Mysterious Mr. Sabin Part 32

"You will be cold," he said. "Let me fetch you a wrap."

"Don't leave me," she exclaimed quickly. "Walk to the side of the steamer. Don't look behind."

Mr. Sabin obeyed. Directly she was sure that they were really beyond earshot of any one she laid her hand upon his arm.

"I am going to ask you a strange question," she said. "Don't stop to think what it means, but answer me at once. Where are you going to sleep to-night--in your state-room or in the deck cabin?"

He started a little, but answered without hesitation-- "In my deck cabin."

"Then don't," she exclaimed quickly. "Say that you are going to if you are asked, mind that. Sit up on deck, out of sight, all night, stay with the captain--anything--but don't sleep there, and whatever you may see don't be surprised, and please don't think too badly of me."

He was surprised to see that her cheeks were burning and her eyes were wet. He laid his hand tenderly upon her arm.

"I will promise that at any rate," he said.

"And you will remember what I have told you?"

"Most certainly," he promised. "Your warnings are not things to be disregarded."

She drew a quick little breath and looked nervously over her shoulders.

"I am afraid," he said kindly, "that you are not well to-day. Has that fellow been frightening or ill-using you?"

Her face was very close to his, and he fancied that he could hear her teeth chattering. She was obviously terrified.

"We must not be talking too seriously," she murmured. "He may be here at any moment. I want you to remember that there is a price set upon you and he means to earn it. He would have killed you before, but he wants to avoid detection. You had better tell the captain everything. Remember, you must be on the watch always."

"I can protect myself now that I am warned," he said, rea.s.suringly. "I have carried my life in my hands many a time before. But you?"

She shivered.

"They tell me," she whispered, "that from Boston you can take a train right across the Continent, thousands of miles. I am going to take the very first one that starts when I land, and I am going to hide somewhere in the furthest corner of the world I can get to. To live in such fear would drive me mad, and I am not a coward. Let us walk; he will not think so much of our being together then."

"I am going to send for a wrap," he said, looking down at her thin dinner dress; "it is much too cold for you here bare-headed. We will send the steward for something."

They turned round to find a tall form at their elbows. Mr. Watson's voice, thin and satirical, broke the momentary silence.

"You are in a great hurry for fresh air, Violet. I have brought your cape; allow me to put it on."

He stooped down and threw the wrap over her shoulders. Then he drew her reluctant fingers through his arm.

"You were desiring to walk," he said. "Very well, we will walk together."

Mr. Sabin watched them disappear and, lighting a cigar, strolled off towards the captain's room. Many miles away now he could still see the green light of the German man-of-war.

CHAPTER XLVII.

A CHARMED LIFE.

The night was still enough, but piled-up ma.s.ses of black clouds obscured a weakly moon, and there were only now and then uncertain gleams of glimmering light. There was no fog, nor any sign of any. The captain slept in his room, and on deck the steamer was utterly deserted. Only through the black darkness she still bounded on, her furnaces roaring, and the black trail of smoke leaving a long clear track behind her. It seemed as though every one were sleeping on board the steamer except those who fed her fires below and the grim, silent figure who stood in the wheelhouse.

Mr. Sabin, who, m.u.f.fled up with rugs, was reclining in a deck chair, drawn up in the shadow of the long boat, was already beginning to regret that he had attached any importance at all to Mrs. Watson's warning. It wanted only an hour or so of dawn. All night long he had sat there in view of the door of his deck cabin and shivered. To sleep had been impossible, his dozing was only fitful and unrestful. His hands were thrust deep down into the pockets of his overcoat--the revolver had long ago slipped from his cold fingers. More than once he had made up his mind to abandon his watch, to enter his room, and chance what might happen. And then suddenly there came what he had been waiting for all this while--a soft footfall along the deck: some one was making their way now from the gangway to the door of his cabin.

The frown on his forehead deepened; he leaned stealthily forward watching and listening intently. Surely that was the rustling of a silken gown, that gleam of white behind the funnel was the fluttering of a woman's skirt. Suddenly he saw her distinctly. She was wearing a long white dressing-gown, and noiseless slippers of some kind. Her face was very pale and her eyes seemed fixed and dilated. Once, twice she looked nervously behind her, then she paused before the door of his cabin, hesitated for a moment, and finally pa.s.sed over the threshold. Mr. Sabin, who had been about to spring forward, paused. After all perhaps he was safer where he was.

