Читать книгу The Robe of Lucifer - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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NO more successful statesman than Wallingford Hope ever held the Continental portfolio; no orator possessed a greater charm. In one respect his record was unique; he had represented one constituency during the whole of his political life.

By rapid strides he had risen to perhaps the most important position in the Government; even the Opposition newspapers admitted him to be the right man in the right place—a rare meed of praise when one considers how profound a student is the modern journalist. It is only natural that professional Irish patriots and pragmatic Scots should be less prejudiced where the needs of England are concerned.

Hope possessed a European reputation as a diplomat. He was never mistaken; anything he foreshadowed usually came to pass. His enemies said he was dull and stupid; luck favoured him strangely, they contended. But the Continental Secretary had one golden rule in diplomacy—a rule so simple and so amazingly successful, that the wonder is no statesman had ever adopted it before. He used no diplomatic weapon at all. If a certain line of policy was advanced by his antagonist, he invariably opposed it, shaping his course in direct opposition as the other exposed his hand. "Let the policy be your opponent's, and your business be simply to burke it," was Hope's motto. No other diplomatist had this view of diplomatic relationship; it had never occurred to him in his worst moments.

It was difficult to see what Wallingford Hope could require, and what ambition remained to be gratified. Early in life he had learnt the lesson that honesty in politics pays best, as it does in every other trade. He never trimmed, because he was rudely honest; office was by no means a necessity to a man of his means.

He possessed the outward grace of a D'Orsay, combined with the easy, polished, worldly courtesy of a Chesterfield. A son of the people, he found himself at fifty occupying a high position in society, a favourite at Court. He had, moreover, a beautiful wife, who was devoted to his interests, and one who had brought him exalted connections by marriage, and great wealth besides. A Knight of the Garter, and the certainty of becoming the same of the Thistle, Hope apparently had nothing to desire. True, he hadn't a tortoiseshell tom-cat, or a blue Mauritius postage- stamp; but these were spots on the sun, and besides, he didn't want them. His hobby was horticulture, and his proudest boast that he possessed the finest collection of orchids in the world; he had them all, with the exception of the Purple Damask. But nobody else had one either—the only specimen ever found and brought to Europe unfortunately expired. Most people will remember the gloom cast by that appalling catastrophe.

This dodo amongst flowers, this blooming auk, so to speak, is fully described in the "Encyclopaedia Botanica," enshrined in a special article all to itself, written by no less than four eminent authorities. Originally discovered in Sumatra by a Dutch hunter, the latter disposed of it to a local merchant for a pint of rum and a copy of the "Arabian Nights." From thence the Purple Damask passed into the hands of a syndicate, who finally sold it by auction to Ambrose Barclay, Esq.—subsequently brained in a drunken brawl by his dear friend the Tipton Slasher, of fistic fame. Ten thousand pounds was the price paid by this gentle patron of the Arts for his treasure; not because he wanted it, or because he knew an orchid from an orange, but simply because it struck him as a neat and brilliant way of disposing of a large sum of money without unnecessary exertion. In this gentleman's possession the orchid passed away.

To describe the flower: it bore no more than three blooms at one time; it was a large bell of deep imperial purple, and scored throughout in rich orange with a pattern so neat and regular, as to resemble fine Irish linen. To reproduce this treasure, Wallingford Hope spared no time or expense. Attempts were made by growers to find another; private collectors, away in primeval forests, were risking their valuable lives, and perilling their more valuable digestions, to obtain the reward offered by the Continental Secretary. Rumours, more or less authenticated, reached England from time to time, to the effect that the Purple Damask still existed. A millionaire collector in New South Wales was supposed to possess one, for which he would accept a fabulous sum. Another was hidden away in Paris by an eccentric grand-duke, who kept it for his own inspection. He neither denied nor refuted the soft impeachment, when questioned. Still, as he had lately lost largely at Monte Carlo, Hope had expectations in this quarter.

