Читать книгу The Day, or The Passing of a Throne - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Pierre Leroux was a naturalised Englishman who had come over from Alsace three or four years before to London, where he had established a highly successful business as a wine importer in the City of London. He occupied a suite of offices at the top of a building in Cannon-street, where until the war broke out, he had employed a large staff of clerks. Now, with the exception of two elderly men, the staff had gone back to the colours, and the business was at a standstill. Leroux spent most of his day there and some of his evenings in Cannon-street, but this, as he observed, was more a matter of habit than anything else.

It was a charming flat that he had in Medhurst-gardens, presided over by his daughter Vera, and Rosslyn was always certain of a warm welcome there. He had it now as he entered the cosily-furnished drawing-room there; it thrilled him to feel the pressure of Vera's slim fingers and see the light in those lovely hazel eyes of hers. As yet nothing had been said on either side, but the understanding was there, and Leroux tacitly encouraged it.

He was a typical Frenchman, a little stout, a little bald, but withal active enough, and a magnificent hand with a rapier. He discoursed eloquently on the war as they sat round the perfectly-appointed diner-table, and, Frenchman though he was, spoke in the kindliest way of the German people. His deep and abiding hatred was for the Kaiser and the militant party who had bred all these misfortunes. His eyes gleamed and his hands shook as he spoke.

"I have scores of good friends in Germany," he cried. "I would do anything to help them. Ah, to think that all this bloodshed could be brought about by one man. A man! A moustache! I laugh and I weep in the same breath when I think of him. And all this while Germany knows not the truth. They are told lies, lies of imaginary victories, whilst Berlin is on the verge of starvation. And that fool of a ruler refused to learn anything from a war which cost you English two hundred millions of money and a river of your best blood. He laugh and say you English, you are cowards. He make fun of your Lord Methuen and the defence by the Boers of Modder River. But he don't laugh no longer when the brave Belgians show him that there are others not too wise to learn. He does not laugh when the Belgians smash up his plan of campaign and make Europe smile at him. Ah, if I could get the truth through to my friends in Berlin—"

He threw up his hands in an eloquent gesture. Rosslyn hesitated for a moment before he spoke. They were all friends together.

"I believe somebody's trying to do it," he said.

But Leroux was not listening. He seemed to be utterly carried away by the force of his passionate anger.

"The Mailed Fist is torn and bruised," he cried. "The Steel Gauntlet is filled with its wearer's blood. The time has come—"

Rosslyn started as if something had stung him. For here was this peaceful Frenchman using exactly the same phase as the message which had been sent over the mysterious wireless. It was a discovery that brought Rosslyn up all standing and threw him into absolute confusion.

It was only a moment before he recovered himself again, but Vera had noticed, and there were a dozen questions in her eyes as she watched him. He saw the blood leave her face all white and anxious. Then she interrupted her father in his wild tirade.

"Did you hear what Mr. Rosslyn said?" she asked. "He said that there was someone here in London using a secret wireless station to communicate with the Kaiser's enemies in his own country. I believe that Mr. Rosslyn knows all about it."

"Gott im Himmel, ist das so?"

The words burst from Leroux like a shell. It was not a Frenchman who was speaking now, but a German, and the significance of it went home to Rosslyn, pierced his brain, and set him instantly on his guard. He showed no further sign of surprise or agitation. And Leroux, too, was smiling and apologising in the next breath.

"That is how a German would have put it," he said. "I know so many of them that I can speak English as they do. Ah, they told me I had a fortune if I went on the stage."

He turned the conversation adroitly, he chattered with ease as a man of the world on many things. But the little air of constraint was there, the chill atmosphere of suspicion. And there had been, too, one significant glance between father and daughter which had not been lost on Rosslyn. He felt quite relieved when presently he was summoned to the telephone to speak to his assistant, who whispered the fact that he had important news for him.

"I am afraid I shall have to go at once," he explained. "That is the worst of being the slave of a Government."

"Ah, but you are doing a great work, my boy," Leroux cried. "So make no excuses. Vera, my child, as our friend is going, I think I will just walk as far as the club."

But once he had parted from Rosslyn, Leroux turned his steps eastward. A taxicab deposited him presently at Cannon-street Station, where he took a first-class ticket to Blackheath. But not for use. He slid unobserved into a lavatory compartment, and when he emerged a moment later he was beyond recognition. Then he made his way rapidly to a block of business buildings, the basements of which, were given over to some engineering industry, and, late as it was, some machinery was still at work. But this did not seem to interest Leroux in the least. Quite unobserved he opened the front door with a latchkey and then toiled silently to the top of the building. There was a small office in a kind of turret, and this Leroux entered by passing through a strong door sheathed with steel on the inside, which he opened with a Chubb key. He flashed on the light and disclosed what appeared to be an apartment given over entirely to telegraphy of some kind, for here was everything necessary, including telephone accessories. Down a ladder leading to the roof a second man crept, and stood evidently waiting Leroux's instructions. The latter smiled grimly.

"We are in danger, Ludwig," he said. "And, what's more, the danger comes from the very man we have the most need of."

"Ach, you don't mean to say that Rosslyn—"

"Indeed I do. He's solved our cipher to begin with. He slipped it out to-night at dinner. He didn't know that I was watching him, but he swallowed the bait. And he hopes to lay us by the heels before morning. I heard what his assistant said, thanks to my extension receiver. At present my daughter is following him. We may get a message from her at any moment. Anyway, he knows now that I am no more a Frenchman than you are. I was fool enough to be taken off my guard for a second, and although he may not have noticed it, I am taking no risk in that way. And I know what to do."

"Got the place at once, eh? Get away or be caught like rats in a trap. Rosslyn will be here presently with the police—"

"Ah, that is where you make a mistake. He will come by himself. Rosslyn is that sort of man. And when he comes we shall be ready for him. Now put out the light and leave the door open. When I give you the signal turn on the light again at once."

They sat there waiting in patience, the minutes dragging slowly on. Yet Rosslyn did not come. No sound penetrated there, for the City was deserted like a town of the dead. And yet Rosslyn was not far off. He was taking his measurements carefully, and he was not going to leave anything to chance. He was standing there in the street below when boy seemed to rise from the gutter and thrust an envelope in his hand. He tore it open and read:—

"I implore you to go no further. If you value your safety, if you would strike a blow for your country and at the heart of the foe at the same time, forget what you have heard to-night."

When Rosslyn looked up the boy had vanished. But it was enough for Rosslyn that the warning was in Vera's handwriting. He hesitated for a moment, then retraced his steps slowly westward.