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

he has done all that is necessary in the way of thanks. He did not even ask for my card, and giving me his was only a matter of form, for there was no address upon it.”

“But he knew your name,” Harcutt reminded him. “I noticed that.”

“Yes. I suppose he could find me if he wished to,” Wolfenden admitted. “If he had been very keen about it, though, I should think he would have said something more. His one idea seemed to be to get away before there was a row.”

“I do not think,” Harcutt said, “that you will find him overburdened with gratitude. He does not seem that sort of man.”

“I do not want any gratitude from him,” Wolfenden answered, deliberately. “So far as the man himself is concerned I should rather prefer never to see him again. By the bye, did either of you fellows follow them home last night?”

Harcutt and Densham exchanged quick glances. Wolfenden had asked his question quietly, but it was evidently what he had come to know.

“Yes,” Harcutt said, “we both did. They are evidently people of some consequence. They went first to the house of the Russian Ambassador, Prince Lobenski.”

Wolfenden swore to himself softly. He could have been there. He made a mental note to leave a card at the Embassy that afternoon.

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards they drove to a house in Chilton Gardens, Kensington, where they remained.”

“The presumption being, then——” Wolfenden began.

“That they live there,” Harcutt put in. “In fact, I may say that we ascertained that definitely. The man’s name is ‘Sabin,’ and the girl is reputed to be his niece. Now you know as much as we do. The relationship, however, is little more than a surmise.”

“Did either of you go to the reception?” Wolfenden asked.

“We both did,” Harcutt answered.

Wolfenden raised his eyebrows.

“You were there! Then why didn’t you make their acquaintance?”

Densham laughed shortly.

“I asked for an introduction to the girl,” he said, “and was politely declined. She was under the special charge of the Princess, and was presented to no one.”

“And Mr. Sabin?” Wolfenden asked.

“He was talking all the time to Baron von Knigenstein, the German Ambassador. They did not stay long.”

Wolfenden smiled.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that you had an excellent opportunity and let it go.”

Harcutt threw his cigarette into the fire with an impatient gesture.

“You may think so,” he said. “All I can say is, that if you had been there yourself, you could have done no more. At any rate, we have no particular difficulty now in finding out who this mysterious Mr. Sabin and the girl are. We may assume that there is a relationship,” he added, “or they would scarcely have been at the Embassy, where, as a rule, the guests make up in respectability what they lack in brilliancy.”

“As to the relationship,” Wolfenden said, “I am quite prepared to take that for granted. I, for one, never doubted it.”

“That,” Harcutt remarked, “is because you are young, and a little quixotic. When you have lived as long as I have you will doubt everything. You will take nothing for granted unless you desire to live for ever amongst the ruins of your shattered enthusiasms. If you are wise, you will always assume that your swans are geese until you have proved them to be swans.”

“That is very cheap cynicism,” Wolfenden remarked equably. “I am surprised at you, Harcutt. I thought that you were more in touch with the times. Don’t you know that to-day nobody is cynical except schoolboys and dyspeptics? Pessimism went out with sack overcoats. Your remarks remind me of the morning odour of patchouli and stale smoke in a cheap Quartier Latin dancing-room. To be in the fashion of to-day, you must cultivate a gentle, almost arcadian enthusiasm, you must wear rose-coloured spectacles and pretend that you like them. Didn’t you hear what Flaskett said last week? There is an epidemic of morality in the air. We are all going to be very good.”

“Some of us,” Densham remarked, “are going to be very uncomfortable, then.”

“Great changes always bring small discomforts,” Wolfenden rejoined. “But after all I didn’t come here to talk nonsense. I came to ask you both something. I want to know whether you fellows are bent upon seeing this thing through?”

Densham and Harcutt exchanged glances. There was a moment’s silence. Densham became spokesman.

“So far as finding out who they are and all about them,” he said, “I shall not rest until I have done it.”

“And you, Harcutt?”

Harcutt nodded gravely.

“I am with Densham,” he said. “At the same time I may as well tell you that I am quite as much, if not more, interested in the man than in the girl. The girl is beautiful, and of course I admire her, as every one must. But that is all. The man appeals to my journalistic instincts. There is copy in him. I am convinced that he is a personage. You may, in fact, regard me, both of you, as an ally rather than as a rival.”

“If you had your choice, then, of an hour’s conversation with either of them——” Wolfenden began.

“I should choose the man without a second’s hesitation,” Harcutt declared. “The girl is lovely enough, I admit. I do not wonder at you fellows—Densham, who is a worshipper of beauty; you, Wolfenden, who are an idler—being struck with her! But as regards myself it is different. The man appeals to my professional instincts in very much the same way as the girl appeals to the artistic sense in Densham. He is a conundrum which I have set myself to solve.”

Wolfenden rose to his feet.

