Mysterious Mr. Sabin - E. Phillips Oppenheim (best free ebook reader for android .TXT) 📗

will you please all go away?” he added, with a little wave of his hand. “I have to reconstruct what has been stolen from me through your indiscretion. Send me in some coffee at eleven o’clock, and a box of cartridges you will find in my dressing-room.”

They went away together. Wolfenden was grave and mystified. Nothing about his father’s demeanour or language had suggested insanity. What if they were all wrong—if the work to which the best years of his life had gone was really of the immense importance he claimed for it? Other people thought so! The slight childishness, which was obvious in a great many of his actions, was a very different thing from insanity. Blatherwick might be deceived—Blanche was just as likely to have looked upon any technical work as rubbish. Whitlett was only a country practitioner—even his mother might have exaggerated his undoubted eccentricities. At any rate, one thing was certain. There were people outside who made a bold enough bid to secure the fruit of his father’s labours. It was his duty to see that the attempt, if repeated, was still unsuccessful.

CHAPTER XVII THE SCHEMING OF GIANTS

At very nearly the same moment as the man who had called himself Dr. Wilmot had leaped from the library window of Deringham Hall, Mr. Sabin sat alone in his sanctum waiting for a visitor. The room was quite a small one on the ground floor of the house, but was furnished with taste and evident originality in the Moorish fashion. Mr. Sabin himself was ensconced in an easy chair drawn close up to the fire, and a thin cloud of blue smoke was stealing up from a thick, Egyptian cigarette which was burning away between his fingers. His head was resting upon the delicate fingers of his left hand, his dark eyes were fixed upon the flaming coals. He was deep in thought.

“A single mistake now,” he murmured softly, “and farewell to the labour of years. A single false step, and goodbye to all our dreams! To-night will decide it! In a few minutes I must say Yes or No to Knigenstein. I think—I am almost sure I shall say Yes! Bah!”

The frown on his forehead grew more marked. The cigarette burned on between his fingers, and a long grey ash fell to the floor. He was permitting himself the luxury of deep thought. All his life he had been a schemer; a builder of mighty plans, a great power in the destinies of great people. To-night he knew that he had reached the crisis of a career, in many respects marvellous. To-night he would take the first of those few final steps on to the desire of his life. It only rested with him to cast the die. He must make the decision and abide by it. His own life’s ambition and the destinies of a mighty nation hung in the balance. Had he made up his mind which way to turn the scale? Scarcely even yet! There were so many things!

He sat up with a start. There was a knock at the door. He caught up the evening paper, and the cigarette smoke circled about his head. He stirred a cup of coffee by his side. The hard lines in his face had all relaxed. There was no longer any anxiety. He looked up and greeted pleasantly—with a certain deference, too—the visitor who was being ushered in. He had no appearance of having been engaged in anything more than a casual study of the St. James’s Gazette.

“A gentleman, sir,” the stolid-looking servant had announced briefly. No name had been mentioned. Mr. Sabin, when he rose and held out his hand, did not address his visitor directly. He was a tall, stout man, with an iron-grey moustache and the remains of a military bearing. When the servant had withdrawn and the two men were alone, he unbuttoned his overcoat. Underneath he wore a foreign uniform, ablaze with orders. Mr. Sabin glanced at them and smiled.

“You are going to Arlington Street,” he remarked.

The other man nodded.

“When I leave here,” he said.

Then there was a short silence. Each man seemed to be waiting for the other to open the negotiations. Eventually it was Mr. Sabin who did so.

“I have been carefully through the file of papers you sent me,” he remarked.

“Yes!”

“There is no doubt but that, to a certain extent, the anti-English feeling of which you spoke exists! I have made other inquiries, and so far I am convinced!”

“So! The seed is sown! It has been sprinkled with a generous hand! Believe me, my friend, that for this country there are in store very great surprises. I speak as one who knows! I do know! So!”

Mr. Sabin was thoughtful. He looked into the fire and spoke musingly.

“Yet the ties of kindred and common origin are strong,” he said. “It is hard to imagine an open rupture between the two great Saxon nations of the world!”

“The ties of kindred,” said Mr. Sabin’s visitor, “are not worth the snap of a finger! So!”

He snapped his fingers with a report as sharp as a pistol-shot. Mr. Sabin started in his chair.