But there were other things to occupy his attention besides orchids, damask or otherwise. During his term of office, the Continental Secretary had been endeavouring to conclude a treaty with Libania. Hitherto he had been baffled by the intrigues of Morgany, the Foreign Minister of which state had thwarted him at every turn. To Morgany, a treaty between England and Libania meant the thrusting back of the clock for fifty years, and a consequent check upon Morgany's ambitious schemes. On the other hand, it represented to England a practically new route to the East, a new outlet for trade, and additional prestige in distant Europe. The Grand Hereditary Caliph of Libania had shuffled and wriggled; he had promised and deferred; but Hope persisted. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, this time. If successful, popular applause was his portion; if he failed, it would mean something like political extinction.

Urged on by Hope, who spoke with undoubted authority, the Cabinet was deeply pledged to the carrying out of the Libanian Treaty. Latterly they had been losing credit in the country—also bye-elections—and the brilliant prestige of this course was expected to restore the balance of popular favour. He of Libania had been brought to his senses at length, and there only remained Morgany to be dealt with.

It is hardly necessary to say that the lines of the treaty were a profound secret. The feather had been nicely drawn over the eyes of Admiral Mongolifor, Morgany's ambassador at St. James's, and he of Libania was practically landed. How much money he owed England in cash and pledged credit the Premier did not care to think; certainly there would be a pretty fuss in the constituencies if the truth came out. But if, on the other hand, the treaty was ratified, they could proudly point out how, at the outlay of a few pecuniary sprats, they had landed one of the greatest whales from the ocean of finance.

Apparently Mongolifor slept. Hope had assured him that a treaty between England and Libania had practically been signed. The admiral—a diplomat to his finger-tips—had immediately set down the information as a colossal lie, and gone away under the impression that the last thing England required was a treaty with Libania. He hadn't the least notion what they wanted; but since Hope informed him that it was a treaty, he immediately concluded it to be something diametrically opposite.

Lulled into security, Morgany was apparently doing nothing. The least inkling of the truth—such, for instance, as an intimation of the fact that diplomatic relations between England and Libania were broken off—would have seen fifty thousand Morgan troops on Libanian soil within twenty-four hours. They would have forced a treaty out of the fat, lethargic prince before England could interfere. Their superior geographical position rendered them dangerous; therefore the utmost secrecy and caution were necessary on the part of ministers.

Still the treaty remained unsigned. Hope pressed the Libanian ambassador in the latter's more sober moments, then finally threatened. The ambassador's salary was in arrear two quarters, and he was desperate. He puffed a cigarette in Hope's private room at the Continental Office, in defiance of all rules.

"It has come to this," Hope said firmly. "It is no longer a question of what you intend to do, but what we require you to perform. When are you ready to sign?"

"Let's drop all official nonsense," Mason Ali replied. "You and I were at Rugby together, before I made such an ass of myself, and I can't forget it. Fortune compels me to serve that adipose old scamp over yonder in various shady ways, and d—d sorry I am. To tell the honest truth, Hope, we don't intend to sign the treaty at all."

"Then what the devil do you mean to do?"

"Barney, as we used to say at school," Mason Ali replied. "Just barney as long as we can keep the ball rolling. Those are my instructions, and I have carried them out well, Lord knows. Oh, he is a downy old rascal, is my old man."

"I suppose you are alluding to his Majesty, King Selim, of Libania?" Hope asked grimly.

"That's the bloke," Mason Ali replied. "How familiar the old school words come, to be sure. Don't be angry, old chap; I'm just as miserable about it as you are. The fact is, Sancho Panza—I mean Selim—is, one way and another, pretty well played out. What with his harem, and his wine, and his gambling, he is frequently as hard up as I am. For certain considerations you are to have a lien on the harbour-dues, on the ruby-mines, and further, you are to buy from him the waterway along the Magnos, and the land for a Marmora Canal. You can't do it, because these things are all disposed of already.

The Continental Secretary started. Yet he had half feared as much.

"You don't mean that Morgany——" he suggested.

