Chapter V: Concerns Some Facts

The duty of Mr. Alexander Paton was to act under Seton Darville’s instructions when required.

The declaration of the novelist that the matter was secret, even from his department, rather piqued him, and it certainly aroused his curiosity very keenly.

“Yes, I repeat, Sandy, I can’t tell you the reason for all this hue and cry. I wish I could. You’d be as interested in it as I am,” Darville went on. “But, as you know, in my department, we sometimes have certain secrets which we do not disclose even to yours. This is one of them.”

“I take it that Mr. and Mrs. Caborn are undesirables?” remarked the tall, fair man.

Darville nodded in the affirmative.

“At first I was not exactly certain,” he said, “until I followed them across to Corfu, and watched them there. Then my suspicions were confirmed. They are over here on a very desperate errand, so we must find them, and defeat their activities.”

“The name seems familiar to me,” the inspector said reflectively, taking another cigarette from the box which the novelist pushed over to him, and gazing around the small, comfortable room which was Darville’s _pied-à-terre_ in London. The novelist was a man of few wants. Though he wrote for the English public, he was a thorough-going cosmopolitan, and preferred to live his wandering life in foreign hotels.

“You’ve heard it before--eh?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes. Wasn’t the man mixed up in the Meyer matter at Weybourne just after war broke out in 1914? Didn’t he have some relations with Carl Lody--the spy they shot in the Tower?”

Darville again smiled good-humoredly.

“Your memory seems to serve you rightly, Sandy,” he said. “But please forget that, except to remember how cleverly he slipped through your fingers. He then acted as evasively in getting out of England as he has now done in re-entering the country. And his wife--well--she’s an expert, as was proved in the Weybourne affair.”

“We are faced with a problem. How shall we find them, Mr. Darville? Have you any suggestion?” asked Paton seriously.

“At the moment, no. I’m fagged out after the journey,” said the novelist. “But I may think of some plan to-morrow.”

“I’ll think it over, too,” said the inspector. “You see, they both know London; hence they have, no doubt, a knowledge of the various sanctuaries for criminals which keep ever-open doors, so long as their guest can pay for the accommodation. There’s a lot of them here, in the West End. And not a few in the provinces, as you know.”

“I know that,” said Darville, resting his heavy chin upon his hand, with his elbow on the arm of his big, saddlebag chair. “We have to track down the pair, or they will cause us a lot of very serious trouble, Sandy. I’ll keep in touch with you on the telephone. If I have any suggestions to make I’ll let you know instantly.”

Paton waxed pessimistic.

“If they get into one of the bolt-holes where no questions are asked, then they can lie doggo for months,” he remarked. “It’s a pity you didn’t wire to us sooner, sir.”

“I didn’t know they intended to come to London. I believed that Paris was their destination, and Lemoine received my wire too late.”

“Well, Mrs. Caborn didn’t cross either from Havre, Boulogne, Calais, Dieppe or Ostend. That’s certain,” said Paton.

“She may have used another passport, and slipped through on the night service. And what about Antwerp, or The Hook?”

The Scotch detective shook his head.

“I think not, sir, for the C.I.D. are very keen to spot a woman named Beeton, wanted for murder in Liverpool. She very much resembles Mrs. Caborn. A watch has been kept upon the ports for that woman for the past six weeks.”

“My dear Sandy, I don’t care a rap for the vigilance of the C.I.D. All I am certain of is that the woman is here, and that, having joined her husband, the pair are lying very low, prior to effecting the big and serious coup which they intend,” Darville said. “If I were not certain that something very serious was in the wind, do you think I should have gone over to Corfu, and pretended to make love to Caborn’s wife, as I have done?” Then, with a smile upon his broad, clean-shaven face, he added: “I suppose that the little woman believes me to be the forlorn lover. Women are funny--aren’t they, Sandy? Thank God I’ve never loved a woman in all my life; hence I’ve been spared the terrible pangs of jealousy. At least I’ve understood that that malady is a very common and extremely painful one.”

“I’ve only loved once, sir,” replied the fair-haired man from Scotland Yard, “and, thank heaven! I’ve got the best wife in the world.”

“Then you’re devilish lucky, Sandy. Have another drink to wish Mrs. Paton continued happiness.”

The pair raised their glasses, laughing merrily, and a few minutes later the officer of the Special Branch, the greatest expert in London in keeping surveillance upon suspected persons, rose and left.

