Mysterious Mr. Sabin Read online

  CHAPTER I

  A SUPPER PARTY AT THE "MILAN."

  "To all such meetings as these!" cried Densham, lifting his champagneglass from under the soft halo of the rose-shaded electric lights. "Letus drink to them, Wolfenden--Mr. Felix!"

  "To all such meetings!" echoed his _vis-a-vis_, also fingering thedelicate stem of his glass. "An excellent toast!"

  "To all such meetings as these!" murmured the third man, who made up thelittle party. "A capital toast indeed!"

  They sat at a little round table in the brilliantly-lit supper-room ofone of London's most fashionable restaurants. Around them were the usualthrong of well dressed men, of women with bare shoulders and flashingdiamonds, of dark-visaged waiters, deft, silent, swift-footed. Thepleasant hum of conversation, louder and more unrestrained as the hourgrew towards midnight, was varied by the popping of corks and manylittle trills of feminine laughter. Of discordant sounds there werenone. The waiters' feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet, theclatter of plates was a thing unheard of. From the balcony outside camethe low, sweet music of a German orchestra played by master hands.

  As usual the place was filled. Several late-comers, who had neglected toorder their table beforehand, had already, after a disconsolate tour ofthe room, been led to one of the smaller apartments, or had driven offagain to where the lights from the larger but less smart Altone flashedout upon the smooth, dark waters of the Thames. Only one table was asyet unoccupied, and that was within a yard or two of the three young menwho were celebrating a chance meeting in Pall Mall so pleasantly. It waslaid for two only, and a magnificent bunch of white roses had, a fewminutes before, been brought in and laid in front of one of the placesby the director of the rooms himself. A man's small visiting-card wasleaning against a wineglass. The table was evidently reserved by someone of importance, for several late-comers had pointed to it, only to bemet by a decided shake of the head on the part of the waiter to whomthey had appealed. As time went on, this empty table became the objectof some speculation to the three young men.

  "Our neighbours," remarked Wolfenden, "are running it pretty fine. Canyou see whose name is upon the card, Densham?"

  The man addressed raised an eyeglass to his left eye and leaned forward.Then he shook his head, he was a little too far away.

  "No! It is a short name. Seems to begin with S. Probably a son ofIsrael!"

  "His taste in flowers is at any rate irreproachable," Wolfendenremarked. "I wish they would come. I am in a genial mood, and I do notlike to think of any one having to hurry over such an excellent supper."

  "The lady," Densham suggested, "is probably theatrical, and has to dressafter the show. Half-past twelve is a barbarous hour to turn us out. Iwonder----"

  "Sh-sh!"

  The slight exclamation and a meaning frown from Wolfenden checked hisspeech. He broke off in the middle of his sentence, and looked round.There was the soft swish of silk passing his chair, and the faintsuggestion of a delicate and perfectly strange perfume. At last thetable was being taken possession of. A girl, in a wonderful whitedress, was standing there, leaning over to admire the great bunch ofcreamy-white blossoms, whilst a waiter respectfully held a chair forher. A few steps behind came her companion, an elderly man who walkedwith a slight limp, leaning heavily upon a stick. She turned to him andmade some remark in French, pointing to the flowers. He smiled, andpassing her, stood for a moment leaning slightly upon the back of hischair, waiting, with a courtesy which was obviously instinctive, untilshe should have seated herself. During the few seconds which elapsedbefore they were settled in their places he glanced around the room witha smile, slightly cynical, but still good-natured, parting his thin,well-shaped lips. Wolfenden and Densham, who were looking at him withfrank curiosity, he glanced at carelessly. The third young man of theparty, Felix, was bending low over his plate, and his face was hidden.

  The buzz of conversation in their immediate vicinity had beentemporarily suspended. Every one who had seen them enter had beeninterested in these late-comers, and many curious eyes had followedthem to their seats. Briefly, the girl was beautiful and the mandistinguished. When they had taken their places, however, the hum ofconversation recommenced. Densham and Wolfenden leaned over to oneanother, and their questions were almost simultaneous.

