Chapter Seven
Two men sat at a small table in an inferior restaurant in one of the lower quarters of Madrid.
One was dressed in the rough garb of a working-man. This was Andres Moreno, who, in his adventurous life, had played many parts. With his sardonic humour he was enjoying this particular rôle. The danger that he ran added a spice to his enjoyment.
The other man, Guy Rossett, was disguised also, but not quite so successfully. Moreno, due to his birth, could never be mistaken for anything but a Spaniard. On the other hand, Rossett could be easily recognised as a member of the bulldog race, a typical Englishman.
That morning, at the Embassy, a note had been delivered by a trusted messenger. It was a very brief one, and ran thus:
“Dear Mr Rossett, – You will remember a certain evening at the Savoy, when you were dining with your sister, a young lady whose name I will not mention, and her father. My host came over and spoke with you all for a few seconds. I am in Spain on important business. I should like to have a brief chat with you this afternoon.”
The writer had suggested the meeting in one of the unfashionable quarters of the town.
He had appended his initials in a scrawling fashion. But at once recollection had come to Guy Rossett. He remembered that evening distinctly, when Maurice Farquhar had come over to their table, when General Clandon had expressed his displeasure at his nephew’s associate, a man of whom Guy had some recollection.
The scrawling initials might have stood for anything. But Rossett deciphered them at once. The writer was Andres Moreno, a member of the Secret Service, also often in the pay of Scotland Yard.
Guy called for a bottle of wine. Not trusting to the cigars of the country, he produced his own case, and proffered it to the pretended working-man. Moreno waved it away.
“We will have cigarettes, if you please,” he said, in a low voice. “Very keen eyes are watching us here. If you dangle that case much longer, they will put you down as a rich English milord. We may have to meet here often, and we want to avoid that. You see, I pose as a humble and unprosperous working-man.”
Rossett bowed to his companion’s superior judgment. Moreno knew the ropes better than he did. Cigarettes were called for, and then the Spaniard opened the ball. He spoke in French, in very low tones.
“Your friends did not do you a very good service in sending you here, Mr Rossett. At the present moment, yours is a very dangerous post.”
Rossett did not reply without reflecting. He knew enough of this man to know that he was a trusted member of the Secret Service. But he was intelligent enough to know that, in spite of certain walks in life, nobody can be entirely trusted.
“Do you mind explaining a little more fully,” he said cautiously.
Moreno smiled pleasantly. He appreciated the other’s caution. Rossett had a frank, open countenance, but he was not so innocent as he looked.
“My dear sir, I will lay my cards on the table with pleasure. I know a good deal about the Foreign Office and its ways. Greatorex sent you over here because you happen to have come into possession of a good deal of useful information about the anarchist business in this country. Am I right?” Guy nodded. “So far, you are right.”
It was a long time before Moreno spoke again. He wanted to touch upon a delicate question, and he was not sure how far he might venture. If he said what he wanted to say, he was making use of the private information that was given him by Maurice Farquhar. Of course, Moreno, with his swift intuition, had arrived at the conclusion that family influence had been at the back of Rossett’s promotion, for certain private reasons.
“I take it also that your father, Lord Saxham, had something to do with this appointment.” Rossett flushed, and spoke haughtily. He thought this cosmopolitan was presuming.
“I am not aware that my father had anything to do with the matter.”
Moreno assented blandly. “Perhaps, but excuse me for saying that your family might desire to remove you from the society of a certain very charming young lady, in whose company I saw you that night at the Savoy.”
“What do you know, or guess?” asked Rossett angrily.
“Please, Mr Rossett, do not be irate with me. Believe me I am your friend and well-wisher. I cannot tell you as much as I would wish, for, in the double rôle I am playing, I have to be very cautious.”
“Please go on,” said Rossett, a little mollified by the evident sincerity of his companion.
“For certain reasons which I am not at liberty to divulge, I take an interest in the young lady, who, I am sure, is devoted to you, and to whom I am sure you are equally devoted. I should also be pleased to be of service to yourself. You know that I am a member of the Secret Service, and that I regard every Englishman as under my care.”
“Yes, I know that,” assented Rossett a little grudgingly. Like his chief, Mr Stonehenge, he had a rooted distrust of all foreign nations. Was this man playing a double game? Anyway, he seemed to be remarkably well informed.
“I suppose you would think it impertinent if I proffered you some very good advice?” was the Spaniard’s startling question.
Rossett stared at him. Andres Moreno was most certainly a very extraordinary person. And yet there was a certain fascination about the man which enabled him to take extraordinary liberties.
