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

man who suddenly detaches himself from a not unpleasant train of thought, he looked up with a smile.

“I am not going to tax you very severely,” he said. “I am writing a critical paper on the armaments of the world for a European review. I had letters of introduction to Mr. C., and he gave me a great deal of valuable information. There were one or two points, however, on which he was scarcely clear, and in the course of conversation he mentioned your husband’s name as being the greatest living authority upon those points. He offered to give me a letter to him, but I thought it would perhaps scarcely be wise. I fancied, too, you might be inclined, for reasons which we need not enlarge upon, to help me.”

For a simple request Lady Deringham’s manner of receiving it was certainly strange; she was suddenly white almost to the lips. A look of positive fear was in her eyes. The frank cordiality, the absolute kindliness with which she had welcomed her visitor was gone. She looked at him with new eyes; the old mistrust was born again. Once more he was the man to be feared and dreaded above all other men; yet she would not give way altogether. He was watching her narrowly, and she made a brave effort to regain her composure.

“But do you not know,” she said hesitatingly, “that my husband is a great invalid? It is a very painful subject for all of us, but we fear that his mind is not what it used to be. He has never been the same man since that awful night in the Solent. His work is more of a hobby with him; it would not be at all reliable for reference.”

“Not all of it, certainly,” he assented. “Mr. C. explained that to me. What I want is an opportunity to discriminate. Some would be very useful to me—the majority, of course, worse than useless. The particular information which I want concerns the structural defects in some of the new battleships. It would save an immense amount of time to get this succinctly.”

She looked away from him, still agitated.

“There are difficulties,” she murmured; “serious ones. My husband has an extraordinary idea as to the value of his own researches, and he is always haunted by a fear lest some one should break in and steal his papers. He would not suffer me to glance at them; and the room is too closely guarded for me to take you there without his knowledge. He is never away himself, and one of the keepers is stationed outside.”

“The wit of a woman,” Mr. Sabin said softly, “is all-conquering.”

“Providing always,” Lady Deringham said, “that the woman is willing. I do not understand what it all means. Do you know this? Perhaps you do. There have been efforts made by strangers to break into my husband’s room. Only a few days ago a stranger came here with a forged letter of introduction, and obtained access to the Admiral’s library. He did not come to steal. He came to study my husband’s work; he came, in fact, for the very purpose which you avow. Only yesterday my son began to take the same interest in the same thing. The whole of this morning he spent with his father, under the pretence of helping him; really he was studying and examining for himself. He has not told me what it is, but he has a reason for this; he, too, has some suspicions. Now you come, and your mission is the same. What does it all mean? I will write to Mr. C. myself; he will come down and advise me.”

“I would not do that if I were you,” Mr. Sabin said quietly. “Mr. C. would not thank you to be dragged down here on such an idle errand.”

“Ay, but would it be an idle errand?” she said slowly. “Victor, be frank with me. I should hate to refuse anything you asked me. Tell me what it means. Is my husband’s work of any real value, and if so to whom, and for what purpose?”

Mr. Sabin was gently distressed.

“My dear Lady Deringham,” he said, “I have told you the exact truth. I want to get some statistics for my paper. Mr. C. himself recommended me to try and get them from your husband; that is absolutely all. As for this attempted robbery of which you were telling me, believe me when I assure you that I know nothing whatever about it. Your son’s interest is, after all, only natural. The study of the papers on which your husband has been engaged is the only reasonable test of his sanity. Frankly, I cannot believe that any one in Lord Deringham’s mental state could produce any work likely to be of the slightest permanent value.”

The Countess sighed.

“I suppose that I must believe you, Victor,” she said; “yet, notwithstanding all that you say, I do not know how to help you—my husband scarcely ever leaves the room. He works there with a revolver by his side. If he were to find a stranger near his work I believe that he would shoot him without hesitation.”

“At night time——”

“At night time he usually sleeps there in an ante-room, and outside there is a man always watching.”

Mr. Sabin looked thoughtful.

“It is only necessary,” he said, “for me to be in the room for about ten minutes, and I do not need to carry anything away; my memory will serve me for all that I require. By some means or other I must have that ten minutes.”

“You will risk your life,” Lady Deringham said, “for I cannot suggest any plan; I would help you if I could, but I am powerless.”

“I must have that ten minutes,” Mr. Sabin said slowly.

“Must!” Lady Deringham raised her eyebrows. There was a subtle change in the tone of the man, a note of authority, perhaps even the shadow of a threat; he noted the effect and followed it up.

“I mean what I say, Constance,” he declared. “I am not asking you a great thing; you have your full share of woman’s wit, and you can arrange this if you like.”