There was a full minute during which nothing happened. Mr. Sabin, who had now thoroughly regained his composure, lingered in the shadow of the boat prepared to wait upon the course of events, but a man's footstep this time fell softly upon the deck. Some one had emerged from the gangway and was crossing towards his room. Mr. Sabin peered cautiously through the twilight. It was Mr. Watson, of New York, partially dressed, with a revolver flashing in his hand. Then Mr. Sabin perceived the full wisdom of having remained where he was.

Under the shadow of the boat he drew a little nearer to the door of the cabin. There was absolute silence within. What they were doing he could not imagine, but the place was in absolute darkness. Thoroughly awake now he crouched within a few feet of the door listening intently. Once he fancied that he could hear a voice, it seemed to him that a hand was groping along the wall for the k.n.o.b of the electric light. Then the door was softly opened and the woman came out. She stood for a moment leaning a little forward, listening intently ready to make her retreat immediately she was a.s.sured that the coast was clear! She was a little pale, but in a stray gleam of moonlight Mr. Sabin fancied that he caught a glimpse of a smile upon her parted lips. There was a whisper from behind her shoulder; she answered in a German monosyllable. Then, apparently satisfied that she was un.o.bserved, she stepped out, and, flitting round the funnel, disappeared down the gangway. Mr. Sabin made no attempt to stop her or to disclose his presence. His fingers had closed now upon his revolver--he was waiting for the man. The minutes crept on--nothing happened. Then a hand softly closed the window looking out upon the deck, immediately afterwards the door was pushed open and Mr. Watson, with a handkerchief to his mouth, stepped out.

He stood perfectly still listening for a moment. Then he was on the point of stealing away, when a hand fell suddenly upon his shoulder. He was face to face with Mr. Sabin.

He started back with a slight but vehement guttural interjection. His hand stole down towards his pocket, but the shining argument in Mr. Sabin's hand was irresistible.

"Step back into that room, Mr. Watson; I want to speak to you."

He hesitated. Mr. Sabin reaching across him opened the door of the cabin. Immediately they were a.s.sailed with the fumes of a strange, sickly odour! Mr. Sabin laughed softly, but a little bitterly.

"A very old-fashioned device," he murmured. "I gave you credit for more ingenuity, my friend. Come, I have opened the window and the door you see! Let us step inside. There will be sufficient fresh air."

Mr. Watson was evidently disinclined to make the effort. He glanced covertly up the deck, and seemed to be preparing himself for a rush. Again that little argument of steel and the grim look on Mr. Sabin's face prevailed. They both crossed the threshold. The odour, though powerful, was almost nullified by the rushing of the salt wind through the open window and door which Mr. Sabin had fixed open with a catch. Reaching out his hand he pulled down a little bra.s.s hook--the room was immediately lit with the soft glare of the electric light.

Mr. Sabin, having a.s.sured himself that his companion's revolver was safely bestowed in his hip pocket and could not be reached without warning, glanced carefully around his cabin.

He looked first towards the bed and smiled. His little device, then, had succeeded. The rug which he had rolled up under the sheets into the shape of a human form was undisturbed. In the absence of a light Mr. Watson had evidently taken for granted that the man whom he had sought to destroy was really in the room. The two men suddenly exchanged glances, and Mr. Sabin smiled at the other's look of dismay.

"It was not like you," he said gently; "it was really very clumsy indeed to take for granted my presence here. I have great faith in you and your methods, my friend, but do you think that it would have been altogether wise for me to have slept here alone with unfastened door--under the circ.u.mstances?"

Mr. Watson admitted his error with a gleam in his dark eyes, which Mr. Sabin accepted as an additional warning.

"Your little device," he continued, raising an unstopped flask from the table by the side of the bed, "is otherwise excellent, and I feel that I owe you many thanks for arranging a death that should be painless. You might have made other plans which would have been not only more clumsy, but which might have caused me a considerable amount of personal inconvenience and discomfort. Your arrangements, I see, were altogether excellent. You arranged for my--er--extermination asleep or awake. If awake the little visit which your charming wife had just paid here was to have provided you at once with a motive for the crime and a distinctly mitigating circ.u.mstance. That was very ingenious. Pardon my lighting a cigarette, these fumes are a little powerful. Then if I was asleep and had not been awakened by the time you arrived--well, it was to be a drug! Supposing, my dear Mr. Watson, you do me the favour of emptying this little flask into the sea."