“It is the ties of kindred,” he continued, “which breed irritability, not kindliness! I tell you, my friend, that there is a great storm gathering. It is not for nothing that the great hosts of my country are ruled by a war lord! I tell you that we are arming to the teeth, silently, swiftly, and with a purpose. It may seem to you a small thing, but let me tell you this—we are a jealous nation! And we have cause for jealousy. In whatever part of the world we put down our foot, it is trodden on by our ubiquitous cousins! Wherever we turn to colonise, we are too late; England has already secured the finest territory, the most fruitful of the land. We must either take her leavings or go a-begging! Wherever we would develope, we are held back by the commercial and colonising genius—it amounts to that—of this wonderful nation. The world of to-day is getting cramped. There is no room for a growing England and a growing Germany! So! one must give way, and Germany is beginning to mutter that it shall not always be her sons who go to the wall. You say that France is our natural enemy. I deny it! France is our historical enemy—nothing else! In military circles to-day a war with England would be wildly, hysterically popular; and sooner or later a war with England is as certain to come as the rising of the sun and the waning of the moon! I can tell you even now where the first blow will be struck! It is fixed! It is to come! So!”

“Not in Europe,” Mr. Sabin said.

“Not in Europe or in Asia! The war-torch will be kindled in Africa!”

“The Transvaal!”

Mr. Sabin’s visitor smiled.

“It is in Africa,” he said, “that English monopoly has been most galling to my nation. We too feel the burden of over-population; we too have our young blood making itself felt throughout the land, eager, impetuous, thirsting for adventure and freedom. We need new countries where these may develop, and at once ease and strengthen our fatherland. I have seen it written in one of the great English reviews that my country has not the instinct for colonisation. It is false! We have the instinct and the desire, but not the opportunity. England is like a great octopus. She is ever on the alert, thrusting out her suckers, and drawing in for herself every new land where riches lay. No country has ever been so suitable for us as Africa, and behold—it is as I have said. Already England has grabbed the finest and most to be desired of the land—she has it now in her mind to take one step further and acquire the whole. But my country has no mind to suffer it! We have played second fiddle to a weaker Power long enough. We want Africa, my friend, and to my mind and the mind of my master, Africa is worth having at all costs—listen—even at the cost of war!”

Mr. Sabin was silent for a moment. There was a faint smile upon his lips. It was a situation such as he loved. He began to feel indeed that he was making history.

“You have convinced me,” he said at last. “You have taught me how to look upon European politics with new eyes. But there remains one important question. Supposing I break off my negotiations in other quarters, are you willing to pay my price?”

The Ambassador waved his hand! It was a trifle!

“If what you give fulfils your own statements,” he said, “you cannot ask a price which my master would not pay!”

Mr. Sabin moved a little in his chair. His eyes were bright. A faint tinge of colour was in his olive cheeks.

“Four years of my life,” he said, “have been given to the perfecting of one branch only of my design; the other, which is barely completed, is the work of the only man in England competent to handle such a task. The combined result will be infallible. When I place in your hands a simple roll of papers and a small parcel, the future of this country is absolutely and entirely at your mercy. That is beyond question or doubt. To whomsoever I give my secret, I give over the destinies of England. But the price is a mighty one!”

“Name it,” the Ambassador said quietly. “A million, two millions? Rank? What is it?”

“For myself,” Mr. Sabin said, “nothing!”

The other man started. “Nothing!”

“Absolutely nothing!”

The Ambassador raised his hand to his forehead.

“You confuse me,” he said.

“My conditions,” Mr. Sabin said, “are these. The conquest of France and the restoration of the monarchy, in the persons of Prince Henri and his cousin, Princess Helène of Bourbon!”

“Ach!”

The little interjection shot from the Ambassador’s lips with sharp, staccato emphasis! Then there was a silence—a brief, dramatic silence! The two men sat motionless, the eyes of each fastened upon the other. The Ambassador was breathing quickly, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. Mr. Sabin was pale and calm, yet there were traces of nervous exhilaration in his quivering lips and bright eyes.

“Yes, you were right; you were right indeed,” the Ambassador said slowly. “It is a great price that you ask!”

Mr. Sabin laughed very softly.

“Think,” he said. “Weigh the matter well! Mark first this fact. If what I give you has not the power I claim for it, our contract is at an end. I ask for nothing! I accept nothing. Therefore, you may assume that before you pay my price your own triumph is assured. Think! Reflect carefully! What will you owe to me! The humiliation of England, the acquisition of her colonies, the destruction of her commerce, and such a war indemnity as only the richest power on earth could pay. These things you gain. Then you are the one supreme Power in Europe. France is at your mercy! I will tell you why. The Royalist party have been gaining strength year by year, month by month, minute by minute! Proclaim your intentions boldly. The country will crumble up before you! It would be but a half-hearted resistance. France has not the temperament of a people who will remain for ever faithful to a democratic form of government. At heart she is aristocratic. The old nobility have a life in them which you cannot dream of. I know, for I have tested it. It has been weary waiting, but the time is ripe! France is ready for the cry of ‘Vive le Roi! Vive la Monarchie!’ I who tell you these things have proved them. I have felt the pulse of my country, and I love her too well to mistake