The Lost Road, etc.

R >> Richard Harding Davis >> The Lost Road, etc.

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"How much," demanded Polly, "do you need to keep you alive? Maybe
I could lend it to you."

Sam was entirely serious.

"Three thousand a year," he said.

Polly exclaimed indignantly.

"I call that extremely extravagant!" she cried. "If we wait until you
earn three thousand a year we may be dead. Do you expect to earn
that writing stories?"

"I can try," said Sam--"or I will rob a bank."

Polly smiled upon him appealingly.

"You know how I love your stories," she said, "and I wouldn't
hurt your feelings for the world; but, Sam dear, I think you had
better rob a bank!"

Addressing an imaginary audience, supposedly of men, Sam
exclaimed:

"Isn't that just like a woman? She wouldn't care," he protested,
"how I got the money!"

Polly smiled cheerfully.

"Not if I got you!" she said. In extenuation, also, she addressed
an imaginary audience, presumably of women. "That's how I love
him!" she exclaimed. "And he asks me to wait! Isn't that just like
a man? Seriously," she went on, "if we just go ahead and get married
father would have to help us. He'd make you a vice-president or
something."

At this suggestion Sam expressed his extreme displeasure.

"The last time I talked to your father," he said, "I was in a position
to marry, and I told him I wanted to marry you. What he said to
that was: 'Don't be an ass!' Then I told him he was unintelligent--
and I told him why. First, because he could not see that a man
might want to marry his daughter in spite of her money; and
second, because he couldn't see that her money wouldn't make
up to a man for having him for a father-in-law."

"Did you have to tell him that?" asked Polly.

"Some one had to tell him," said Sam gloomily. "Anyway, as a
source of revenue father is eliminated. I have still one chance
in London. If that fails I must go home. I've been promised a job
in New York reporting for a Wall Street paper--and I'll write stories
on the side. I've cabled for money, and if the London job falls
through I shall sail Wednesday."

"Wednesday!" cried Polly. "When you say things like 'Wednesday'
you make the world so dark! You must stay here! It has been such
a long six months; and before you earn three thousand dollars I
shall be an old, old maid. But if you get work here we could see
each other every day."

They were in the Sewards' sitting-room at Claridge's. Sam took up
the desk telephone.

"In London," he said, "my one best and only bet is a man named
Forsythe, who helps edit the Pall Mall. I'll telephone him now.
If he can promise me even a shilling a day I'll stay on and starve--
but I'll be near you. If Forsythe fails me I shall sail Wednesday."

The telephone call found Forsythe at the Pall Mall office. He would
be charmed to advise Mr. Lowell on a matter of business. Would he
that night dine with Mr. Lowell? He would. And might he suggest
that they dine at Pavoni's? He had a special reason for going there,
and the dinner would cost only three and six.

"That's reason enough!" Sam told him.

"And don't forget," said Polly when, for the fifth time, Sam rose
to go, "that after your dinner you are to look for me at the Duchess
of Deptford's dance. I asked her for a card and you will find it at
your lodgings. Everybody will be there; but it is a big place-full
of dark corners where we can hide."

"Don't hide until I arrive," said Sam. "I shall be very late, as
I shall have to walk. After I pay for Forsythe's dinner and for
white gloves for your dance I shall not be in a position to hire
a taxi. But maybe I shall bring good news. Maybe Forsythe will
give me the job. If he does we will celebrate in champagne.
"

"You will let me at least pay for the champagne?" begged Polly.

"No," said Sam firmly--"the duchess will furnish that."

When Sam reached his lodgings in Russell Square, which he
approached with considerable trepidation, he found Mrs. Wroxton
awaiting him. But her attitude no longer was hostile. On the
contrary, as she handed him a large, square envelope, decorated
with the strawberry leaves of a duke, her manner was humble.

Sam opened the envelope and, with apparent carelessness, stuck it
over the fireplace.

"About that back rent," he said; "I have cabled for money, and as
soon--"

"I know," said Mrs. Wroxton. "I read the cable." She was reading
the card of invitation also. "There's no hurry, sir," protested Mrs.
Wroxton. "Any of my young gentlemen who is made welcome at
Deptford House is made welcome here!"

"Credit, Mrs. Wroxton," observed Sam, "is better than cash. If
you have only cash you spend it and nothing remains. But with
credit you can continue indefinitely to-to-"

"So you can!" exclaimed Mrs. Wroxton enthusiastically. "Stay as
long as you like, Mr. Lowell."

At Pavoni's Sam found Forsythe already seated and, with evident
interest, observing the scene of gayety before him. The place was
new to Sam, and after the darkness and snow of the streets it
appeared both cheerful and resplendent. It was brilliantly lighted;
a ceiling of gay panels picked out with gold, and red plush sofas,
backed against walls hung with mirrors and faced by rows of
marble-topped tables, gave it an air of the Continent.

Sam surrendered his hat and coat to the waiter. The hat was a
soft Alpine one of green felt. The waiter hung it where Sam
could see it, on one of many hooks that encircled a gilded pillar.

After two courses had been served Forsythe said:

"I hope you don't object to this place. I had a special reason
for wishing to be here on this particular night. I wanted to be
in at the death!"

"Whose death?" asked Sam. "Is the dinner as bad as that?"

