

She looked up at him with a meaning smile upon her face.

“So he has been telling me.”

“I hope,” Mr. Sabin continued gently, “that your advice to him—I take it for granted that he comes to you for advice—was in my favour.”

“It was very much in your favour,” she answered, leaning across towards him. “I think that you knew it would be.”

“I hoped at least——”

Mr. Sabin broke off suddenly in the midst of his sentence, and turning round looked out of the open port-hole. Mrs. Watson had dropped her knife and fork and was holding her hands to her ears. The saloon itself seemed to be shaken by the booming of a