“I will tell you when you have offered it,” answered the young diplomat curtly.
A greasy-looking waiter came up and hovered about the table. Evidently he was wanting to listen to the conversation. Moreno waved him angrily away, speaking in Spanish.
“One of the gang,” he whispered to Rossett. “The city is honeycombed with them. Perhaps he understands French; we will speak English.”
He paused a moment before he spoke again.
“My advice to you is to clear out of this as quickly as you can, on some pretext or another. Write a private note to Greatorex to recall you; mention my name, he knows me well. Tell your father to pretend to be ill, and get leave of absence to go to his bedside. You understand.”
“Why should I do this?” queried Guy sharply. Moreno looked at him steadily. “Go home as I advise you, and marry the girl you love. Stay here, and this country, fair as it looks to outward seeming, is likely to provide you with a grave.”
For a second, Rossett’s face blanched. He was young, and death seemed far distant. The ominous words of his companion had brought it very near.
“Why, why?” he stammered. His glance sought the sinister figure of the eavesdropping waiter hovering in the background.
Moreno looked in the same direction. “You see that scoundrel yonder, whom I chased away just now. He carries a knife always with him; so do hundreds of his fellow ruffians. You are in the black books of the brotherhood. There are several looking out for an opportunity to put you out of the way, because you know too much of them and their doings. Take my advice, and clear out. If you stop here, you have only a dog’s chance.”
Rossett spoke slowly and distinctly, the sturdy bulldog breed asserting itself. “I am sure you mean well. But do you think I would run away before this cowardly pack? Let them do their worst.”
“Think of the girl you love,” pleaded Moreno pensively. He thought the young man was a bit of a fool, but he could not help admiring him.
A spasm of pain crossed Rossett’s face. On the one hand, home and love, Isobel Clandon for his wife. On the other, flight before the dagger of the anarchist assassin. Was there any doubt as to the choice, to a man of his breed?
“I will stay,” he said doggedly. “And, if I put the issue to her, Isobel would say the same. I will stay, and, with your help, I will win through to safety.”
Moreno at this juncture could not help swaggering a little. “You have the best brains of the Secret Service at your disposal,” he said, “but you are a heavy charge, Mr Rossett. I should be much happier if you were back in England.”
“I go back in honour, not as a fugitive,” answered Guy quietly, as the two men walked together out of the restaurant.
“If that man had known who you were,” observed Moreno, as they passed the waiter, “he would have slipped the knife into your ribs. Adieu, my friend. As you have chosen to stay here, we shall meet often. I shall let you know how things are going on.”
And then, as they were parting, Rossett suddenly arrested him with a question.
“But, I say, how do you justify your existence here? What does Fleet Street say to your absence?”
Moreno smiled his subtle smile. “My dear friend, I am sending weekly articles up to Fleet Street on this delightful country, and its equally delightful population. In short, I am ‘booming’ Spain. I am the innocent journalist, out on a much needed holiday.”
Rossett smiled. “You are a very wonderful man. Au revoir.”
That night three letters were written to London. One was from Guy addressed to his sister, and it contained the important question, had his father anything to do with his appointment to Madrid; in other words, did he owe his promotion to anything except his own merits?
Mary’s reply came back in due course. It was distinctly conciliatory and diplomatic. But, as Mary was not very adapt at telling a lie, the truth peeped through. It was evident to Guy that Lord Saxham had exercised his influence to get his son to Spain, with the view of separating him from Isobel; Guy felt very bitter towards his father. He felt it was something in the nature of a dirty trick, diplomatic perhaps, but none the less of a questionable nature.
Moreno wrote two letters. The first was to Lady Mary Rossett. He had not even been introduced to that charming young woman, but such an elementary fact as that did not deter him. He explained who he was, he recalled the evening at the Savoy. He pointed out that her brother was in great danger, and that she should use all the influence of her family to get Guy recalled on some pretext or another. He added that he had met Guy in Madrid and urged this course upon him, that Guy on scenting danger, with the stubborn pride of the Englishman, had refused to abandon his post.
The second letter he sent to the head of the English Secret Service with a request that it should be shown to Greatorex. The motive of the second letter was the same as the first, that Guy Rossett should be got out of harm’s way, before an anarchist knife should be dug in his ribs.
Mary took the letter to her father. She was very genuinely alarmed; she also had a faint recollection of the swarthy young Spaniard who had sat at an adjoining table on that well-remembered evening at the Savoy. He had mentioned in his letter that he was a member of the Secret Service. She was disposed to trust him.
