Whither Thou Goest

Between them, she walked through the long, brilliantly-lit rooms. The Chief of Police tucked her arm under his, keeping a tight hold on her wrist. The other five men accompanied them. There was nothing in the general attitude to suggest that she was not a very charming woman being escorted by a bevy of admirers.

Contraras was standing by the door as the procession passed out. Agitated as she was, she saw him, and flashed at him an agonised glance.

He flashed back at her a glance equally eloquent. He knew the Chief of Police by sight, and he understood what had happened. Poor little Valerie had failed! They would take her to some room, and search her. In her pocket they would find those cunning little bombs that, once launched, would have sent tyrants and oppressors hurling into space, and proclaimed the dawn of the new era.

Poor little Valerie! His eyes grew misty. As she had failed, it would have been better if he had left her alone. If ever he felt remorse in his life, he felt it that night.

His first impulse was to leave the Palace at once. But wiser thoughts prevailed. The Chief of Police had recognised him, he was sure. If he left immediately, it might give cause for suspicion.

Valerie had failed. For the moment the Cause had suffered a set-back. But his resolution was still undaunted, his brain still active. Because he had failed to-day, it did not follow that he would not be successful to-morrow.

He sought out the Duchess del Pineda, who was, as usual, surrounded by a group of chattering friends.

“Good evening, Duchess. What has become of our young friend, Mademoiselle Delmonte?”

“I really cannot tell you. She broke away from me a long time ago. She has been a tremendous success, I can assure you. I hope she intends to make a long stay in Madrid. She will be most popular.”

“I really cannot tell you. I know nothing of her plans,” answered Contraras in his grave, quiet tones. “As I told the Duke, I met her in France and England, where she appeared to move in the best circles.”

“Naturally,” said the innocent Duchess. Nobody would suspect the highly respected Contraras of telling a deliberate lie.

Outside the Palace, the crowd had thinned, but Moreno and Violet Hargrave still waited. Midnight had struck and all was quiet. There were no signs that heralded the happening of a tragedy. A few belated arrivals passed through to the Palace. The crowd began to melt away.

And then there was a little stir. A carriage drove up outside the Palace doors. Two men and a woman stepped into it, the woman was in evening dress.

The carriage passed the two watchers. Mrs Hargrave peered into the slowly-moving vehicle.

“Valerie Delmonte,” she whispered excitedly. “There is a man sitting beside her, one of those two men I noticed driving in – don’t you remember I said they looked people of importance, and you said you did not know them from Adam. What does it mean? Valerie alone with those men?”

“It looks as if the coup had failed,” replied Moreno quietly. “I should say that Valerie has been caught, and those two men are members of the police.”

Mrs Hargrave grew a little hysterical. “Thank God, it was not myself,” she added, after a pause. “I am glad it was not you.”

Moreno was about to reply when another carriage drove through, the occupant of which was Contraras. His tall form seemed huddled up; he was evidently in a state of extreme dejection.

Moreno tucked Mrs Hargrave’s arm under his own.

“Come along! Evidently the coup has failed; the police have been one too many for us. Valerie Delmonte going away with those two men, poor old Contraras huddled up in that carriage, his attitude expressing that all is lost, at any rate, for the moment! We have nothing to wait for. We shall hear all about it to-morrow.”

They walked along arm in arm, both occupied with their own thoughts. Mrs Hargrave broke the long silence.

“He is a wonderful man. If he is dejected to-night, he will be full of energy and vigour to-morrow.” Moreno agreed. “Yes, he will think of more coups. I suppose the next one will be the removal of Mr Rossett.”

Violet made no answer immediately. Then, presently she said. “I fancy he is considered a rather dangerous person from our point of view.” Moreno shrugged his shoulders. “And yet I fancy his removal would not greatly hasten the new era, do you? He is really a quite insignificant person. If Valerie had brought it off to-night, well and good – but I must confess these minor developments don’t interest me greatly. Do they interest you?”

“A little, I think,” answered Mrs Hargrave, in a somewhat faint voice.

Moreno looked at her steadfastly. Her nerves were a bit out of order to-night. That long vigil outside the Palace had told on them – that waiting for the crash of the bombs which Valerie Delmonte had carried in her pocket, the bombs which now had been appropriated by the Chief of Police.

