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The Lighted Way by E. Phillips Oppenheim

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Lighted Way




"I shall be glad to hear the story," he said. "I must admit that
although I only met the young lady for those few minutes at Bourne
End, I found myself most interested in her. I feel sure that she is
charming in every way. Please go on."

"If Isaac's story is true," Arnold continued slowly, "you should
indeed be interested in her."

Sabatini's eyebrows were slightly raised.

"I scarcely understand," he murmured. "I--pray go on."

"According to his story," Arnold said, "Ruth Lalonde is your
daughter."

Sabatini stood perfectly motionless. The slight expression of tired
attention with which he had been listening, had faded from his face.
In the late sunshine which still filled the room, there was
something almost corpse-like in the pallor of his cheeks, his
unnatural silence. When he spoke, his words came slowly.

"Is this a jest?"

"Isaac's story is that you married her mother, who was his sister,
in Paris, nineteen and a half years ago. Her name was Cecile Ruth
Leneveu, and she was acting at one of the theatres. She was really
Isaac's half-sister. His father had brought him from Paris when he
was only a child, and married again almost at once. According to his
story, Ruth's mother lived with you for two years--until, in fact,
you went to Chili to take command of the troops there, at the time
of the revolution. When you returned, she was dead. You were told
that she had given birth to a daughter and that she, too, had died."

"That is true," Sabatini admitted slowly. "I came back because of
her illness, but I was too late."

"The child did not die," Arnold continued. "She was brought up by
Isaac in a small convent near Rouen, where she remained until two
years ago, when he was forced to come to England. He brought her
with him as, owing to her accident, she was unable to take the post
of teacher for which she had been intended, and the convent where
she was living was unexpectedly broken up. Since then she has lived
a sad life with him in London. His has been simply a hand-to-mouth
existence."

"But I do not understand why I was kept in ignorance," Sabatini
declared. "Why did he not appeal to me for help? Why was my
daughter's existence kept a secret from me?"

"Because Isaac is half a fanatic and half a madman," Arnold replied.
"You represent to him the class he loathes, the class he has hated
all his life, and against which he has waged ceaseless war. He hated
your marriage to his sister, and his feelings were the more
embittered because it suited you to keep it private. He has nursed a
bitter feeling against you all his life for this reason."

Sabatini turned stiffly away. He walked to the window, standing for
a moment or two with his back to Arnold, looking out into the quiet
street. Then he came back.

"I must go to this man at once," he said. "You can take me there?"

"I can take you," Arnold assented, doubtfully, "and I have even a
message from him asking you to visit him, but I warn you that he is
in a dangerous mood. I found him the solitary occupant of a
miserable room in the back street of a quarter of London which
reminded me more than anything else of some foreign city. He has
cleared the furniture from the room, reared a table up on end, and
is crouching behind it with a Mauser pistol in his hand and a box of
cartridges by his side. My own belief is that he is insane."

"It is of no account, that," Sabatini declared. "One moment."

He touched the bell for his servant, who entered almost immediately.

"You will take a cab to 17, Grosvenor Square, Pietro," he directed.
"Present my compliments to the lady of the house, and tell her that
an occurrence of the deepest importance deprives me of the honor of
dining to-night."

"Very good, your Excellency."

Sabatini turned to Arnold.

"Come," he said simply, "my automobile is waiting. Will you direct
the man?"

They started off citywards. Sabatini, for a time, sat like a man in
a dream, and Arnold, respecting his companion's mood, kept silent.
There seemed to be something unreal about their progress. To Arnold,
with this man by his side, the amazing story which he had gathered
from those ill-written pages, with their abrupt words and brutal
cynicism, still ringing in his brain, their errand seemed like some
phantasmal thing. The familiar streets bore a different aspect; the
faces of the people whom they passed struck him always with a
curious note of unreality. Ruth was Sabatini's daughter! His brain
refused to grasp so amazing a fact. Yet curiously enough, as he
leaned back among the cushions, the likeness was there. The turn of
the lips, the high forehead, the flawless delicacy of her oval face,
in the light of this new knowledge were all startlingly reminiscent
of the man who sat by his side now in a grim, unbroken silence. The
wonder of it all remained unabated, but his sense of apprehension
grew.

