The Under-Secretary

Shows Signori of the Suburbs

The wiry Italian with the bristly moustache glanced at him half suspiciously; then a smile lit up his face for an instant.

“The Signorina Mortimer is an English signorina whom I have known a long time. Francesco Marucci is a friend of all the English.”

“I know. But in this matter you are actually working against the efforts of your own department.”

“As I have already explained to the signore, I am but the signorina’s messenger,” he declared, in a tone which showed him to be a past-master in the art of evasion. “She urges you to pay an immediate visit to a certain person here in London, and to leave for the Continent to-morrow morning – for Italy.”

“To go to her? Why cannot she come to England?”

“Because just at present that is impossible,” the man replied.

“And this visit you speak of. To whom is it?” The Italian drew from his pocket a small and shabby wallet, about six inches square, of the kind used in Italy to carry the paper money. From this he took a card, on which was written an address at Penge.

“She asks you to call at the house indicated immediately this card comes into your possession,” he said. “As your visit is expected, you had better go to-night.”

“For what reason?”

“For reasons known to her alone,” replied the messenger. “I am not in the possession of the motives of the signorina in this affair.”

“Speak candidly, Marucci,” said Chisholm. “You, as confidential agent of the British Government, know all about this matter. You cannot deny that?”

“I know the facts only so far as it is necessary for me to know them,” answered the Italian warily. He was still much impressed by the manner in which the Signor Sotto-Secretario had pronounced his nationality.

“You know the object of my visit to Penge, eh?”

“No, signore, I assure you that I do not. I am merely obeying orders given me by the signorina, and I hope to leave Charing Cross at nine o’clock to-morrow morning on my return to Italy.”

“Did she explain to you the manner in which the truth had been revealed?” he inquired eagerly.

“No, but I can guess,” was his companion’s answer, given in a low voice. “Some one has denounced you, and consequently your English police have received information which necessitates your flying the country and remaining hidden until you can prove an unshakeable alibi.”

Dudley was silent, thoughtfully polishing the silver handle of his cane with his glove.

“Were no instructions given you as to the mode in which I should escape? If I am watched, as you allege, then the ordinary routes to the Continent are under observation and the Channel ports closed to me.”

“No instructions were given me,” he replied. “You are to pay a visit to that address, and afterwards to leave for Florence, where I am to meet you at the Hotel Savoy. To-day is Thursday; I shall call for you at the hotel at midday on Monday.”

The hunted man reflected, for the position was both embarrassing and serious. Here were peremptory orders from the woman to whom he had sold himself as the price of his secret, to the effect that he should renounce everything, leave England, and become known at Scotland Yard as a criminal fugitive. He was to part from Claudia, whom he loved, and who loved him with all her soul; to leave her without farewell and without any words breathing patience and courage. And this, after his solemn declarations of an hour before!

What would she think of him – she who had been just as much a part of his life as he of hers?

In those brief moments he remembered the wild, uncurbed passion of her love; how that she had exalted him as her idol, as the one person who held her future in his hands, the one person whose kiss gave life to her. She was wealthy, almost beyond the wildest dreams of her youth; but riches availed her not. Her heart was bursting with the great and boundless love she bore him. He knew this; knew it all, and sighed as he faced the inevitable.

What an ignominious ending to a brief and brilliant career! It had been a thousand times better if he had cast the offer of the temptress aside, and swallowed the fatal draught he had prepared! The jury would have pronounced him to be the victim of temporary insanity, and all the ugly story that was now in possession of Scotland Yard would have been hushed for ever, and the high honour of the Chisholms saved from public blemish.

Bah! He had been weak, he told himself, and for his lack of courage he must now suffer. His thoughts turned again to suicide, but on reflection he saw that to take his own life was now unavailing. The truth was known at the Home Office, and the police would reveal it at the inquiry into the cause of his decease.

He was helpless, utterly helpless, in the hands of a clever adventuress.

Long and steadily he looked at the Italian. This man with the thin, haggard face, grey moustache and deeply furrowed brow, was actually the most daring and ingenious of all the confidential agents employed by the British Intelligence Department on the Continent. Known to the Department as Benvenuto Cuillini, it was owing to his astuteness, indomitable energy, and patient inquiry that the British Government were often put in possession of information of the highest possible value in the conduct of diplomacy or of war. There is, of course, in the Englishman’s mind an emphatic dislike of the employment of spies, but we have nowadays to face hard facts, and must pander to no sentimentalities in dealing with avowed enemies. The recent Transvaal war has shown the hopeless inefficiency of our secret service in South Africa, and has taught every Englishman the lesson that, even though he may be disinclined to employ spies, he must keep pace with other nations. Furthermore, it has proved to him that knowledge is power and that it may often be the means of saving many valuable lives.