He gave her arm a tender pressure. “I believe at bottom you are really a womanly woman. The end justifies the means, of course, but some of the means are very bloodthirsty, don’t you think?”

“I thought so to-night, when I was waiting to hear the crash of those devilish, cunning little bombs, the latest invention of science, as our good old Contraras assures us.”

Moreno pulled himself up; perhaps he had been a little too frank. But he knew that the photographed letter always gave him the whip-hand of Violet Hargrave.

“Still, we must not be squeamish. Revolutions are not made with rose-water, and you must break eggs to make omelettes.”

“Absolutely true.” Mrs Hargrave, looking provokingly pretty under her veil, sighed a soft assent to these platitudes. He fancied her arm gave a responsive pressure to his.

When he went to bed that night, Moreno was disturbed with remorseful thoughts of Valerie Delmonte. If the Chief of Police had found those bombs in her pocket, it was he who had told that somewhat slow-moving official he would find them there.

Then he comforted himself. If he had betrayed Valerie, he had prevented her from hurling to destruction a dozen or more innocent people. His conscience was quite clear. If she had been a very ugly woman, instead of a very pretty one, perhaps his conscience might not have been troubled at all.

“I didn’t think much of that Chief of Police at first,” he murmured drowsily, as he turned on his pillow. “But he seems to have managed it all right. Still, on the whole, I would rather deal with Scotland Yard, or the Sûreté in Paris.”

Chapter Seventeen

Lord Saxham and his daughter had left Ticehurst Park. They were in their town house in Belgrave Square. They were neither of them very fond of London.

The Earl, in his youth and middle age, had experienced all the fleeting joys of the Metropolis. Mary, after the experience of her unfortunate love-affair, had definitely resolved that she would retire into a convent and devote herself to good works as soon as her father died.

Belgrave Square was even a little duller than Ticehurst Park. They were in the midst of a crowd that had forgotten them.

Lord Saxham was, to put it vulgarly, a back number, and was quite out of the modern whirl. Lady Mary, during her brief season, had fallen head over ears in love with the handsome young Guardsman, and had buried her heart in his grave.

The only thing that had drawn them up from the sylvan shades of Ticehurst Park was this – they wanted to be near Greatorex, that they could know what was happening to Guy at first hand.

The eldest son of the house. Viscount Ticehurst, dropped in occasionally, and deigned to spare them a few moments of his valuable time. As a matter of fact, at the present moment he was occupied with a particularly pretty chorus-girl, whom he was half inclined to marry.

Mary was fond of both her brothers, but she recognised the difference in them. Eric was as weak as water and destitute of brains. He was capable of marrying any chorus-girl on the sly, and then rushing her down home and presenting her as his wife, to the terrible consternation of his poor old father, who thought that people should always marry in their own class.

Guy was different – there was just a little bit of common sense in him. He had fallen violently in love with Isobel Clandon – a girl not quite in his own world, from the Earl’s point of view – but a sweet and lovable girl, and above all a lady.

And Guy had waited for the parental consent, which had been wrung under somewhat false pretences. But he had been content to wait until his future wife would be received under proper auspices. He would not rush her down and take his father by storm, as Ticehurst would do when the time came for him to present his chorus-girl to a justly offended parent.

Father and daughter sat at luncheon in the dining-room of the house in Belgrave Square.

Very terribly did Lady Mary miss her beautiful gardens, her flowers, her dogs, her aviary of little songsters. She was essentially a country girl. She hated any city, with its cramped and narrow streets. Even Paris had no attractions for her. Vienna and Berlin left her cold.

“You have seen Greatorex this morning, father?” she questioned when the servants had withdrawn.

Lord Saxham frowned. He had realised, in this his latest visit to the Metropolis, that he was a back number. He remembered the years long ago when he was the most golden of the gilded youth. Then his name was one to conjure with. He led the revels; if it pleased him, he painted the town red. Now, except for a few ancient cronies, nobody recognised him.

“Yes, I saw Greatorex,” he answered gloomily. “He was always as close as wax. He is closer than ever. He comes of an infernally close family. That family has never been anything great.” He was getting into his explosive vein. “Always underlings and jackals – always content to serve.”

“What did he say about Guy?” asked Mary softly.