Mr. Watson obeyed promptly. There were several points in his favour to be gained by the destruction of this evidence of his unsuccessful attempt. As he crossed the deck holding the little bottle at arm's length from him a delicate white vapour could be distinctly seen rising from the bottle and vanishing into the air. There was a little hiss like the hiss of a snake as it touched the water, and a spot of white froth marked the place where it sank.

"Much too strong," Mr. Sabin murmured. "A sad waste of a very valuable drug, my friend. Now will you please come inside with me. We must have a little chat. But first kindly stand quite still for one moment. There is no particular reason why I should run any risk. I am going to take that revolver from your pocket and throw it overboard."

Mr Watson's first instinct was evidently one of resistance. Then suddenly he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver upon his forehead.

"If you move," Mr. Sabin said quietly, "you are a dead man. My best policy would be to kill you; I am foolish not to do it. But I hate violence. You are safe if you do as I tell you."

Mr. Watson recognised the fact that his companion was in earnest. He stood quite still and watched his revolver describe a semi-circle in the darkness and a fall with a little splash in the water. Then he followed Mr. Sabin into his cabin.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE DOOMSCHEN.

"I suppose," Mr. Sabin began, closing the door of the cabin behind him, "that I may take it--this episode--as an indication of your refusal to accept the proposals I made to you?"

Mr. Watson did not immediately reply. He had seated himself on the corner of a lounge and was leaning forward, his head resting moodily upon his hands. His sallow face was paler even than usual, and his expression was sullen. He looked, as he undoubtedly was, in an evil humour with himself and all things.

"It was not a matter of choice with me," he muttered. "Look out of your window there and you will see that even here upon the ocean I am under surveillance."

Mr. Sabin's eyes followed the man's forefinger. Far away across the ocean he could see a dim green light almost upon the horizon. It was the German man-of-war.

"That is quite true," Mr. Sabin said. "I admit that there are difficulties, but it seems to me that you have overlooked the crux of the whole matter. I have offered you enough to live on for the rest of your days, without ever returning to Europe. You know very well that you can step off this ship arm-in-arm with me when we reach Boston, even though your man-of-war be alongside the dock. They could not touch you--you could leave your--pardon me--not too honourable occupation once and for ever. America is not the country in which one would choose to live, but it has its resources--it can give you big game and charming women. I have lived there and I know. It is not Europe, but it is the next best thing. Come, you had better accept my terms!"

The man had listened without moving a muscle of his face. There was something almost pitiable in its white, sullen despair. Then his lips parted.

"Would to G.o.d I could!" he moaned. "Would to G.o.d I had the power to listen to you!"

Mr. Sabin flicked the ash off his cigarette and looked thoughtful. He stroked his grey imperial and kept his eyes on his companion.

"The extradition laws," the other interrupted savagely.

Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders. "By all means," he murmured. "Personally I have no interest in them; but if you would talk like a reasonable man and tell me where your difficulty lies I might be able to help you."

The man who had called himself Watson raised his head slowly. His expression remained altogether hopeless. He had the appearance of a man given wholly over to despair.

"Have you ever heard of the Doomschen?" he asked slowly.

Mr. Sabin shuddered. He became suddenly very grave. "You are not one of them?" he exclaimed.

The man bowed his head.

"I am one of those devils," he admitted.

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet and walked up and down the little room.

"Of course," he remarked, "that complicates matters, but there ought to be a way out of it. Let me think for a moment."

The man on the lounge sat still with unchanging face. In his heart he knew that there was no way out of it. The chains which bound him were such as the hand of man had no power to destroy. The arm of his master was long. It had reached him here--it would reach him to the farthermost corner of the world. Nor could Mr. Sabin for the moment see any light. The man was under perpetual sentence of death. There was no country in the world which would not give him up, if called upon to do so.

"What you have told me," Mr. Sabin said, "explains, of course to a certain extent, your present indifference to my offers. But when I first approached you in this way you certainly led me to think----"

"That was before that cursed Kaiser Wilhelm came up," Watson interrupted. "I had a plan--I might have made a rush for liberty at any rate!"

"But surely you would have been marked down at Boston," Mr. Sabin said.

"The only friend I have in the world," the other said slowly, "is the manager of the Government's Secret Cable Office at Berlin. He was on my side. It would have given me a chance, but now"--he looked out of the window--"it is hopeless!"

Mr. Sabin resumed his chair and lit a fresh cigarette. He had thought the matter out and began to see light.