  "Who are they?"

  "Who is she?"

  Alas! neither of them knew; neither of them had the least idea. Felix,Wolfenden's guest, it seemed useless to ask. He had only just arrived inEngland, and he was a complete stranger to London. Besides, he did notseem to be interested. He was proceeding calmly with his supper, withhis back directly turned upon the new-comers. Beyond one rapid, upwardglance at their entrance he seemed almost to have avoided looking atthem. Wolfenden thought of this afterwards.

  "I see Harcutt in the corner," he said. "He will know who they are forcertain. I shall go and ask him."

  He crossed the room and chatted for a few minutes with a noisy littleparty in an adjacent recess. Presently he put his question. Alas! notone of them knew! Harcutt, a journalist of some note and a man whoprided himself upon knowing absolutely everybody, was as helpless asthe rest. To his humiliation he was obliged to confess it.

  "I never saw either of them before in my life," he said. "I cannotimagine who they can be. They are certainly foreigners."

  "Very likely," Wolfenden agreed quietly. "In fact, I never doubted it.An English girl of that age--she is very young by the bye--would neverbe so perfectly turned out."

  "What a very horrid thing to say, Lord Wolfenden," exclaimed the womanon whose chair his hand was resting. "Don't you know that dressing isaltogether a matter of one's maid? You may rely upon it that that girlhas found a treasure!"

  "Well, I don't know," Wolfenden said, smiling. "Young English girlsalways seem to me to look so dishevelled in evening dress. Now this girlis dressed with the art of a Frenchwoman of mature years, and yet withthe simplicity of a child."

  The woman laid down her lorgnettes and shrugged her shoulders.

  "I agree with you," she said, "that she is probably not English. If shewere she would not wear such diamonds at her age."

  "By the bye," Harcutt remarked with sudden cheerfulness, "we shall beable to find out who the man is when we leave. The table was reserved,so the name will be on the list at the door."

  His friends rose to leave and Harcutt, making his adieux, crossed theroom with Wolfenden.

  "We may as well have our coffee together," he said. "I ordered Turkishand I've been waiting for it ten minutes. We got here early. Hullo!where's your other guest?"

  Densham was sitting alone. Wolfenden looked at him inquiringly.

  "Your friend Felix has gone," he announced. "Suddenly remembered anengagement with his chief, and begged you to excuse him. Said he'd lookyou up to-morrow."

  "Well, he's an odd fellow," Wolfenden remarked, motioning Harcutt to thevacant place. "His looks certainly belie his name."

  "He's not exactly a cheerful companion for a supper party," Denshamadmitted, "but I like his face. How did you come across him, Wolfenden,and where does he hail from?"

  "He's a junior attache at the Russian Embassy," Wolfenden said, stirringhis coffee. "Only just been appointed. Charlie Meynell gave him a lineof introduction to me; said he was a decent sort, but mopish! I lookedhim up last week, met him in Pall Mall just as you came along, and askedyou both to supper. What liqueurs, Harcutt?"

  The conversation drifted into ordinary channels and flowed on steadily.At the same time it was maintained with a certain amount of difficulty.The advent of these two people at the next table had produced anextraordinary effect upon the three men. Harcutt was perhaps the leastaffected. He was a young man of fortune and natural gifts, who hadembraced journalism as a career, and was really in love with hisprofession. Partly on account of his social position, which wasunquestioned, and partly because his tastes tended in that direction,he had become the recognised scribe and chronicle of smart society. Hispen was easy and fluent. He was an inimita
ble maker of short paragraphs.He prided himself upon knowing everybody and all about them. He couldhave told how much a year Densham, a rising young portrait painter,was making from his profession, and exactly what Wolfenden's allowancefrom his father was. A strange face was an annoyance to him; too, ahumiliation. He had been piqued that he could not answer the eagerquestions of his own party as to these two people, and subsequentlyWolfenden's inquiries. The thought that very soon at any rate their namewould be known to him was, in a sense, a consolation. The rest would beeasy. Until he knew all about them he meant to conceal so far aspossible his own interest.