Presently Sabatini began to talk, rousing himself as though with an
effort, and asking questions concerning Ruth, about her accident,
her tastes. He heard of the days of her poverty with a little
shiver. Arnold touched lightly upon these, realizing how much his
companion was suffering. Their progress grew slower and slower as
they passed into the heart of this strange land, down the narrow yet
busy thoroughfare which seemed to be the main artery of the
neighborhood. Strange names were above the shop-windows, strange
articles were displayed behind them. Stalls were set out in the
streets. Men and women, driven by the sulphurous heat to seek air,
leaned half-dressed from the windows, or sat even upon the pavement
in front of their houses. More than once they were obliged to come
to a standstill owing to the throngs of loiterers. As they neared
the last corner, Arnold leaned out and his heart sank. In front he
could see the crowd kept back by a line of police.

"We are too late!" he exclaimed. "They have found him! They must be
making the arrest even now!"




CHAPTER XXXIV

CLOSE TO TRAGEDY


The two men stood up in the automobile. Sabatini's face had
darkened. He leaned over and said something to the chauffeur. They
drove on through the press of people, who gave way sullenly. A
police inspector came to the side of the car.

"This way is blocked for the present, sir," he said to Sabatini. "If
you want to get past, you had better take one of the turnings to the
left."

"My destination is just here," Sabatini replied. "Tell me, what is
the cause of this disturbance?"

"Some of our men have gone to make an arrest in the street there,
sir," the inspector replied, "and we are having some trouble."

"Is it the man Isaac Lalonde whom you are after?" Sabatini asked.

"That is so, sir," the inspector admitted. "A desperate scoundrel he
is, too. He's shot at and wounded all three of the policemen who
entered the house, and he lies crouching before the window,
threatening to shoot any one who passes up the street."

"Who is in charge here?" Sabatini inquired.

"Chief Inspector Raynham," the man replied, pointing to an officer
in plain uniform who was standing a few yards away.

"Take me to him," Sabatini directed. "I may be of use in this
matter."

The crowd opened to let them pass through. They were on the corner
of the pavement now, and the street to their right was empty. There
was a disposition on the part of the people to hug the wall and peer
only round the corner, for they were within easy range of the grimy
window opposite.

"Mr. Inspector," Sabatini said, "I am Count Sabatini, a nobleman of
the country from which that man comes. I think, perhaps, that if you
will allow me to make the effort he will listen to me. I may be able
to save the loss of useful lives."

The chief inspector saluted.

"I shouldn't recommend you to go near him, sir," he declared. "They
say he's an out-and-out anarchist, the leader of one of the most
dangerous gangs in London. We've got the back of the house covered
and he can't escape, but he's shot three of our men who tried to get
at him. The chief of police is on his way down, and we are waiting
for instructions from him."

Sabatini's lips parted in the faintest of smiles. One could well
have imagined that he would have devised some prompter means to have
secured this man if he had been in command.

"You will not forbid my making the attempt, I trust?" he said,
courteously. "I do so at my own risk, of course."

The inspector hesitated. Sabatini, with a sudden swing of his
powerful arm, made his way into the front rank. Arnold clutched at
him.

"Don't go," he begged. "It isn't worth while. You hear, he has shot
three policemen already. You can't save him--you can't help him."

Sabatini turned round with an air of gentle superiority.

"My young friend," he said, "do you not understand that Isaac will
not be taken alive? There is a question I must ask him before he
dies."

The inspector stepped forward--afterwards he said that it was for
the purpose of stopping Sabatini. He was too late, however. The
crowd thronging the end of the street, and the hundreds of people
who peered from the windows, had a moment of wonderful excitement.
One could almost hear the thrill which stirred from their throats.
Across the empty street, straight towards the window behind which
the doomed man lay, Sabatini walked, strangest of figures amidst
those sordid surroundings, in his evening clothes, thin black
overcoat, and glossy silk hat. Step by step he approached the door.
He was about three yards from the curbstone when the window behind
which Isaac was crouching was suddenly smashed, and Isaac leaned
out. The crowd, listening intently, could hear the crash of falling
glass upon the pavement. They had their view of Isaac, too--a wan,
ghostlike figure, with haggard cheeks and staring eyes, eyes which
blazed out from between the strands of black hair.

"Stand where you are," he shouted, and the people who watched saw
the glitter of the setting sun upon the pistol in his hand. Sabatini
looked up.

"Isaac Lalonde," he called out, "you know who I am?"

"I know who you are," they heard him growl,--"Count Sabatini,
Marquis de Lossa, Chevalier de St. Jerome, Knight of the Holy Roman
Empire, aristocrat, blood-sucker of the people."

Sabatini shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"As to that," he answered firmly, "one may have opinions. My hand at
least is free from bloodshed. You are there with nothing but death
before you. I am here to ask a question."

"Ask it, then," the man at the window muttered. "Can't you see that
the time is short?"