“But, Victor, be reasonable,” she protested; “suggest a way yourself if you think it so easy. I tell you that he never leaves the room!”

“He must be made to leave it.”

“By force?”

“If necessary,” Mr. Sabin answered coolly.

Lady Deringham raised her hand to her forehead and sat thinking. The man’s growing earnestness bewildered her. What was to be done—what could she say? After all he was not changed; the old fear of him was creeping through her veins, yet she made her effort.

“You want those papers for something more than a magazine article!” she declared. “There is something behind all this! Victor, I cannot help you; I am powerless. I will take no part in anything which I cannot understand.”

He stood up, leaning a little upon his stick, the dull, green stone of which flashed brightly in the firelight.

“You will help me,” he said slowly. “You will let me into that room at night, and you will see that your husband is not there, or that he does not interfere. And as to that magazine article, you are right! What if it were a lie! I do not fly at small game. Now do you understand?”

She rose to her feet and drew herself up before him proudly. She towered above him, handsome, dignified, angry.

“Victor,” she said firmly, “I refuse; you can go away at once! I will have no more to say or to do with you! You have given me up my letters, it is true, yet for that you have no special claim upon my gratitude. A man of honour would have destroyed them long ago.”

He looked up at her, and the ghost of an unholy smile flickered upon his lips.

“Did I tell you that I had given them all back to you?” he said. “Ah! that was a mistake; all save one, I should have said! One I kept, in case—— Well, your sex are proverbially ungrateful, you know. It is the one on the yellow paper written from Mentone! You remember it? I always liked it better than any of the others.”

Her white hands flashed out in the firelight. It seemed almost as though she must have struck him. He had lied to her! She was not really free; he was still the master and she his slave! She stood as though turned to stone.

“I think,” he said, “that you will listen now to a little plan which has just occurred to me, will you not?”

She looked away from him with a shudder.

“What is it?” she asked hoarsely.

CHAPTER XXVI MR. BLATHERWICK AS ST. ANTHONY

“I am afraid,” Harcutt said, “that either the letter was a hoax, or the writer has thought better of the matter. It is half an hour past the time, and poor Mr. Blatherwick is still alone.”

Wolfenden glanced towards the distant table where his father’s secretary was already finishing his modest meal.

“Poor old Blatherwick!” he remarked; “I know he’s awfully relieved. He’s too nervous for this sort of thing; I believe he would have lost his head altogether if his mysterious correspondent had turned up.”

“I suppose,” Harcutt said, “that we may take it for granted that he is not in the room.”

“Every soul here,” Wolfenden answered, “is known to me either personally or by sight. The man with the dark moustache sitting by himself is a London solicitor who built himself a bungalow here four years ago, and comes down every other week for golf. The two men in the corner are land speculators from Norwich; and their neighbour is Captain Stoneham, who rides over from the barracks twice a week, also for golf.”

“It is rather a sell for us,” Harcutt remarked. “On the whole I am not sorry that I have to go back to town to-night. Great Scott! what a pretty girl!”

“Lean back, you idiot!” Wolfenden exclaimed softly; “don’t move if you can help it!”

Harcutt grasped the situation and obeyed at once. The portion of the dining-room in which they were sitting was little more than a recess, divided off from the main apartment by heavy curtains and seldom used except in the summer when visitors were plentiful. Mr. Blatherwick’s table was really within a few feet of theirs, but they themselves were hidden from it by a corner of the folding doors. They had chosen the position with care and apparently with success.

The girl who had entered the room stood for a moment looking round as though about to select a table. Harcutt’s exclamation was not without justification, for she was certainly pretty. She was neatly dressed in a grey walking suit, and a velvet Tam-o-shanter hat with a smart feather. Suddenly she saw Mr. Blatherwick and advanced towards him with outstretched hand and a charming smile.

“Why, my dear Mr. Blatherwick, what on earth are you doing here?” she exclaimed. “Have you left Lord Deringham?”

Mr. Blatherwick rose to his feet confused, and blushing to his spectacles; he greeted the young lady, however, with evident pleasure.

“No; that is, not yet,” he answered; “I am leaving this week. I did not know—I had no idea that you were in the vicinity! I am very pleased to see you.”

She looked at the empty place at his table.

“I was going to have some luncheon,” she said; “I have walked so much further than I intended and I am ravenously hungry. May I sit at your table?”

“With much pleasure,” Mr. Blatherwick assented. “I was expecting a—a—friend, but he is evidently not coming.”

“I will take his place then, if I may,” she said, seating herself in the chair which the waiter was holding for her, and raising her veil. “Will you order something for me? I am too