"It is rather an awkward fix," he said, "but 'hopeless' is a word which I do not understand. As regards our present dilemma I think that I see an excellent way out of it."

A momentary ray of hope flashed across the man's face. Then he shook his head.

"It is not possible," he murmured.

Mr. Sabin smiled quietly.

"My friend," he said, "I perceive that you are a pessimist! You will find yourself in a very short time a free man with the best of your life before you. Take my advice. Whatever career you embark in do so in a more sanguine spirit. Difficulties to the man who faces them boldly lose half their strength. But to proceed. You are one of those who are called 'Doomschen.' That means, I believe, that you have committed a crime punishable by death,--that you are on parole only so long as you remain in the service of the Secret Police of your country. That is so, is it not?"

The man a.s.sented grimly. Mr. Sabin continued-- "If you were to abandon your present task and fail to offer satisfactory explanations--if you were to attempt to settle down in America, your extradition, I presume, would at once be applied for. You would be given no second chance."

"I should be shot without a moment's hesitation," Watson admitted grimly.

"Exactly; and there is, I believe, another contingency. If you should succeed in your present enterprise, which, I presume, is my extermination, you would obtain your freedom."

The man on the lounge nodded. A species of despair was upon him. This man was his master in all ways. He would be his master to the end.

"That brings us," Mr. Sabin continued, "to my proposition. I must admit that the details I have not fully thought out yet, but that is a matter of only half an hour or so. I propose that you should kill me in Boston Harbour and escape to your man-of-war. They will, of course, refuse to give you up, and on your return to Germany you will receive your freedom."

"But--but you," Watson exclaimed, bewildered, "you don't want to be killed, surely?"

"I do not intend to be--actually," Mr. Sabin explained. "Exactly how I am going to manage it I can't tell you just now, but it will be quite easy. I shall be dead to the belief of everybody on board here except the captain, and he will be our accomplice. I shall remain hidden until your Kaiser Wilhelm has left, and when I do land in America--it shall not be as Mr. Sabin."

Watson rose to his feet He was a transformed man. A sudden hope had brightened his face. His eyes were on fire.

"It is a wonderful scheme!" he exclaimed. "But the captain--surely he will never consent to help?"

"On the contrary," Mr. Sabin answered, "he will do it for the asking. There is not a single difficulty which we cannot easily surmount."

"There is my companion," Watson remarked; "she will have to be reckoned with."

"Leave her," Mr. Sabin said, "to me. I will undertake that she shall be on our side before many hours are pa.s.sed. You had better go down to your room now. It is getting light and I want to rest."

Watson paused upon the threshold. He pointed in some embarra.s.sment to the table by the side of the bed.

"Is it any use," he murmured in a low tone, "saying that I am sorry for this?"

"You only did--what--in a sense was your duty," Mr. Sabin answered. "I bear no malice--especially since I escaped."

Watson closed the door and Mr. Sabin glanced at the bed. For a moment or two he hesitated, although the desire for sleep had gone by. Then he stepped out on to the deck and leaned thoughtfully over the white railing. Far away eastwards there were signs already of the coming day. A soft grey twilight rested upon the sea; darker and blacker the waters seemed just then by contrast with the lightening skies. A fresh breeze was blowing. There was no living thing within sight save that faint green light where the rolling sea touched the clouds. Mr. Sabin's eyes grew fixed. A curious depression came over him in that half hour before the dawn when all emotion is quickened by that intense brooding stillness. He was pa.s.sing, he felt, into perpetual exile. He who had been so intimately in touch with the large things of the world had come to that point when after all he was bound to write his life down a failure. For its great desire was no nearer consummation. He had made his grand effort and he had failed. He had been very near success. He had seen closely into the Promised Land. Perhaps it was such thoughts as these which made his non-success the more bitter, and then, with the instincts of a philosopher, he asked himself now, surrounded in fancy by the fragments of his broken dreams, whether it had been worth while. That love of the beautiful and picturesque side of his country which had been his first inspiration, which had been at the root of his pa.s.sionate patriotism, seemed just then in the grey moments of his despair so weak a thing. He had sacrificed so much to it--his whole life had been moulded and shaped to that one end. There had been other ways in which he might have found happiness. Was he growing morbid, he wondered, bitterly but unresistingly, that her face should suddenly float before his eyes. In fancy he could see her coming towards him there across the still waters, the old brilliant smile upon her lips, the lovelight in her eyes, that calm disdain of all other men written so plainly on the face which should surely have been a queen's.