"Is it true, this message which you sent me by that young man? Is it
my daughter, the child of Cecile, whom you have kept from me all
these years?"

Isaac leaned further forward out of the window. Every one in the
crowd could see him now. There were a few who began to shout. Every
one save Sabatini himself seemed conscious of his danger. Sabatini,
heedless or unconscious of it, stood with one foot upon the
curbstone, his face upturned to the man with whom he was talking.

"Ay, it is true!" Isaac shouted. "She is your daughter, child of the
wife whom you hid away, ashamed of her because she came from the
people and you were an aristocrat. She is your child, but you will
never see her!"

Then those who watched had their fill of tragedy. They saw the puff
of smoke, the sharp, discordant report, the murderous face of the
man who leaned downward. They saw Sabatini throw up his hands to
heaven and fall, a crumpled heap, into the gutter. Isaac, with the
pistol to his own forehead, overbalanced himself in the act of
pulling the trigger, and came crashing down, a corpse, on to the
pavement. The crowd broke loose, but Arnold was the first to raise
Sabatini. A shadow of the old smile parted his whitening lips. He
opened his eyes.

"It's a rotten death, boy," he whispered hoarsely; "a cur's bullet,
that. Look after her for me. I'd rather--I'd rather hear the drums
beating."

Arnold gripped him by the shoulders.

"Hold on to yourself, man!" he gasped. "There's a doctor
coming--he's here already. Hold on to yourself, for all our sakes!
We want you--Ruth will want you!"

Sabatini smiled very faintly. He was barely conscious.

"I'd rather have heard the drums," he muttered again.




CHAPTER XXXV

MR. WEATHERLEY RETURNS


It was twenty minutes past nine on a Saturday morning when the
wonderful thing happened. Precisely at his accustomed hour, in his
accustomed suit of gray clothes, and with his silk hat a little on
the back of his head, Mr. Weatherley walked into his office, pausing
as usual to knock the ash from his cigar before he entered the
clerks' counting house. Twelve young men gazed at him in frank and
undiluted amazement. As though absolutely unconscious of anything
unusual, Mr. Weatherley grunted his "Good morning!" and passed on
into the private room. Arnold and Mr. Jarvis were busy sorting the
letters which had arrived by the morning's post. Mr. Weatherley
regarded them with an expression of mingled annoyance and surprise.

"What the devil are you doing, opening the letters before I get
here?" he exclaimed. "I'm punctual, am I not? Twenty-two minutes
past nine to the tick. Get out of my chair, Jarvis!"

Mr. Jarvis rose with a promptitude which was truly amazing,
considering that a second ago he had been sitting there as though
turned to stone. Mr. Weatherley was disposed to be irritable.

"What on earth are you both staring at?" he asked. "Nothing wrong
with my appearance, is there? You get out into the warehouse,
Jarvis, and wait until you're sent for. Chetwode, go and sit down at
your desk. I'll be ready to dictate replies to these as soon as I've
glanced them through."

Mr. Jarvis made a slow retreat towards the door. Every now and then
he turned and looked back over his shoulder.

"You will allow me to say, sir," he faltered, "that I--that we all
are glad to see you back."

"See me back?" Mr. Weatherley repeated, frowning heavily. "What the
devil do you mean, sir? Why, I was here till nearly six last
evening, straightening out the muddle you'd got Coswell's account
into."

Mr. Jarvis withdrew precipitately, closing the door behind him. Mr.
Weatherley glanced across the room to where Arnold was standing.

"I'm hanged if I can understand Jarvis lately," he said. "The fellow
seems off his head. See me back, indeed! Talks as though I'd been
away for a holiday."

Arnold opened his lips and closed them again without speech. Mr.
Weatherley took up the letters and began to read them, at first in
silence. Presently he began to swear.

"Anything wrong, sir?" Arnold asked.

"Has every one taken leave of their senses?" Mr. Weatherley
demanded, in a startled tone. "These can't be this morning's
letters. They're all about affairs I know nothing of. They're
dated--yes, they're all dated July 1. I was here yesterday--I
remember signing the cheques--May 4, it was. What the--"

He stopped short. The office boy had performed his duty. Opposite
to him stood the great calendar recording the date--July 2 stared
him in the face. Mr. Weatherley put his hand to his forehead.

"Come here, Chetwode, quickly," he begged.

Arnold hurried over towards his employer. Mr. Weatherley had lost
flesh and there were bags under his eyes. His appearance now was the
appearance of a man who has received some terrifying shock. His
hands clasped the sides of his chair.