The barman, feeling thankful that the end of his day’s work was at last reached, shouted in a stentorian voice:

“Time, gentlemen! Time!”

This announcement caused every one to drain his glass and rise.

“You will lose no time in visiting the house indicated upon the card, will you?” urged the secret agent. “And I shall meet you at the Savoy in Florence on Monday next at noon. That is a definite appointment.”

“If you wish,” Chisholm replied mechanically. And both went out, walking slowly down the court.

Before turning into Piccadilly, the Italian halted, declaring it was best that they should not be seen in company. He therefore wished Dudley good-night, and “buon viaggio.”

Should he return to Albert Gate and speak with Claudia for the last time? Ah! if only he dared to tell her the ghastly truth; to lay bare his innermost consciousness and expose to her the secret of his sin! Ah! if he only could! If he only dared to ask for her guidance, as he had so often done at the other crises of his life! She loved him; but would she love him any longer when she knew the appalling truth?

No. It was quite impossible. Even to the passionate love of a woman there is a limit.

He stood in hesitation on the crowded pavement, under the portico of the St. James’s Restaurant. To go down to the House was out of the question. Should he return to Claudia? He glanced at his watch. No. It was too late. What excuse could he make for seeking an interview with her after she had retired for the night and the great house was closed. If he went there he must perforce tell her of his intended flight – that they must, in future, be apart. This would result in a scene; and he hated scenes.

He would write to her. It was the only way. After to-morrow he, whose career had been so brilliant and full of promise, whose life was supposed by all to be so free from any cares, save those belonging to his political office, would be a fugitive upon whose track the police would raise a hue and cry throughout all the various countries which had treaties of extradition with England.

“It is God’s justice,” he murmured. “I have sinned, and this is my punishment.”

Two rough-voiced women jostled him, making some silly remarks about his star-gazing.

This roused him, and he permitted himself to drift with the crowd along to the Circus, where, having glanced at the address upon the card the spy had given him, he hailed one of the hansoms which were slowly filing past.

When the man received orders to drive to Worthington Road, Penge, he was sarcastic, and seemed disinclined to take the fare.

“It’s a long way, gov’nor,” said the driver, when Dudley had announced his intention of paying well.

“I can’t go there and back under a couple o’ quid.”

“Very well, that’s agreed,” Chisholm said. He stepped into the cab, threw himself into a corner, and gave himself up to a long and serious train of thought.

He loved Claudia, and hated the mysterious woman, who had in a manner so remarkable learned the truth regarding the one tragic event in his past. Muriel’s innocent-looking face utterly belied her crafty and avaricious nature. Gifted with the countenance of a child, her active brain was that of an adventuress. A dangerous woman for any man to associate with. And he, Dudley Chisholm, who had so long prided himself upon his shrewd observance of men and women and his quick perception, had been utterly and completely deceived.

The long drive across Westminster Bridge and along the wide and apparently endless thoroughfares with their rows of gas-lamps, through the suburbs of Walworth, Camberwell, Denmark Hill, and Sydenham, passed unnoticed. He was so much preoccupied that he did not realise his whereabouts until they were descending the hill past Sydenham Station, where they turned to the right by Venney Road, thus heading for Penge. The suburban roads were quiet and deserted; the horse’s hoofs and the tinkling of the bell were the sole disturbers of the night.

Presently the cabman pulled up to ask the solitary policeman the direction of the road which Dudley had mentioned; then he drove on again. At last, after making several turns, they passed down Green Lane and entered a road of small detached villas, rather artistically built, with red and white exteriors. Apparently they were only just finished, for in front of some there still were piles of bricks and building rubbish, while before others boards stood announcing that this or that “desirable residence” was “to be let or sold.”

The road was a cul-de-sac which terminated in a newly worked brickfield. When nearly at the end of it, the cab suddenly pulled up before a house of exactly the same appearance as its unlet neighbour, save for the fact that the Venetian blinds were down, and that a gas-jet was burning behind the fan-light of the door.

“This is it, sir,” announced the cabman through the trap-door in the roof. Dudley left the cab and passed through the newly painted iron gate and up the short path to the door, at which he knocked with a firm and sounding rat-tat.

There were signs of scuttling within. His quick eye noticed that one of the slats of the Venetian blind in the bay window of the parlour had been lifted for an instant by some person who had evidently been watching for him, and then dropped again quickly.