“Look here, you fellows,” he said, “I have a proposition to make. We are all three in the same boat. Shall we pull together or separately?”

Harcutt dropped his eyeglass and smiled quietly.

“Quixotic as usual, Wolf, old chap,” he said. “We can’t, our interests are opposed; at least yours and Densham’s are. You will scarcely want to help one another under the circumstances.”

Wolfenden drew on his gloves.

“I have not explained myself yet,” he said. “The thing must have its limitations, of course, but for a step or two even Densham and I can walk together. Let us form an alliance so far as direct information is concerned. Afterwards it must be every man for himself, of course. I suppose we each have some idea as to how and where to set about making inquiries concerning these people. Very well. Let us each go our own way and share up the information to-night.”

“I am quite willing,” Densham said, “only let this be distinctly understood—we are allies only so far as the collection and sharing of information is concerned. Afterwards, and in other ways, it is each man for himself. If one of us succeeds in establishing a definite acquaintance with them, the thing ends. There is no need for either of us to do anything with regard to the others, which might militate against his own chances.”

“I am agreeable to that,” Harcutt said. “From Densham’s very elaborate provisoes I think we may gather that he has a plan.”

“I agree too,” Wolfenden said, “and I specially endorse Densham’s limit. It is an alliance so far as regards information only. Suppose we go and have some lunch together now.”

“I never lunch out, and I have a better idea,” said Harcutt. “Let us meet at the ‘Milan’ to-night for supper at the same time. We can then exchange information, supposing either of us has been fortunate enough to acquire any. What do you say, Wolfenden?”

“I am quite willing,” Wolfenden said.

“And I,” echoed Densham. “At half-past eleven, then,” Harcutt concluded.

CHAPTER VII WHO IS MR. SABIN?

Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell was not at home to ordinary callers. Nevertheless when a discreet servant brought her Mr. Francis Densham’s card she gave orders for his admittance without hesitation.

That he was a privileged person it was easy to see. Mrs. Satchell received him with the most charming of smiles.

“My dear Francis,” she exclaimed, “I do hope that you have lost that wretched headache! You looked perfectly miserable last night. I was so sorry for you.”

Densham drew an easy chair to her side and accepted a cup of tea.

“I am quite well again,” he said. “It was very bad indeed for a little time, but it did not last long. Still I felt that it made me so utterly stupid that I was half afraid you would have written me off your visitors’ list altogether as a dull person. I was immensely relieved to be told that you were at home.”

Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed gaily. She was a bright, blonde little woman with an exquisite figure and piquante face. She had a husband whom no one knew, and gave excellent parties to which every one went. In her way she was something of a celebrity. She and Densham had known each other for many years.

“I am not sure,” she said, “that you did not deserve it; but then, you see, you are too old a friend to be so summarily dealt with.”

She raised her blue eyes to his and dropped them, smiling softly.

Densham looked steadily away into the fire, wondering how to broach the subject which had so suddenly taken the foremost place in his thoughts. He had not come to make even the idlest of love this afternoon. The time when he had been content to do so seemed very far away just now. Somehow this dainty little woman with her Watteau-like grace and delicate mannerisms had, for the present, at any rate, lost all her attractiveness for him, and he was able to meet the flash of her bright eyes and feel the touch of her soft fingers without any corresponding thrill.

“You are very good to me,” he said, thoughtfully. “May I have some more tea?”

Now Densham was no strategist. He had come to ask a question, and he was dying to ask it. He knew very well that it would not do to hurry matters—that he must put it as casually as possible towards the close of his visit. But at the same time, the period of probation, during which he should have been more than usually entertaining, was scarcely a success, and his manner was restless and constrained. Every now and then there were long and unusual pauses, and he continuously and with obvious effort kept bringing back the conversation to the reception last night, in the hope that some remark from her might make the way easier for him. But nothing of the sort happened. The reception had not interested her in the slightest, and she had nothing to say about it, and his pre-occupation at last became manifest. She looked at him curiously after one of those awkward pauses to which she was quite unaccustomed, and his thoughts were evidently far away. As a matter of fact, he was at that moment actually framing the question which he had come to ask.

“My dear Francis,” she said, quietly, “why don’t you tell me what is the matter with you? You are not amusing. You have something on your mind. Is it anything you wish to ask of me?”

“Yes,” he said, boldly, “I have come to ask you a favour.”

She smiled at him encouragingly.

“Well, do ask it,” she said, “and get rid of your woebegone face. You ought to know that if it is anything within my power I shall not hesitate.”

“I want,” he said, “to paint your portrait for next year’s Academy.”

This was a master stroke. To have Densham paint her picture was just at that moment the height of Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell’s ambition. A flush of pleasure came into her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.

“Do you really mean it?” she exclaimed, leaning over towards him. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I mean it,” he answered. “If only I can do you justice, I think