"I'm all right, Chetwode?" he gasped. "I haven't been ill or
anything? This isn't a nightmare? The office seems all changed.
You've moved the safe. The letters--I can't understand the letters!
Give me the Day Book, quick."

Arnold passed it to him silently. Mr. Weatherley turned over the
pages rapidly. At May 4, he stopped.

"Yes, yes! I remember this!" he exclaimed. "Twenty barrels of
apples, Spiers & Pond. Fifty hams to Coswell's. I remember this. But
what--"

His finger went down the page. He turned over rapidly, page after
page. The entries went on. They stopped at June 30. He shrank back
in his chair.

"Have I been ill, Chetwode?" he muttered.

Arnold put his arm upon his employer's shoulder.

"Not exactly ill, sir," he said, "but you haven't been here for some
time. You went home on May 4--we've none of us seen you since."

There was a silence. Very slowly Mr. Weatherley began to shake his
head. He seemed suddenly aged.

"Sit down, Chetwode--sit down quickly," he ordered, in a curious,
dry whisper. "You see, it was like this," he went on, leaning over
the table. "I heard a noise in the room and down I came. He was
hiding there behind a curtain, but I saw him. Before I could shout
out to the servants, he had me covered with his revolver. I suppose
I'm not much to look at in a black tie and dress coat, wrong thing
altogether, I know,--but Fenella was out so it didn't really matter.
Anyway, he took me for the butler. 'It isn't you I want,' he said,
'it's your mistress and the others.' I stared at him and backed
toward the door. 'If you move from where you are,' he went on,
dropping his voice a little, 'I shall shoot you! Go and stand over
in that corner, behind me. It's Mrs. Weatherley I want. Now listen.
There's a ten-pound note in my waistcoat pocket. I'll give it to you
to go and fetch her. Tell her that an old friend has called and is
waiting to see her. You understand? If you go and don't bring her
back--if you give the alarm--you'll wake up one night and find me by
your bedside, and you'll be sorry.' You see, I remember every word
he said, Chetwode--every word."

"Go on, please!" Arnold exclaimed, breathlessly.

Mr. Weatherley nodded slowly.

"Yes," he said, "I shall tell you all about it. I remember every
word that was spoken; I can see the man at this moment. I didn't
move from where I was, but I was a little annoyed at being taken for
Groves, and I told him so. 'If you're a burglar,' I said, 'you've
found your way into trouble. I'm the master of the house and Mrs.
Weatherley is my wife. Perhaps you'll tell me now what you want with
her?' He looked at me and I suppose he decided that I was telling
the truth. 'Your wife,' he said slowly, 'is looking for trouble. I'm
not sure that it hasn't come. You know she was a friend of
Rosario--Rosario the Jew?' 'I know that they were acquainted,' I
said. He laughed then, and I began to hate the fellow, Chetwode.
'It was your wife,' he said, 'for whom Rosario wanted that title.
She could have stopped him--' Then he broke off, Chetwode. 'But I
don't suppose you understand these things,' he said. 'You'd better
just understand this, though. I am here to have a little explanation
with Mrs. Weatherley. I have a message for her, and she's got to
hear it from my own lips. When I've finished with her, I want her
brother, and when I've finished with him, I want the young man who
was here the other night. It's no good saying he's not here now,
because I saw him start.'"

Mr. Weatherley paused and felt his forehead.

"All the time, Chetwode," he went on, "I was watching the fellow,
and it began to dawn upon me that he was there to do her some
mischief. I didn't understand what it was all about but I could see
it in his face. He was an ill-looking ruffian. I remembered then
that Fenella had been frightened by some one hanging about the
house, more than once. Well, there he was opposite to me, Chetwode,
and by degrees I'd been moving a little nearer to him. He was after
mischief--I was sure of it. What should you have done, Chetwode?"

"I am not quite sure," Arnold answered. "What did you do?"

"We're coming to that," Mr. Weatherley declared, leaning a little
forward. "We're coming to that. Now in that open case, close to
where I was, my wife had some South American curios. There was a
funny wooden club there. The end was quite as heavy as any lead. I
caught hold of it and rushed in upon him. You see, Chetwode, I was
quite sure that he meant mischief. If Fenella had come in, he might
have hurt her."

"Exactly," Arnold agreed. "Go on, sir."

"Well, I gripped the club in my right hand," Mr. Weatherley
explained, seizing a ruler from the table, "like this, and I ran in
upon him. I took him rather by surprise--he hadn't expected anything
of the sort. He had one shot at me and missed. I felt the bullet go
scorching past my cheek--like this."

Mr. Weatherley struck the side of his face sharply with the flat of
his hand.