"Nothing of the kind. Morgany is standing off at present—afraid of Russia, I expect. If they knew you were moving, they would risk it, and spoil your game quicker than you could dot an i. All the concessions you speak of were sold two years ago to a Yankee for a quarter of a million dollars. The sacred dragon jewels were pledged as a guarantee of good faith, Brother Jonathan being too astute to part without."

"But if Prince Selim should repudiate————"

"And let the people know that an infidel has the marbles? My dear fellow, the populace would tear the old man in pieces; his very guards would murder him. You haven't seen Eastern fanaticism as I have."

"Then we shall have to purchase from the American."

"You can't do that, because another Richmond has been before you. Hiram L. Cobber has disposed of his grants, including the sacred alley taw, to a mysterious chap called the Chevalier Beckton, a grim skull-and-cross-bones individual, with a face like an enamelled mask. He is living at present in a place he has furnished at Hampstead, and a veritable little palace. What his game is I can't say."

"You know the Chevalier Beckton?" Hope asked.

"I don't know him," Mason Ali replied. "He's not the kind of man to permit any one to do that, if I am a judge. But I have dined at his house more than once. Would you like to try your hand upon him?"

"Like it! My dear Mason, it is absolutely necessary. You must bring us together."

"On my head be it," Mason Ali replied. "You can tell Beckton that I mentioned the concessions. Perhaps you may get them at a price. I don't suppose he bought them to look at. And why don't you get the King of Fizzihali to squeeze Selim for you?"

He of Fizzihali ruled the dominion adjacent to Libania, an Oriental prince of some wisdom and unusual sobriety. Add to which his Majesty was at present in England. Years agone he had received his education here.

"It never occurred to me," Hope replied. "Ayoub is a man of great intelligence——"

"And a collector of orchids, to boot," Mason Ali remarked.

It was the great bond of sympathy between the Continental Secretary and Ayoub II. Ofttimes they had discussed the Purple Damask together, and deplored its loss.

"That is settled, then," Hope said, looking at his watch. "I meet Ayoub to-morrow night at the Morgan Embassy, when I will sound him. Meanwhile you are to procure me an interview with Chevalier Beckton."

"A private one, if possible. Mongolifor has some inkling of the concession business, therefore the less he knows of the matter the better. Au revoir."

Mason Ali was as good as his word. The same afternoon a note from him arrived at the Continental Office to the effect that he had seen the chevalier, who would be at home at eight, when he should be pleased to see Mr. Wallingford Hope. If the latter called at Bank House, Hampstead, in the name of Smith, he would find everything satisfactory.

Hope despatched an early dinner, and calling a cab from a rank some distance from his residence, drove away to Hampstead. Arrived at Bank House, and giving his name, he was immediately admitted to the library.

The place was large and roomy, and furnished in the most exquisite taste. Evidently Chevalier Beckton was a man of no ordinary attainments. His pictures were as well chosen as his books, which was saying a great deal. Beyond the library was a small conservatory, lighted by electricity, towards which Hope's footsteps gravitated naturally. The flowers there were of the rarest kind, and calculated to delight the heart of the connoisseur. Some of the orchids were almost unique.

Suddenly Hope caught his breath. He rubbed his eyes. Just before him, on a bracket, stood a small pot containing a tiny plant, on which were two blossoms. They were bell-shaped, of a deep imperial purple, and marked with a distinct chaste design in orange. No starving miner suddenly stumbling upon a pocket of gold could have been more powerfully moved than the Continental Secretary. There was no doubt about the matter—he stood face to face with a living specimen of the Purple Damask Orchid.

"You are admiring my flowers, Mr. Hope?"

Wallingford Hope started as if the quiet voice in his ear had been a pistol-shot. He turned to find the Chevalier Beckton standing beside him. The latter was easy and self-contained, his features expressed nothing, the man stood behind a mask.

"They fascinate me," Hope replied. "Do you know what this is, Chevalier?"

"An extremely rare orchid, I believe," the chevalier replied. "I won it a day or two ago as the result of a gambling bout with a certain grand-duke, who shall be nameless. The parting was painful, but the fortunes of war were mine, and vae victis."

