CHAPTER XXXIII
THE FOREIGN SECRETARY
Lord Downland’s private secretary shook his head.
“My dear fellow, it is impossible,” he said. “I’d manage it for _you_ if it could be done for any one; you know that well enough.”
Herrick did know it, for the speaker and he were first cousins, and good friends.
“It’s of vital importance,” he said earnestly.
“A matter of life and death,” urged Aldwyth.
“Look here, Langdale”--Herrick laid his hand on the other’s arm--” we come from Marcus White.”
“Marcus White!” The secretary drew back, amazed, and looked from Herrick’s face to Aldwyth’s. “You mean the head-centre of the Leaguers?”
“Yes; but they’ve rounded on him.”
“Only a few moments ago, when we left him, he was fighting for his life,” said Aldwyth.
“It’s horrible, but it’s a fact,” added Herrick; “they were on him like a pack of wolves.”
“That’s news, indeed!” Langdale looked very grave.
“We have here something that he wrote for us to give into Lord Downland’s hands. It bears on the safety of Miss Westwood’s father, and perhaps on special foreign news which his lordship ought to know.”
“I’ll see what can be done,” said Langdale briskly. “The French ambassador is with the marquis just at this moment; and, as you see, the brougham is at the door. There’s no harm in saying”--he lowered his voice slightly--” that the chief’s on the point of starting for Windsor, by the King’s command. But I’ll try to manage it for you.” And he quickly left the room.
Over the window blind they could see the electric brougham, ready and waiting to start. Two or three uniformed policemen stood near at hand. Farther off, Herrick caught sight of his old acquaintance, Henshaw; and, at the same time, the rattle of accoutrements attracted his notice to a cavalry escort waiting at the north end of the square.
Suddenly Henshaw moved quickly out of view. There was whispering among the uniformed men, who wore a watchful, anxious look.
Something untoward was happening, and the barrister looked round intending to attract Aldwyth’s attention; but she was sitting at the table, her elbows resting there, and her face covered with her hands. He did not speak to her. Tact taught him that she was better left alone. He believed that in the complex trouble she was suffering she was no longer indifferent to his deep and constant affection; and it was true. Thus does the shaking of our lives sometimes restore the balance. A strong man’s love; a life-companion, tender, true, and kind! Happy the woman who can win the prize. Aldwyth, at least, was learning to be grateful; and gratitude, like pity, is akin to love.
When Herrick glanced through the window again, Henshaw, usually most deliberate in his movements, was hurrying past; but his quick eyes had caught sight of the barrister, and the next moment he rang the bell. There was a hurried conversation with the hall porter; then a footman brought in a hasty note written on a leaf torn from a pocket-book:
“_Can I see you for a moment? Urgent._”
Herrick, with a word to Aldwyth, who still seemed to be stunned by recent events, went out, and was shown into a small anteroom, to which the detective quickly followed him.
“What is it?” he asked, wonderingly.
“Well, it may be much and it may be nothing; I can’t explain now--but, look here, sir, that carriage out there is waiting for you and the lady, isn’t it?”
“Yes; they’re Sir John Westwood’s horses.”
“Do you mind if the Marquis goes off in that carriage instead of in the brougham that’s waiting for him?”
“You must have some special reason for suggesting that!”
“I have,”--emphatically.
“I’ll ask Miss Westwood,--it’s not my carriage.”
“One moment--need you ask? Ladies want explanations, and there isn’t time to give them.”
“My good sir, you can hardly expect----”
“Take it upon yourself, sir,” interrupted the police officer, impressively. “It may save life--a valuable life, too. I know what I’m talking about, and if any harm comes to Sir John’s horses, you may be pretty sure it is a case in which the Government will make the damage good.”
“Very well; do what you think right. I see there is something serious in the wind.”
“Right you are, sir”; and the detective was out of the room and the house before another word could be said.
As Herrick crossed the hall to return to Aldwyth Westwood, the private secretary met him.
“Ah, here you are! The ambassador’s gone. Now if you want three words with the marquis before he leaves, come this way. But where is Miss Westwood?”
“Here,” said Herrick, opening the door.
Aldwyth rose instantly, and the two followed the secretary to Lord Downland’s library. The Foreign Secretary stood upon the hearth-rug. A valet was helping him to put on his travelling coat. At a sign the man retired, and Langdale, after a low-toned word or two to his chief, placed a chair for Aldwyth and also left the room.
It was obvious that his lordship was in great haste to get away.
Herrick, without a word, put Marcus White’s written message in the minister’s hand. Lord Downland glanced at it rapidly, then read it carefully again. A shade of colour came into his pale, thin cheeks.
He looked up. “This news was partly known to me,” he said, “but not quite all. The rest may be very valuable.” He glanced for a second at the fire, then added: “This leader of the Leaguers seems to have some love for England, or, at any rate, some scruples, after all. But he will have to pay a heavy penalty for his misdeeds.”
“Lord Downland,” said Aldwyth quietly, “I think he has paid the last of all penalties already.”
The Foreign Minister looked at her quickly, with grave inquiring eyes.
“My lord,” said Herrick, “the Leaguers have turned on him. We left Marcus White at the mercy of the mob.”
“Ah! is that so? A terrible experience for Miss Westwood. But I have intelligence that will relieve her of a great anxiety--Sir John Westwood is safe.”
“Safe! thank God for that!” cried Aldwyth, with clasped hands.
“All on board were safe. It was almost a miracle. The steamer could not have floated for another hour, and,” he added, significantly, “she was discovered drifting towards the Race of Alderney, deserted by her captain and the crew. A monstrous outrage!--monstrous!”
“Then Sir John--all of them--must be on their way to London now,” exclaimed Herrick.
“No,” said the marquis quietly. “They are safe, but at present they are not on their way to England. They were picked up by a German cruiser; and our relations with Germany at the present moment are not friendly.” A faint half-smile flickered over his face. “It is what a former colleague of mine would call ‘a sort of a war!’” Lord Downland took up his hat and moved towards the door.
“Your lordship means that they are prisoners?”
“Yes, Mr Herrick. But there is no need for alarm,” with a reassuring glance towards Aldwyth. “England also has a prisoner--one of very great distinction. At this moment he is on his way by special train from Penzance to Windsor Castle.”
* * * * *
On each side of the entrance to Mount Street, as the carriage approached with the Foreign Minister on his way to Paddington, small groups were loitering. The men, for the most part, had the look of foreigners. Three things were vividly recalled later on--one of them, that the officer in command of the cavalry escort sent two troopers ahead; secondly, that, on seeing this, Henshaw ran forward with a loud cry of warning; thirdly, that a shrill whistle was heard as the troopers, followed rapidly by the carriage, approached the turning into Mount Street.
Then, swiftly following on the whistle, there was a blue flash in the air, and a sharp, cracking detonation. The leading troopers were scattered, one of the horses plunged and fell with a crash upon the pavement, throwing its rider heavily against a doorstep. The troopers’ horses in rear of the carriage reared and plunged; a scream came from some women who were near, and a young girl, shockingly mutilated, fell bleeding to the ground.
The bomb had struck the roadway between the leading troopers and the carriage horses, but, as if by a miracle, the latter, though terrified, were uninjured, and tore through Mount Street at a gallop.
Behind them, on the right-hand pavement a struggling group was seen. Henshaw, whose device had been defeated by the misconceived movement of the troopers, had darted on a sallow-faced man with a short black beard. The man fought like a wild beast in the detective’s grip, but the uniformed police had hurried to the scene, and one of the most powerful--it was P. C. Dormer--enveloped the dynamitard in his arms, while others went in hot pursuit of his fleeing confederates.