She thrust the letter into Lord Saxham’s hand with an almost tragic gesture.
“Now, father, you can see what you have done by sending him over to Spain. That wily old Greatorex wanted to use him just for his own purpose, and you fell in pat with his scheme.”
Lord Saxham read the letter, and his face blanched. “Oh, my poor boy,” he groaned.
His daughter loved him, but at the bottom of her heart there was always a little good-humoured contempt. He was so terribly weak. Headstrong, violent, and explosive, but always weak.
Lady Mary spoke irritably; she was tender and compassionate, but not in the least weak.
“We have got to act, father, and act immediately. Guy must come back at once. You must see this artful old Greatorex to-morrow.”
Saxham promised that he would see Greatorex to-morrow. He ’phoned up that important personage, and fixed an appointment.
The two men met. By that time Greatorex had received Moreno’s letter from the head of the Secret Service. He knew, therefore, exactly what his old friend Lord Saxham had come about.
The Earl began in his usual explosive manner. “By God, Greatorex, you haven’t treated me well in this matter. You have sent my poor boy to his death.”
If Lord Saxham had been a less important member of the aristocracy, the imperturbable Greatorex would have shown him the door. But under the circumstances forbearance had to be exercised.
“Softly, softly, if you please, my dear Saxham. It was at your request I sent your son to Spain, to get him out of an unfortunate entanglement.”
“I know, I know,” spluttered the Earl, never very great in argument, “but I didn’t know he was going to his death.”
“No, more did I,” replied Greatorex, speaking with his usual calm. “Now let us be reasonable and avoid indulging in mutual recriminations which irritate both parties. What do you want me to do?”
“Recall him at once,” thundered Lord Saxham.
“One moment, if you please,” said Greatorex quietly. “We have got to consider Guy’s views on this matter. I have here a confidential communication from a very trusted member of our Secret Service. He has warned Guy of his danger, put all the possibilities and probabilities before him, and Guy refuses to budge. In short, he declines to run away. What have you got to say to that?”
“Then I say he is a most infernal fool,” cried Lord Saxham in his most explosive manner. Greatorex’s lip curled a little.
“Perhaps from your point of view. Shall I give you mine?”
“If you like,” said Saxham sullenly. He was not so dense that he could not see what was in the other man’s mind.
“He is a very brave young Englishman of the true bulldog breed, who is going to stick to his post oblivious of the consequences. It is that breed that makes the British Empire what it is. Do you still want me to recall him?”
“Yes,” spluttered the Earl. “I want him recalled. I don’t intend him to be done to death by a dirty Spanish anarchist.”
Greatorex’s look was very disdainful.
“I will be on the wires all day with Stonehenge and Guy. If he consents to be recalled on any pretext, I will recall him. But please understand me, Saxham; he shall only be recalled with his own consent. I will go no further.”
The tall, lean man stood up, and towered over the somewhat blustering Lord Saxham.
“You can recall him, whether he consents or not,” cried the angry father, “if you choose.”
“In this case I am not going to exercise my prerogative. It is no use arguing, Saxham. On this point my mind is made up. I will only add that I greatly admire your son’s attitude. If he sticks to this business, he will have a great career before him.”
“Unless he is murdered to-morrow,” commented Saxham bitterly, as he walked out of the room.
The poor old Earl went back to Ticehurst Park in a very agitated frame of mind. Lady Mary was his favourite child, but Guy was his best beloved son. Ticehurst would inherit the lands and the title, but for Ticehurst he had only a very mild liking.
Mary met him in the hall. She was only a little less perturbed than her father.
“What news?” she cried eagerly. “Have you induced Greatorex to recall him?”
Lord Saxham had to confess to failure. He went with her into the morning-room, and related at full length the details of his interview with Greatorex. That powerful personage was ready to fall in with his views – but the stumbling-block was Guy himself. If Guy stuck to his resolution not to seek safety in flight, Greatorex would not move.
Mary’s sweet eyes filled with tears. She had already abused Greatorex, but she was too just not to understand his attitude. At the bottom of his heart, Greatorex approved of Guy’s resolution to stick to his post, whatever the consequences.
“I am sorry I said harsh things of Greatorex,” she said in a broken voice. “Of course Guy himself could take no other course, and his chief admires his indomitable spirit. But, all the same, we must move heaven and earth to get him away.”
The Earl sank wearily into a chair. Presently he began to cry and moan. “Oh, my poor boy. To think I have exposed him to this danger by my ill-advised action.”
Poor Lady Mary was on the verge of hysteria herself, but the senile grief of the old Earl made her strong and self-reliant. Her brain was working quickly. Could she not turn this moment to advantage?