Hope was still trembling with agitation. He appeared incapable of tearing himself away from the contemplation of the velvety blooms; the orange fire seemed to burn him to the core.

"Are you quite certain it is safe here?" he inquired.

"Perfectly, since I alone know its value. Nobody else is aware that it is in England. There are two blooms upon it, as you see; there were three yesterday."

"One was, unfortunately, destroyed?"

"On the contrary, I gave it away. They are perfect flowers."

"They are, indeed," Hope said fervently. "If you should care to dispose of the plant——"

"I beg your pardon?"

The Continental Secretary flushed, and hastily changed the subject. After all, he was there to discuss something far more important than flowers. Returning to the library, Hope plunged into the subject next his heart with the directness which had stood him in such good stead where diplomacy and finesse had so often failed. He understood that the chevalier held certain important concessions from the Prince of Libania—concessions absolutely secured, and of vital importance for the Government to obtain.

"In short, what you have to dispose of, we are prepared to purchase," Hope concluded. "I presume you are in search of a market for them?"

"The market is not difficult of access," the chevalier said dryly. "It is not a long journey from here to the Morgan Embassy, for instance."

"Then Mongolifer knows your position?"

"He suspects it. He is not particularly anxious, because Morgany is in a position to take what you are under the necessity of purchasing. The thing with me is certainly a matter of business. I am prepared to sell for a million sterling."

"An exorbitant sum of money, surely."

"Not when the life of a Government depends upon it. You cannot draw back, and I am master of the situation. I know exactly how matters stand, because my purse is long enough to command every channel of information. The lines of your proposed treaty are pretty well known to me."

"You are an Englishman, I presume, Chevalier Beckton?" Hope asked.

A narrow parting of the chevalier's lips heralded the dawn of a smile, a still-born one.

"For purposes of identity, yes," he admitted. "Beyond that, my sovereign is my pocket. The patriotic nerve has been paralyzed for years."

"Will you be perfectly frank with me?" Hope asked.

"Brutally so, if you like. I make you an offer, which you may accept or reject, as you please. It is all the same to me, because Morgan gold is as good as English. One way or another, the matter must be determined shortly. I am a sufferer from angina pectoris, a disease which may take me off at any moment. Only yesterday I had the worst attack I have had for years. My concessions are yours at the price named, and I give you a day to think them over. Let me have your decision this time to-morrow, and the Treaty is yours. Your word that the money shall be forthcoming will be enough for me."

The Continental Secretary took his leave, well pleased, on the whole, with his interview. He felt no misgivings as to the result. There was a Cabinet Council the following morning, at which the Libanian question would be fully discussed, and, doubtless, the million would be found. It was, after all, a small price to pay for the subsequent magnificent return. To make assurance doubly sure, it was necessary to enlist the sympathy of Prince Ayoub of Fizzihali. Hope anticipated meeting the potentate at the Morgan Embassy the following evening, when he could introduce the matter. Ayoub was most friendly disposed towards England; he was known to dislike and despise his royal cousin of Libania; and, moreover, he had a perfect mania for the collection of orchids.

But things were not destined to go quite as smoothly as Hope anticipated. With a wrap over his dress-coat, he repaired the following evening as Smith, via the humble hansom, to Hampstead, as arranged, with the information that the Government were prepared to accept the chevalier's offer unconditionally. With some impatience Hope waited in the library for his host's coming. A solemn functionary in black appeared instead.

"I extremely regret, sir," he said, "the chevalier cannot be seen. He has had a heart attack, which has prostrated him; indeed, we fear the worst."

Hope's heart fell. Somewhere outside two people were talking. The quiet voice of one could only belong to a doctor.

"Absolutely hopeless!" Hope caught the words—"last till morning. Couple of hours, perhaps—my professional reputation—fearful disease. No use my stopping—night."

"Is your master conscious?" Hope asked.

"Oh yes, sir. He has been conscious all along. The pain is what is killing him."