"He had another go at me but it was too late,--I was there upon him.
He held out his arm but I was too quick. I didn't seem to hit very
hard the first time but the club was heavy. His foot slipped on the
marble hearthstone and he went. He fell with a thud. Have you ever
killed a man, Chetwode?"

"Never, sir," Arnold answered, his voice shaking a little.

"Well, I never had before," Mr. Weatherley went on. "It really seems
quite amazing that that one blow right on the head should have done
it. He lay there quite still afterwards and it made me sick to look
at him. All the time, though, I kept on telling myself that if I had
not been there he would have hurt Fenella. That kept me quite cool.
Afterwards, I put the club carefully back in the case, pushed him a
little under the sofa, and then I stopped to think for a moment. I
was quite clever, Chetwode. The window was open through which the
man had come, so I locked the door on the inside, stepped out of the
window, came in at the front door with my latchkey, crept upstairs,
undressed quickly and got into bed. The funny part of it all was,
Chetwode," he concluded, "that nobody ever really found the body."

"You don't suppose that you could have dreamed it all, do you?"
Arnold asked.

Mr. Weatherley laughed contemptuously.

"What an absurd idea!" he exclaimed. "What a perfectly absurd idea!
Besides, although it did disappear, they came up and told me that
there was a man lying in the boudoir. You understand now how it all
happened," he went on. "It seemed to me quite natural at the time.
Still, when the morning came I realized that I had killed a man.
It's a horrid thing to kill a man, Chetwode!"

"Of course it is, sir," Arnold said, sympathetically. "Still, I
don't see what else you could have done."

Mr. Weatherley beamed.

"I am glad to hear you say that, Chetwode," he declared, "very glad.
Still, I didn't want to go to prison, you know, so a few days
afterwards I went away. I meant to hide for quite a long time. I--I
don't know what I'm doing back here."

He looked around the office like a trapped animal.

"I didn't mean to come back yet, Chetwode!" he exclaimed. "Don't
leave me! Do you hear? Don't leave me!"

"Only for one second, sir," Arnold replied, taking an invoice from
the desk. "They are wanting this in the warehouse."

Arnold stepped rapidly across to Mr. Jarvis's desk.

"Telephone home for his wife to come and bring a doctor," he
ordered. "Quick!"

"He's out of his mind!" Jarvis gasped.

"Stark mad," Arnold agreed.

When he re-entered the office, Mr. Weatherley was sitting muttering
to himself. Arnold came over and sat opposite to him.

"Mrs. Weatherley is calling round presently, sir," he announced.
"You'll be glad to see her again."

Mr. Weatherley went deadly pale.

"Does she know?" he moaned.

"She knows that some one was hurt," Arnold said. "As a matter of
fact," he continued, "I don't think the man could have been dead. We
were all out of the room for about five minutes, and when we came
back he was gone. I think that he must have got up and walked away."

"You don't think that I murdered him, then?" Mr. Weatherley
inquired, anxiously.

"Not you," Arnold assured him. "You stopped his hurting Mrs.
Weatherley, though."

Mr. Weatherley sighed.

"I should like to have killed him," he admitted, simply. "Fenella
and Sabatini, too, her brother,--they both laugh at me. They're a
little inclined to be romantic and they think I'm a queer sort of a
stick. I could never make out why she married me," he went on,
confidentially. "Of course, they were both stoneybroke at the time
and I put up a decent bit of money, but it isn't money, after all,
that buys a woman like Fenella."

"I'm sure she will be very pleased to see you again, sir," Arnold
said.

"Do you think she will, Chetwode? Do you think she will?" Mr.
Weatherley demanded, anxiously. "Has she missed me while I have
been--where the devil have I been, Chetwode? You must tell me--tell
me quick! She'll be here directly and she'll want to know. I can't
remember. It was a long street and there was a public-house at the
corner, and I had a job somewhere, hadn't I, stacking cheeses? Look
here, Chetwode, you must tell me all about it. You're my private
secretary. You ought to know everything of that sort."

"I'll make it all right with Mrs. Weatherley," Arnold promised. "We
can't go into all these matters now."

"Of course not--of course not," Mr. Weatherley agreed. "You're quite
right, Chetwode. A time for everything, eh? How's the little lady
you brought down to Bourne End?"

"She's very well, thank you, sir," Arnold replied.

"Now it's a queer thing," Mr. Weatherley continued, "but only
yesterday--or was it the day before--I was trying to think whom she
reminded me of. It couldn't have been my brother-in-law, could it,
Chetwode. Did you ever fancy that she was like Sabatini?"

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