“You are sorry for what you have done, father? You recognise that, but for your unfortunate intervention, Guy would never have gone to Spain.”
“I know, I know,” replied poor old Lord Saxham in quavering accents. “I would cut off my right hand if, by doing so, I could undo that morning’s work with Greatorex. I was very proud of it at the time.”
Mary spoke very slowly, very calmly. “Guy has got in him the Rossett obstinacy, and, after all, he is only acting as a brave man should. We are less brave for him than he is for himself.”
The Earl stretched out his shaking hands.
“Mary, will you write and implore him to let Greatorex recall him. Greatorex has given me his promise to do so, if Guy consents.”
Mary shook her head. “Guy is very fond of me, I know. In many things I could influence him, but not in this. It is no use your writing to him, you have less influence over him than I. If he would not listen to me, he will not listen to you.”
“Then he is doomed.” The poor old Earl’s head sank on his breast, and he surrendered himself to despair.
And now had come Mary’s great opportunity, and she took advantage of it. She was no mean diplomatist at any time.
“I shall not move him, you will not move him. And you say you cannot move Greatorex. There is just one person in the world who might persuade him. I am not quite sure even about her.”
Lord Saxham was very subdued, very penitent, but there was still some of the old Adam left in him. He answered quickly; the voice was still quavering, but there was in it a querulous note.
“You mean that – ”
Lady Mary lifted a warning finger; she knew he was going to say “minx.”
“Father, please, this is no time for old and foolish animosities. Guy’s life is at stake, through his noble, perhaps exaggerated, sense of honour. You and I are powerless to alter his determination. There is just a chance that Isobel will be more successful. Will you put your pride in your pocket and ask her to plead with him?”
It was a hard struggle, but in the end Lord Saxham’s affection for his son won. The old aristocrat gave in.
“Do what you like, Mary. I will consent to anything to get Guy back.”
Mary moved swiftly to the writing-table. “I shall ask her and her father to come to us to-morrow for a visit with the view of your sanctioning her engagement to Guy. I shall ask her to wire their acceptance.”
The Earl sat as in a dream, while she wrote; dimly he realised that events had taken a turn which he could not approve. But there was no other course left. Mary’s letter was brief.
“My Dearest Isobel, – My father has consented to approve your engagement to Guy. We shall both be delighted if you and General Clandon will pay us a visit. Please come to-morrow, if possible. In that case, send me a wire on receipt of this note.
“Yours affectionately,
“Mary Rossett.”
Isobel received that letter next morning. She carried it to her father with shining eyes.
The General read it, and kissed her.
“Good news, indeed, my dear little girl. Lady Mary seems a witch, and able to work miracles.”
“Oh, isn’t she a darling?” cried Isobel enthusiastically. “Shall I send the wire at once?” The wire was sent. Poor Isobel was a little distressed about the scantiness of her wardrobe. But she took heart of grace when she reflected that this was sure to be quite a private visit. It was not likely there would be other guests on such an especially family occasion.
Lady Mary met them at the station. She kissed Isobel affectionately, and shook the General, who looked very aristocratic and dignified, warmly by the hand.
“How did you manage it, you darling?” whispered Isobel as they sat together in the car.
“Circumstances went in my favour; it is not quite entirely due to my own diplomacy,” answered Mary a little shyly. She knew that, in a way, she had struck a bargain with her aristocratic and obstinate old father, the chance of saving Guy against his indomitable pride.
And she knew also that Isobel’s faithful heart would be very wounded when she learned the fact of her sweetheart’s peril.
“You will know all about it after dinner to-night,” she added evasively. “You must rein in your impatience till then.”
Isobel smiled happily. The world was rose-coloured to-day. Was not the last obstacle to her happiness removed? Would not her beloved Guy marry her in the sight of the whole world? His world as well as her own?
Lord Saxham was awaiting them in the big hall, having now fully reconciled himself to the situation. He had many faults; he was choleric, obstinate, and a good deal of an opportunist. But whatever line of action he took, even if he somewhat stultified himself in the process, he always bore himself with a certain dignity.
His meeting with the Clandons was expressive of his methods. He held out his right hand cordially to the General. With his left he drew Isobel towards him, and printed a fatherly kiss upon her forehead.
“Welcome to Ticehurst, my dear child, which henceforth you must look upon as a second home. If Guy were here to-day our happiness would be complete.”
The warm-hearted Isobel was ready to burst into tears. The Earl was behaving like a gentleman; she forgave him his former obduracy. After all, was it not natural that he should wish Guy to marry a woman in his own world?