When he had gone Darville sat for some minutes smoking in silence.

“I don’t think that Joan suspected anything,” he muttered to himself, in ignorance of that secret visit she had paid to his room while he lay stupefied by the drug that had been placed in the wine he drank at lunch. “I suppose I acted the lover all right?” he went on, laughing to himself. “I hope I did. She seemed thoroughly alarmed at my amorous declarations. But she’s clever--damnably clever. The man is a blunderer compared with her.”

Then, after a further silence, he rose, and, pacing the room impatiently, said aloud:

“I must find them, or--or, by Gad!--there’ll be a terrible disaster! It’s up to me to checkmate them. No doubt there are half a dozen others in this devil’s work!” he added, setting his teeth hard as he spoke.

He went to the telephone, and spoke to several people--short, brief messages telling them that he had returned to London.

One man, whom he addressed as Bennett, he asked to come round to see him at eleven that night. Indeed, after Drew had put before him a frugal meal of cold ham and salad and half a bottle of claret, which he consumed hastily, he seemed besieged by callers, mysterious men who came and, after a brief interview, left unobtrusively.

Bennett, however, proved to be a smart, well-set-up man, having the appearance of a retired naval officer. He brought with him a bulging leather dispatch-case, heavily locked.

Having removed his overcoat, he seated himself at the table, unlocked the case, and drew out a number of official-looking documents.

Darville seated himself opposite him, and carefully read and initialed the papers as Bennett handed them over.

“This is the latest report from Mabelle in Cairo regarding the German intrigue in Egypt. You recollect, sir, that you sent Mabelle to Cairo three months ago, and gave her very definite instructions. These she seems to have carried out to the letter.”

Darville took the report which had been brought to England by King’s Messenger and was in cipher. The decipher interested him keenly from the very first line. It was a long report--a careful and concise survey of the highly complicated situation in Egypt at that moment--and had been drawn up by a pretty young woman who was a very clever secret agent of Great Britain abroad. It showed a marvelously wide knowledge of international politics, and Darville quickly became absorbed in it.

He read it to the end, initialed it thoughtfully with his red pencil, and then said to his private secretary--for such Bennett was:

“Send a message in Code Four to-morrow recalling Mabelle. I want to see her. She knows more than is contained in her report.”

“Very well, sir,” replied the ex-naval officer, for Commander Charles Bennett had fought at Jutland, and before his retirement had a brilliant record to his credit. “This next report is about the Steinberg affair. Meyrick hasn’t got very far with it yet. There’s nothing in it worth troubling about.”

“Very well,” grunted Darville, who took it and scribbled his initials without reading it.

Five other lengthy documents were declared by Bennett to contain nothing of interest, and the man whose name was known the world over scribbled his initials, “S.D.,” upon them.

“Here is a list of the personnel discharged from the Commission in Germany. You see Weiss has been axed among the others.”

“So I see,” Darville remarked. “I’m rather sorry. Of course, he has no idea that I have been his pay-master all this time. He rendered us very good service in discovering secret stores of arms in Germany. I wonder why he’s been discharged.”

“I have the reasons here. They were sent over to us from the War Office three days ago.”

Darville took the sheet of paper, and upon it read the following memorandum:

“Weiss, Karl.--Adverse-report from General Mitchell. Unstable. Too fond of gayety, and prone to feminine influence. His retirement recommended on grounds which are confidential.”

“H’m!” remarked the novelist, as he slowly signed the paper which put an end to his friend’s career with a certain British Mission in Germany. “That’s curious. Something more behind that, I’m sure! Find out, Bennett, and report to me. I know him well.”

And he passed on to the examination of a long document, in rather faulty English, concerning the strained political relations between Italy and England.

Upon that polished dining-table lay a pile of secret documents dealing with the innermost juggling of European diplomacy, secrets concerning the intrigues of foreign statesmen and financiers, which would have horrified them had they but known that they were in the hands of the ubiquitous Seton Darville, the head of that great, outspread, octopus-like organization which, with its secret headquarters, was the eyes and ears of Britain throughout the world--the Secret Service.

The British public and the world at large never suspected that the clean-shaven, round-faced ever-smiling man in pince-nez, who lived a wandering life of apparently careless ease and affluence, was the man in whom the British Cabinet placed its trust, and who on more than one occasion had been brought into secret consultation concerning enemy intrigues.