"Leave me here for ten minutes," Hope directed. "I must write a few lines to the chevalier, which you can give him at the first favourable opportunity."

The solemn functionary placed writing materials to Hope's hand, bowed, and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Wallingford Hope's mind was in a whirl. The chevalier's death would upset all his delicately laid plans; the crowning work of his life looked like ending in disastrous failure. He hastily scribbled a few lines, and then destroyed them. After all, what was the use? Mechanically he wandered into the small conservatory. The Purple Damask confronted him.

Failing the chevalier—now a broken reed—there was nobody but Ayoub of Fizzihali to fall back upon. Could he be really trusted? Was there any way of bribing him?

The Continental Secretary wiped his forehead. The bribe was to his hand. He had heard the doctor say that Beckton could not last till morning. There the Purple Damask stood before him; of its value, of its presence in the house even, nobody knew. And Ayoub II., like a spoilt child that he was, was prepared to give half his kingdom for that diabolical orchid. What a gaudy lure it was! It could be held out, a promised gift when certain things were accomplished. And in the mean time Hope could divide the sacred flower so as to possess one himself. Again, the pot was small, and easily concealed in the long grey wrap the Continental Secretary wore. Not a single occupant of the house knew who he was, save as Mr. Smith. And long before morning the chevalier would be as clay.

Two minutes later the demon orchid lay snugly concealed under the Continental Secretary's coat. Five minutes after that he was being rapidly whirled westward, wondering if he would wake presently, and find it all a dream. Just before ten, he let himself into his own house with his latch-key, and made his way to the deserted drawing-room. Lady Ermyntrude Hope had already departed for the Morgan Embassy. Amongst a back row of pots in the conservatory, Hope placed his treasure. He touched the velvety trumpet flowers with wet, shaky fingers. Then he threw off his agitation with a strong effort. There was no danger—there could be none. The only thing now was to carry the thing off boldly. He broke off one of the bell-shaped blooms, and replaced it in his coat for the rose he had been wearing. Ayoub should see it there, and draw his own conclusions. Further concealment was weakness.

The brilliant reception-rooms of the Morgan Embassy were crowded. A princess, sister to Admiral Mongolifor, acted as hostess. She was full of regrets at the absence of the minister; he was detained by important business, but had faithfully promised to return at midnight. Did not Mr. Hope know the slavery diplomatic work entailed?

Hope bewailed the common lot gracefully, and passed on. He found his quarry presently—a little snuff-coloured man, with wrinkled skin and twinkling almond eyes. He was dressed in European costume of immaculate cut, and was discussing a new music-hall dancer, with fluid knowledge of his subject. As he glanced up at Hope, his whole manner changed; his eyes rolled; he showed his teeth in a fearful grin.

Hope laid his finger on his lips, and walked on. Presently Ayoub joined him.

"You have got it," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "Ah, I recognized the glorious flower directly, and seemed to feel its presence in the room. Had you appeared wearing that bloom at my court, I would have had you strangled by the guard; I would, Hope, by God!"

"I don't doubt it in the least," Hope smiled dryly. "Your Highness must admit that Western civilization has its advantages, after all."

"For you—yes. But tell me where you got it. Did you manage to obtain merely one bloom, or have you a whole plant hidden away somewhere? I must have it, Hope; I must, or I shall do something desperate. If you don't oblige me, I'll give Russia that chain of forts on the Pyrus; I'll resign my claim to the Monte Pass. Lord, I wish you were dead!"

"There is no occasion for you to do anything of the kind, your Highness," Hope replied. "I have obtained a plant of the orchid; but how, must remain my secret. And the flower shall be yours later on—upon certain conditions, of course."

"I didn't suppose you would part with it for nothing," Ayoub growled. "Speak!"

"You expect harsh conditions, whereas they are nothing of the kind. As you know very well, I have been trying to bring your neighbour to book for some time. You must help me. You must throw your influence into the scale of England. Will you kindly follow me carefully?"

Ayoub listened attentively enough. He had all the Oriental love of intrigue for its own sake, and an inducement to throw himself into Hope's scheme which was almost overpowering.