“Only that he was quite happy and well. He did vouchsafe to volunteer the information that some great anarchist coup had failed.”

“Well, that was about as much as you could expect,” said Mary in her quiet, gentle tones. “He is not going to give information to everybody.”

“To everybody?” spluttered the Earl, in his most fiery mood. “Am I everybody? I have supported this Government through thick and thin. I have backed them up through everything. Why do they withhold their confidence from me, at this important moment?”

Lady Mary used all her finesse. She knew too well why Greatorex did not trust him. He was an open sieve. All news would filter through him in five minutes, at all his clubs, to the first acquaintance he met.

“You must not blame Greatorex, dear; he carries a very heavy burden. He dare not give an incautious confidence, drop a random word.”

“But why this reticence to me, of all people?” thundered Lord Saxham, in his most indignant tones. “Am I not the soul of discretion? Should I betray a confidence?”

Mary made no answer. She knew her father well. Privately he was the soul of honour. He would not betray a confidence wilfully. But he was loose of speech, and he was quite vain. He would drop a few hints, perhaps unconsciously, from which attentive listeners might gather much.

She let the stormy ebullition pass. Then she spoke.

“I wish we could hear some really authentic news of dear old Guy.”

The Earl grunted.

“You hear daily from Isobel?”

“Of course, but Isobel is a woman. She tells me what she is allowed to know. Because she is a woman, Guy and Moreno keep everything from her. They make out the path is strewn with roses. They will not tell her the truth, for fear of frightening her.”

“Then where are you going to get your information from?” asked the Earl querulously.

There was a long pause. When she spoke, a faint colour dyed Lady Mary’s cheek.

“I wonder if that young barrister would know anything; I almost forget his name – you remember, Isobel’s cousin who came down to Ticehurst and arranged her journey to Spain. Yes, I remember, Maurice Farquhar. He is a bosom friend of that Spanish man, Moreno, who, I fancy, is trying his best to defeat the anarchists.”

The Earl was, fortunately, very unobservant to-day.

“Yes, I remember him quite well, a perfectly decent sort of young fellow. A rather forlorn hope, eh?”

The flush had died away from Mary’s cheek. She had regained her self-control. She spoke quite calmly.

“Yes, I agree, but drowning people catch at a straw. Let me ask him to dinner, and find out if he knows anything.”

Lord Saxham was certainly in his most benignant mood.

“By all means. He might be useful.”

Lady Mary wrote a note to Farquhar, addressed to his chambers in the Temple. It was a somewhat formal letter – when she put pen to paper, Mary was always formal – inviting him to dine in Belgrave Square.

Farquhar’s first impulse was to refuse. He had no wish to mingle with the aristocracy on unequal terms. When he became Lord Chancellor, it would be a different matter.

Then he thought of Lady Mary’s winsome appearance, and he altered his mind. He sent a note accepting the invitation. But of course he knew why he was being asked. They wanted to know if he could give any reliable information about Guy Rossett.

He presented himself at Belgrave Square on the tick of the clock. Not for him the mauvais quart d’heure consecrated to meaningless conversation in the drawing-room.

Lord Saxham shook him kindly by the hand. Lady Mary was graciousness itself. Could she ever be anything but kind, even if there was, at the back, a little subtle feminine diplomacy.

It was a party of three, waited on in solemn state by the butler and two footmen. There was not even a fourth to make matters even. Farquhar smiled inwardly. These two guileless persons, father and daughter, must have desired his company exceedingly! Well, he would learn all about it later on.

The servants had withdrawn. The men smoked. Lady Mary did not leave the room. It was an informal party. Farquhar puffed leisurely at his cigar. He was awaiting developments.

Saxham opened the ball. He was a most undisciplined person. He was always like a bull in a china shop, charging with blind fury.

“It’s about Guy, we’re awfully anxious, you know,” he said in his loud, resonant tones. “I wonder if you can help us at all. My daughter and Isobel tell me you are a great friend of Moreno.”

Beneath his somewhat pachydermatous exterior; Farquhar had a certain vein of sensitiveness. He was now sure of what he had suspected. He had been asked to dine for the purposes of being pumped for the information he could or could not give them. Lord Saxham, in his blunt, vulgar fashion, had so unsuccessfully masked his hospitality. Then he caught Lady Mary’s pleading, almost shamefaced glance.