They had a very elaborate dinner, to which the host and the General did full justice. Isobel was too happy to care about food. Lady Mary ate just enough to keep her alive, according to her usual custom.
After dinner they went into one of the small drawing-rooms. Here Lord Saxham, in very happy phrases, expressed his cordial consent to the engagement between Guy and Isobel. The men shook hands, the two girls kissed each other. It was a charming family scene.
And then, in a manner, the real business of the evening began. Lady Mary began to explain things in a low and hesitating voice, that often faltered.
She felt just a little ashamed of her task. Isobel was quite innocent, but she was not without brains. The General, she was sure, was quite keen. When she finished her recital, she knew both father and daughter would attribute the Earl’s sudden conversion to its proper cause.
But Mary had not quite finished, when the Earl broke in, in his usual impetuous way.
“You see, Isobel,” – he had by now taken quite whole-heartedly to the idea of her as his daughter-in-law – “we must have Guy back as quickly as possible. At the present moment, you are the person who has the greatest influence over him. No doubt, at a word from you he will come.”
Isobel indulged in a rather forced smile; it struck Mary that there was something a little enigmatic in that smile. Of course, Lord Saxham had blundered as usual, he had revealed the truth just a little too nakedly. Isobel was reckoning up her welcome at its true value, so far as her host was concerned.
This, of course, Isobel did, so did her father. But she was too sensible a girl to be offended. She, was, perhaps, a little disappointed that she did not owe this swift change of policy to her true friend. Lady Mary.
She thought a little before she spoke. “Are you quite sure that Guy would come back, if I implored him to do so,” she said at length.
She turned towards Lord Saxham with a pleasant smile that robbed her words of any subtle impertinence.
“Guy has always told me that there is a strong vein of obstinacy in the Rossett family. Perhaps,” – and here a proud light came into her eyes – “I could influence him more than anybody else in the world.”
Mary looked imploringly at her.
“And, Isobel, you will use that influence of course?”
“I will tell you something that, up to the present, I have only told my father,” replied the girl quietly. “I knew of all this some little time ago. My cousin, Maurice Farquhar, has a great friend, half Spanish, half English, who is also a journalist. He told my cousin that danger was threatening Guy. Maurice told me. You can guess what I felt. Guy is as dear to me as he is to you.”
“Of course, there is no need to tell us that,” cried Lady Mary hastily.
“My first impulse was to write to Guy, tell him what I had heard, and implore him to leave this dangerous country. I consulted my father. I did not write that letter. Many a night I have lain awake, and in the morning resolved to write it. It is still unwritten.”
The Earl’s face bore a puzzled expression. Lady Mary seemed somewhat bewildered too. General Clandon alone displayed no emotion.
“I don’t understand,” breathed Mary softly.
“Oh, can’t you see?” cried Isobel quickly. “Suppose Guy yielded to my prayers, and seized some excuse to come back! Might he not in after years reproach me for having induced him to play a coward’s part? Surely you can understand what I feel.”
And, in one swift moment of comprehension, the worldly and opportunist Earl and his far nobler daughter understood.
Lady Mary looked at her father with a triumphant smile. She had gauged Isobel aright from the first.
Gone for ever the dishonouring suspicions of a designing young woman seeking to make her fortune by a wealthy marriage. It was all too obvious. With Guy’s departure from Spain, Isobel had everything to gain. With his sojourn in that dangerous country she stood to lose everything.
“Whether I marry Guy or not,” went on the low, sweet voice, breaking at the end into a little sob, “his honour is my first consideration.”
The General’s deep tones broke the intense silence that succeeded those few words.
“Lord Saxham, Lady Mary, I most heartily approve Isobel’s attitude. I am sure Mr Rossett feels as I do in this matter. If he deserted his post at this juncture, he would be like the soldier who runs away on the battlefield.”
Lord Saxham looked at the beautiful, slender girl, so noble in her self-sacrificing love.
“My dear,” he said, in tones that were a little unsteady, “you are a wonderful woman. Guy could not have chosen more wisely. I am sorry – very sorry – ” He broke off. It was not perhaps precisely the moment to apologise for his previous obstinacy, his rancour against “the little girl who lived in a cottage at Eastbourne.”
Lady Mary went round the table, put her arms round her, and kissed her warmly.
“You are a brave and beautiful darling,” she said, with a woman’s enthusiasm. “You have taught both my father and myself a lesson in unselfishness. God grant that our dear Guy comes back to us safe and sound.”