Until far into the night the two men sat together, discussing various matters. Ever and anon the novelist sat back in his chair and dictated instructions to the various agents abroad--his “lambs,” as he called them--which the ex-naval commander took down in shorthand, to be afterwards put into code and telegraphed to the European capitals.

It was nearly three o’clock in the morning before Bennett swallowed a final whisky and soda, and, replacing all the papers in his case, locked it and rose to go.

“Better leave that here to-night,” remarked Darville. “It’s too late to take it to the office. Send round for it in the morning. It’s safe here.”

Both men laughed. That leather case contained secrets which certain foreign Governments would pay a very big price to obtain, hence they were safer in Darville’s flat than being carried through the London streets at that hour.

So Bennett took his departure, and, Darville’s man having gone to bed a couple of hours before, he was left alone.

He lit a fresh cigarette and stood with his back to the dying fire, thinking deeply.

Suddenly he crossed to the table, on which lay the dispatch-case, and, taking a tiny key from the bunch upon his watch-chain--the master-key of all the big range of black, steel dispatch-boxes at the secret headquarters of the confidential department of the Government--he unlocked it, and, searching through the papers, at last found the slip whereon was reported the delinquency of Karl Weiss, and his dismissal, to which he had agreed by appending his signature.

“Poor Karl!” he exclaimed aloud. “At present he knows nothing of this! I’m sorry for him, for he’s one of the best of fellows. After all, every young man may be forgiven a flirtation or two. But--well, I’m sorry. He’ll have some difficulty in getting another job, now that he is dismissed in ignominy.”

Then he tossed back the papers, relocked the case, and carried it into his bedroom, where he placed it in the wardrobe, and afterwards retired to bed.

Next morning Bennett called for it, and at eleven Darville went out to his club.

Three days went by--days in which he puzzled his brain, vainly trying to devise some plan by which he could run to earth the fugitives from Corfu. His powers of invention were amazing, and he seemed to possess an uncanny but unerring instinct where secret inquiries were concerned. Crafty and cunning by nature, his wide experience of men and women rendered him suspicious, elusive, and full of astounding duplicity. He never wavered when once he had arrived at any decision, but persevered towards the end he sought, undeterred by any untoward circumstance that might arise.

He intended to find Joan Caborn, and he had made up his mind to do so at whatever cost.

On the fourth morning after his arrival in London, he found among his letters one from Edris Temperley. He recognized the firm, bold handwriting. It was dated from Stagsden Hall, Leicestershire--her home--and ran as follows:

“Dear Mr. Darville,--You have not answered my last letter. I heard from the hall-porter at your club that you were abroad. I wonder if you are back again? I am coming up to London with mother next Friday to do some shopping. We shall stay, as usual, at the Berkeley. I would so much like to see you, and know if you are going to Switzerland again this season. Our ski-ing parties would not be the same without you. Kindest regards. “Yours very sincerely, “Edris Temperley.”

As he ate his breakfast he read the letter through twice. It was too bad not to have replied to her, and as he sat there alone a vision of her sweet, regular features, her great, gray, wondering eyes, her dark, shingled hair, and her unconventional attractiveness and chic in her winter-sports costume, arose before him.

A whole year had passed since their little snow romance. He had first admired her and then, finding himself fond of her, had cut himself adrift deliberately, and gone out of her life, because he felt, first, that there was too great a difference in their ages, and, secondly, he knew that she loved a younger man.

Those few weeks spent in the snow-clad Alps in the previous winter had been most delightful ones, but they were now only a memory. Yet that memory was the sweetest one he possessed, for it was the first and only time that he had ever experienced affection for any woman.

But he now hesitated to repeat the experience, fearing lest he should be the cause of her unhappiness.

On rising from the table he held her letter in his hand.

“I wonder, Edris,” he exclaimed aloud in a hard, choked voice. “I wonder if you still love him? If you still remember----?”

He did not finish his sentence, but stood looking down into the London street, dismal and wet on that winter’s morning.

And as he did so a sudden thought flashed across his mind--a sudden inspiration which roused him to instant activity.

There was, after all, one way by which Joan Caborn could be found! He held the solution of the problem. It would mean the exercise of all his wits and innate cunning. But he meant to find her, and it was, after all, in his power to do so, if he understood human nature aright.

Therefore he rushed to the telephone and asked Paton to come round to him immediately.