“I can quite guess what is in your mind, Mr Farquhar, but I beg you to forgive our anxiety. We are very pleased to see you here for your own sake. If you can help us with Guy, we shall be doubly pleased.”

She leaned across, and said, in a whisper that did not reach Lord Saxham’s ears, dulled with age:

“My father will, unfortunately, always take the lead, but he is not always happy in his way of expressing himself.”

The rather stiff-backed young lawyer forgot his momentary resentment under the kind words of this charming young woman who could so graciously pour oil on the troubled waters.

“Please, Lady Mary, tell me in what way I can serve you.” There was no stiffness in his tones.

Lord Saxham had subsided now. He gathered, in a dim sort of way, that he had put his foot in it, for about the thousandth time in his long career. He was going to leave it all to his capable daughter.

Mary drew her chair closer to the guest. Lord Saxham, for the moment, was out of the picture. Besides, he was nodding over his second glass of port. It was better so, he was now incapable of mischief.

Mary put her cards frankly on the table.

“As I told you just now, we are very pleased to see you for yourself, as a cousin of dear Isobel, at least I am certainly very pleased.” A faint colour suffused her cheek.

Farquhar bowed. No barrister can blush, but into his rather cold eyes there came a softer light which might be taken to express emotion.

“Lady Mary, I am certain you are not a woman who would ever say anything you did not mean.”

“Of course, there was an ulterior motive,” continued Mary, with her usual frankness. The flush on her cheek had not quite died away; it had rather been revived by a compliment that she felt was meant to be sincere.

“There was an ulterior motive, as I have candidly admitted. We are very anxious about Guy. Greatorex will tell us nothing, my father has been to him this morning, and he keeps his mouth shut. We hear nothing from Guy, of course, he does not wish to alarm us. Isobel writes short, chatty letters; naturally Guy does not tell her anything; she knows no more than we do. The question is, Mr Farquhar, do you know anything? You can easily understand how anxious we are.”

Farquhar smoked on steadily. It was some time before he spoke. Lord Saxham was now slumbering peacefully after his heavy dinner and his third glass of port. He looked just a little contemptuously at the somnolent figure. At Lord Saxham’s age, he expected to be Lord Chancellor, alert and vigorous.

When he spoke, he did not answer her question. Rather, he pursued the train of his own thoughts.

“It seems to me. Lady Mary,” he said, speaking very softly, so that he should not disturb the slumbers of his host, “that in a measure you bear upon your shoulders – very capable shoulders, I will admit – the entire burden of your family.” Mary protested feebly. “Oh, no, don’t think that for a moment. My father is very vigorous as a rule. Eric is quite a nice boy, just a little wild, perhaps. And Guy has got lots of grit; he will make good yet. I cannot thank Isobel enough for teaching us how cowardly we were for wanting to have him recalled.”

“Isobel has tons of grit,” said Farquhar shortly. “She comes from a fighting line.”

“Yes, Isobel, as you say, has tons of grit.” Lady Mary looked at him curiously. “You are very fond of your cousin, are you not, Mr Farquhar?”

“I am very fond of Isobel,” said the young barrister quietly. “We were brought up as children together. I was a few years her senior. I used to carry her about as a little child.”

Mary looked at him again, and for a second time a faint flush dyed her fair cheek.

“Will you think it very impertinent of me, Mr Farquhar, if I suggest that you were very much in love with your pretty cousin?”

Farquhar shook his head. “I don’t deny it for a moment. I was very much in love with Isobel. I always wanted her for my wife, but the consideration of ways and means prevented. When I did ask her, I learned that she had accepted your brother – ”

“And you are still in love with her?” questioned Mary, a little eagerly.

“It is no use being in love with a girl who is betrothed to another man. It is one of those vain dreams that a sensible man dismisses. Isobel Clandon is to me now a dear cousin, a good friend.” Somehow, Lady Mary looked relieved. She spoke lightly.

“You will get over it, and one day you will marry. And when you are Lord Chancellor, your wife will be the first female subject in the kingdom.”

“And Isobel will be the wife of an Ambassador,” said Farquhar. “We shall run each other close, shall we not?”

