The Under-Secretary

The low-pitched voices of men sounded ominously within, but the door was not opened.

He waited fully five minutes, listening attentively the while; he clearly heard a sound which was suspiciously like the despairing cry of a woman.

Then he knocked loudly again.

Dudley Chisholm was by no means a timid man. A dozen times he had faced death during his erratic wanderings in the almost unknown regions of the far east. He was of the type of athletic Englishman that prefers the fist as a weapon at close quarters to any knife or revolver. That whispering within, however, unnerved him; while the woman’s ejaculation was also distinctly uncanny. The cabman was awaiting him, it was true, and could be relied upon to raise an alarm if there should be any attempt at foul play. The remembrance of this, to a certain degree, reassured him.

He had come there in obedience to the orders of the woman who held his future in her hands, but he did not like the situation in the least.

His second summons was answered tardily by an old woman, withered and bent, who came shuffling down the little hall grumbling to herself, and who, on throwing open the door, inquired what he wanted.

“I think I am expected here,” was all he could reply, handing her the card which the Italian had given him.

The old hag took it in her claw-like fingers and examined it suspiciously.

“Are you Mr Chisholm?” she inquired.

Dudley nodded in the affirmative.

“Then come in – come in. They’ve been expecting you these two days.” She closed the door behind and led the way through the barely furnished hall into a back sitting-room on the left, which contained a little furniture of a kind to suggest that it had been purchased on the instalment system.

He seated himself, wondering who were the persons by whom he was expected. When his guide had gone he strained his ears to catch any sound of the woman’s voice which he had heard raised in distress after his first knock at the door. But all was silent. Only the paraffin lamp on the table with its shade of crimson paper spluttered as it burned low, for it was now about half-past two in the morning.

The association of ideas caused him to recollect all he had ever heard about strange nocturnal adventures met with by men in unknown houses in the suburbs; and as he sat awaiting the arrival of the persons who apparently took such a deep interest in his welfare he could not help becoming a prey to misgivings.

Suddenly he heard low whisperings out in the hall, and some words, distinct and ominous reached him.

“Well, if it must be, I suppose it must,” he heard a voice say. “But recollect I am no party to such a thing.”

A low, sarcastic laugh was the sole answer to this protest. The next instant the door opened, and there entered two men, one young, tall, and muscular, with an ugly scar across his lower jaw, and the other very old, feeble, and white-haired. Both were foreigners. Chisholm knew they were Italians before either of them spoke.

“Buona sera!” exclaimed the elder man, greeting the visitor in a squeaky voice. “You are the Signor Chisholm, and the English signorina in Florence has sent you to us. Benissimo! We have been awaiting you these two days. I presume our friend Marucci has only just arrived in London.”

“He arrived this evening,” said Chisholm. “But before we go further may I not know who it is I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is Sisto Bernini. Our friend here,” he added, indicating his companion, “is Tonio Rocchi.” The younger man, a dark-eyed, black-haired, rather handsome fellow grinned with satisfaction. Chisholm glanced at him, but was not reassured. There was a strange mystery about the whole affair.

“You have been sent to us because you desire to avoid the police, and escape from England,” the old man continued. “To get you away is difficult, very difficult, because you are a man so extremely well-known. We often assist our own countrymen to get, safely back to Italy after any little fracas, but with you it is very different.”

“And by what means are you able to get them secretly out of the country?” inquired Chisholm, much interested in this newly discovered traffic.

“By various means. Sometimes as stowaways; at others, in our own fishing-smack from one or other of the villages along the south coast. There are a dozen different ways.”

“And are none safe for me?”

The old man shook his head dubiously.

“For you, all are dangerous.”

“All, save one,” chimed in the younger man, exchanging glances with his companion.

“And what is that?” Chisholm asked.

“It is our secret,” the old man replied, shutting his thin lips tightly with a grin of self-satisfaction.

“I was informed by Marucci that you were prepared to assist me!” exclaimed Chisholm in a tone of annoyance; “but if you are not, then I may as well wish you good-night.”

“If the signore will exercise a little patience, he shall hear our plan,” the old man Bernini assured him. “I am all attention.”

“Then let us speak quite frankly,” squeaked the old fellow. “You desire to escape from the police who, for all we know, are now watching you. That you have been watched during the past few days is evident. Tonio, here, has himself seen detectives following you. Well, we are prepared to undertake the risk – in exchange, of course, for a certain consideration.”

“To speak quite candidly you intend to blackmail me – eh? It isn’t at all difficult to see your drift.”

“If the signore desires a service rendered, he must be prepared to pay,” declared the younger man. “Sisto has a plan, but it is expensive.”

“And how much would it cost me?” inquired Chisholm, still preserving his outward calm, although he saw that he had fallen among a very undesirable and unscrupulous set.

“Ten thousand pounds sterling,” was the old man’s prompt reply.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Which asks a Question

“Ah!” exclaimed the Under-Secretary with affected nonchalance, “I merely asked out of curiosity. I have no intention whatever of paying such a sum.”

“For the amount I have named we will guarantee to place you ashore in Greece, or in any other of the few countries that remain open to fugitives from justice.”

“I have no doubt,” Dudley answered with distinct sarcasm. “But as I have no intention of being blackmailed, or even of employing any of your efforts on my behalf, we may as well end this interview.” He rose from his chair and drew himself up to his full height.

The two men exchanged glances full of sinister meaning.

“Our aid has been invoked by your friend, the English signorina,” the young man exclaimed in a bullying tone, for the first time revealing his true character. “We have told you our terms – high, we admit, but not too exorbitant when you recollect the many bribes that have to be paid.”

“Ten thousand pounds, eh?”

“That is the sum.”

“Well, I’ll make a confession to you both,” declared Chisholm defiantly. “It is this. My life isn’t worth to me ten thousand pence. Now you can at once relinquish all hope of bleeding me in the manner you have arranged.”

“The signore is frank,” remarked the old man. “Frankness saves so much argument in such matters. I will be frank also, and say that there is still another, and perhaps more pleasant mode of escape.”

“I shall be interested to hear it,” said Dudley, folding his arms, and leaning carelessly back against the table.

The man was silent for a moment, as though hesitating whether to tell his visitor the truth. At last he spoke, compressing his scheme into a couple of words.

“By marriage.”

“With whom?”