"I will act as you require," he said in conclusion, "and I can soon bring Selim to his senses. Why didn't you make it worth my while to move before?"

Hope smiled. Princes, like less favoured mortals, rarely work for nothing, and the less they are trusted the better. And Opposition members have a nasty habit of asking questions.

"You must wait till I give you the sign," Hope concluded. "And now, as I see Mongolifor coming this way, we had better change the subject."

The Morgan minister lounged up to the others. Ayoub's dark eyes regarded him with astonishment, almost dismay.

"Look at him," he whispered. "The drops of rain do not fall singly. By the beard of the prophet, but he is wearing a Purple Damask also."

A sudden nausea gripped the Continental Secretary. A bitter taste filled his mouth. But it was too late to draw back now; too late to drag the flower from his coat, and crush it into the carpet. Admiral Mongolifor, a spare little man, whose perils on the deep had been strictly confined to the Channel passage, smiled shrewdly.

"Where did you get that flower from?" the Prince of Fizzihali demanded.

"Unique, is it not?" Mongolifor asked. "At least, I thought so till I saw Mr. Hope's. Mine came off a plant with three blossoms. I suspect it only boasts one now. May I beg the favour of a few words with you alone, after my guests have departed?"

Hope nodded. Words with him at that moment were as engraved diamonds. Mongolifor took his seat by Ayoub's side, and began to talk volubly.

"I suppose this flower comes from a rare plant," he said. "I saw the gentleman who gave me this bloom, not more than half an hour ago! He tells me that his plant has been stolen. The thief is not likely to get much for his trouble, as Scotland Yard is already on the alert. My dear Hope, you do not think of going already?"

"Did I look like it?" Hope responded. "Who is your friend, by the way?"

"A Chevalier Beckton, a really wonderful man, clothed and in his right mind, and full of the loss of his pet flower. I pity the thief."

"Then pity Hope," Ayoub laughed, "for he has come into possession of a Purple Damask, which he refuses to give any account of. Strange, is it not?"

Hope smiled. Yet his heart was sick within him. He would have given anything at that moment for a decent excuse to get away home, just for one minute, to destroy that accursed flower. But such a course was useless, since he had boasted to Prince Ayoub of its possession. And the Oriental would have sacrificed him ten times over rather than lose the promised treasure. He was ruined beyond the hope of recovery. Mongolifor had some deep scheme, some game to play, as Hope could see by the cunning in his eyes.

By this time the company had dwindled away. Ayoub went yawning off to his carriage. Mongolifor led the way to his library, and shut the door, carefully locking it. He motioned Hope to seat, and passed a case of cigarettes across the table.

"My friend," he said gently, "you are going to give me the lines of your proposed treaty."

There was no mistaking the threat underlying the apparently courteous words. The dry, hard face opposite Hope looked like flexible granite.

"I told you we were negotiating a treaty," he said.

"And, actually, I did not believe you. Still, up to a certain point, I did not mind you going, because I knew that Selim of Libania was powerless. I was aware that certain concessions had been granted, which he dared not repudiate. So long as those concessions were alive, I knew you to be helpless. I knew that Selim was playing with you. At the same time, I deemed it just as well to have your movements watched. When I discovered that you had found the concession-holder, I woke up to the fact that business was meant. To tell you the honest truth, I have myself been in negotiation with Beckton for the purchase of his rights."

"He never told me that," Hope exclaimed.

"Why should he? Like politics, there is no patriotism in business. The chevalier's sudden illness was a blow to you. When you got there to-night, I was in the house. Deeming Beckton to be as good as dead, you took the orchid——"

"A statement to which I give a complete denial."

"Very good. But denial is useless, when the same is in your drawing-room at this very moment. Two or three of Beckton's servants can identify the mysterious Mr. Smith; the chevalier will repeat how he told you the story of the missing orchid. Again, how are you going to account for the possession of that unique blossom? You are fairly trapped."