Mary laughed. “Oh, Guy will never have stamina enough to become an Ambassador. When he comes into dear old Aunt Henrietta’s money, he will throw it all over, and lead his pleasant old idle life. I know Guy too well.”

“Don’t you think Isobel will put grit into him?”

“Isobel is a loving woman. She will always see eye to eye with Guy. Whatever he determines, she will acquiesce in.”

Farquhar sighed. Ambition was always with him the dominating note. He regretted its absence in others.

“A pity,” he said. “With your family influence, he might go far.”

“He doesn’t want to go far, Mr Farquhar,” she whispered. She pointed at the slumbering figure of Lord Saxham. “My father has plenty of brains; if he had worked, he might have been Prime Minister, or very near it. In the Rossett family, there is a certain amount of grit, but not quite enough to bring them to the foremost place.”

Farquhar leaned across the table. This was certainly one of the most charming women he had ever met.

“I say, Lady Mary, what a pity you are not a man. If you had been, I am sure you would have put the Rossett family in their right place.” He cast a cautious glance at the still slumbering host.

Lady Mary smiled pleasantly. She was not ill-pleased with the genuine compliment.

“Yes, perhaps, if I had been born a man. I should certainly have been better than Eric, perhaps a shade better than Guy.” She broke off suddenly. “But it is idle to talk of these things. I am a woman, and must be contented with my lot, my humble sphere. Now, can you tell me anything of my brother?”

“You want me to tell you the truth, and you will not be afraid to hear it?”

“No, I shall not be afraid.” She spoke very bravely, but he noticed that her hands were trembling.

“I had a letter from Moreno this morning. He tells me that the design against your brother has temporarily dropped into abeyance. They had a very great coup on – that has failed. He has reason to suspect that they will now turn their attention to Mr Rossett.”

The tears coursed slowly down Mary’s face. The Earl slumbered on peacefully.

Then she raised her head. Her eyes flashed. She looked angrily at her sleeping father.

“Oh, our poor Guy. And it is his fault,” – she pointed at the somnolent Earl – “his fault entirely. He wanted to separate him from Isobel, because he thought she was not good enough for him. He went to Greatorex, and with his influence he got this post at Madrid – and he has sent him to his death.” Farquhar felt very sympathetic. No man can very properly appreciate his successful rival. But he was forced to admit that there was something in Guy Rossett that appealed alike to men and women.

“Now listen, Lady Mary! Moreno tells me a lot, because to a certain extent I have been in it from the beginning. I won’t bore you with details. Anyway, Moreno says he is quite certain he can save your brother. Perhaps Moreno may be a little too cocksure, he is a very vain sort of fellow. He goes so far as to hint that he might require my assistance.”

Mary looked puzzled. “Your assistance! But where do you come in, in this awful mix-up?”

“It is perhaps a little difficult to explain.” It was one of the few occasions in his life on which the self-possessed young barrister had felt embarrassed. “It is, perhaps, a little difficult to explain,” he repeated. “Moreno and I are very old friends. He was one night in my chambers. He extracted a promise from me that, if he called upon me, I would help your brother.”

Mary shot at him a swift and penetrating glance. “I can understand, Mr Farquhar, that you and Mr Moreno are old friends, that you owe many a good turn to one another. But my brother is nothing to you. Why should you put yourself out of the way for him?”

Farquhar temporised. “One sometimes gives promises rather rashly, Lady Mary.”

There was a long pause before the woman spoke.

“I think I can understand,” she said. “You gave that promise not because you cared for my brother, but because you wanted to help Isobel Clandon.”

Farquhar did not beat about the bush. “Yes, I wanted to help Isobel. Naturally, I do not love your brother, but she loves him. And her happiness is my first consideration.”

Mary looked at him with her soft, kindly eyes. “I think of all the lovers I have heard or read of, you are the truest,” she said, “and also the kindliest. If our positions had been reversed, I rather doubt if I could have done that.”

But Farquhar shook his head. “Oh, you are one of God’s good women. In any situation you would act a thousand times better than I should.”

Suddenly the somnolent Earl woke up, in full possession of his faculties.

“Well, Farquhar, what do you know about Guy?” He took the matter up from the point where it had been left in abeyance.

Farquhar explained patiently that, in his opinion, Guy Rossett was in a position of considerable danger.

Naturally, at this point, Lord Saxham went off at a violent tangent.