The Continental Secretary abandoned the useless struggle.

"Get to the point," he said hoarsely. "What do you require?"

"A complete disclosure of the lines of your proposed treaty; nothing less will satisfy me. I have the interests of my own country to guard. You dare not refuse. Defy me, and you will be in the hands of the police within an hour—a common, vulgar thief."

"And if I comply with your request, I am ruined just the same."

"Pardon me, there is all the possible difference. One scandal will be open and flagrant; the other merely a veiled one. Naturally, I shall act upon your information, which will cause you an unpleasant hour or two at your Cabinet Council on Friday. But your colleagues will not betray you; for the sake of the party, your resignation will be accepted quietly. I propose giving you an hour to decide."

Hope made one last effort for freedom. The house was perfectly still, the door was locked, and Hope sat between his antagonist and the bell.

"You do not hold all the winning cards," he said quietly. "In the first place, who is the Chevalier Beckton, whose word is to be placed before mine? Contrast our positions, please, in the eyes of the English electorate. Suppose I destroy the orchid, and deny the whole thing? What then?"

"Why, then all your pretty schemes with Libania would fall to the ground."

"Perhaps. But I should save my reputation, and baffle you."

Mongolifor smiled dryly. He liked a good fighter. Still, in the way of business, clemency was a virtue to be dealt out sparingly.

"You would not baffle me at all," he said. "Forewarned is forearmed."

"Again, perhaps you forget that I have Ayoub on my side."

"Only on condition that you give him the very floral treasure the existence of which you are prepared to deny. Check, is it not?"

Hope acknowledged the point with a trembling hand.

"Besides," Mongolifor resumed, "Ayoub is not to be depended upon at all. You must carry out your promise to him, or he will betray you—certain. If you fail, you throw him into our hands, ready to do anything to be revenged for your broken promises. And to fulfil your promise would be political and social suicide."

"You put your points clearly," Hope responded.

"So, you see, all the avenues are closed. Beckton's word against yours is slight. But, consider everything. There is Beckton prepared to prove his orchid; he can bring a grand-duke from Paris to do so. The servants can identify you. I can add my humble testimony. And you may be certain that Ayoub, who is a prince, mind you, will add his. Come, we are wasting time here. The treaty."

Hope's face hardened as molten metal cools in a mould.

"One question," he said. "I admit your position. This is a deliberate plot to snare me."

"Take it as you please. Why so angry? Had you not acted the thief, the plot had failed."

"True," said Hope. "I suppose you alone know the real reason for this conspiracy?"

"Practically," Mongolifor returned. "The rest is mere conjecture."

"Ah, then there is one way to preserve my reputation—the only way. For the present, the kernel of the secret is shared between us. If you happened to die——"

Mongolifor jumped to his feet. He saw something in Hope's eyes that caused the blood to leave his shrivelled face. He had gone too far. Hope had found a way out.

"Hope!" the admiral exclaimed—"Hope, for the love of Heaven——"

He said no more, for the Continental Secretary was upon him. The struggle was between a trained athlete and a child. Hope bore his antagonist back upon a couch. Over his mouth and nostrils he placed a silken antimacassar, tightly rolled into a ball. With cruel force he pressed this down, pressed it down with the vice of an iron despair. A few moments later, and Mongolifor had ceased to breathe.

The heart still fluttered. Hope glanced swiftly round the room. A bottle over the fireplace aroused his attention. At the base thereof was a red poison-label. It was marked, "The drops at bedtime. Ten drops only."

Hope smiled. Fortune was favouring him. Mongolifor was not dead yet. Half the contents of the phial Hope forced down the unconscious man's throat. Then he placed the body in an armchair close to the table, and laid the bottle hard by.

By this time Hope was absolutely calm. He took from a writing- case some paper; he carefully chose a pen. Rapidly he dashed off a letter to his wife, stating that business had called him out of town, and that he should not be back till late the next day. Afterwards he sealed and stamped it. Then he quietly left the house, and walked to Charing Cross station. The night was full of stars. There was silence everywhere.