Forsythe leaned back against the mirror behind them and, bringing
his shoulder close to Sam's, spoke in a whisper.

"As you know," he said, "to-day the delegates sign the Treaty of
London. It still must receive the signatures of the Sultan and
the three kings; and they will sign it. But until they do, what
the terms of the treaty are no one can find out."

"I'll bet the Times finds out!" said Sam.

"That's it!" returned Forsythe. "Hertz, the man who is supposed to
be selling the secrets of the conference to the Times, dines here.
To-night is his last chance. If to-night he can slip the Times a
copy of the Treaty of London without being caught, and the
Times has the courage to publish it, it will be the biggest
newspaper sensation of modern times; and it will either cause
a financial panic all over Europe--or prevent one. The man they
suspect is facing us. Don't look now, but in a minute you will
see him sitting alone at a table on the right of the middle pillar.
The people at the tables nearest him--even the women--are
detectives. His waiter is in the employ of Scotland Yard. The
maitre d'hotel, whom you will see always hovering round his
table, is a police agent lent by Bulgaria. For the Allies are even
more anxious to stop the leak than we are. We are interested
only as their hosts; with them it is a matter of national life or
death. A week ago one of our own inspectors tipped me off to
what is going on, and every night since then I've dined here,
hoping to see something suspicious."

"Have you?" asked Sam.

"Only this," whispered Forsythe--"on four different nights I've
recognized men I know are on the staff of the Times, and on the
other nights men I don't know may have been here. But after all
that proves nothing, for this place is a resort of newspaper writers
and editors--and the Times men's being here may have been only
a coincidence."

"And Hertz?" asked Sam--"what does he do?"

The Englishman exclaimed with irritation.

"Just what you see him doing now!" he protested. "He eats his
dinner! Look at him!" he commanded. "Of all in the room he's the
least concerned."

Sam looked and saw the suspected Adolf Hertz dangling a mass
of macaroni on the end of his fork. Sam watched him until it
disappeared.

"Maybe that's a signal!" suggested Sam. "Maybe everything he does
is part of a cipher code! He gives the signals and the Times men
read them and write them down."

"A man would have a fine chance to write anything down in this
room!" said Forsythe.

"But maybe," persisted Sam, "when he makes those strange
movements with his lips he is talking to a confederate who can
read the lip language. The confederate writes it down at the
office and--"

"Fantastic and extremely improbable!" commented Forsythe. "But,
nevertheless, the fact remains, the fellow does communicate with
some one from the Times; and the police are positive he does it
here and that he is doing it now!"

The problem that so greatly disturbed his friend would have more
deeply interested Sam had the solving of his own trouble been
less imperative. That alone filled his mind. And when the coffee
was served and the cigars lit, without beating about the bush Sam
asked Forsythe bluntly if on his paper a rising and impecunious
genius could find a place. With even less beating about the bush
Forsythe assured him he could not. The answer was final, and the
disappointment was so keen that Sam soon begged his friend to
excuse him, paid his bill, and rose to depart.

"Better wait!" urged Forsythe. "You'll find nothing so good out
at a music-hall. This is Houdini getting out of his handcuffs
before an audience entirely composed of policemen."

Sam shook his head gloomily.

"I have a few handcuffs of my own to get rid of," he said, "and
it makes me poor company."

He bade his friend good night and, picking his way among the
tables, moved toward the pillar on which the waiter had hung his
hat. The pillar was the one beside which Hertz was sitting, and
as Sam approached the man he satisfied his curiosity by a long
look. Under the glance Hertz lowered his eyes and fixed them
upon his newspaper. Sam retrieved his hat and left the restaurant.

His mind immediately was overcast. He remembered his disappointment
and that the parting between himself and Polly was now inevitable.
Without considering his direction he turned toward Charing Cross
Road. But he was not long allowed to meditate undisturbed.

He had only crossed the little street that runs beside the restaurant
and passed into the shadow of the National Gallery when, at the
base of the Irving Memorial, from each side he was fiercely attacked.
A young man of eminently respectable appearance kicked his legs
from under him, and another of equally impeccable exterior made
an honest effort to knock off his head.

Sam plunged heavily to the sidewalk. As he sprawled forward his
hat fell under him and in his struggle to rise was hidden by the
skirts of his greatcoat. That, also, he had fallen heavily upon his
hat with both knees Sam did not know. The strange actions of
his assailants enlightened him. To his surprise, instead of
continuing their assault or attempting a raid upon his pockets,
he found them engaged solely in tugging at the hat. And so
preoccupied were they in this that, though still on his knees,
Sam was able to land some lusty blows before a rush of feet
caused the young men to leap to their own and, pursued by
several burly forms, disappear in the heart of the traffic.

Sam rose and stood unsteadily. He found himself surrounded by
all of those who but a moment before he had left contentedly
dining at Pavoni's. In an excited circle waiters and patrons of
the restaurant, both men and women, stood in the falling snow,
bareheaded, coatless, and cloakless, staring at him. Forsythe
pushed them aside and took Sam by the arm.

"What happened?" demanded Sam.

"You ought to know," protested Forsythe. "You started it! The
moment you left the restaurant two men grabbed their hats and
jumped after you; a dozen other men, without waiting for hats,
jumped after them. The rest of us got out just as the two men
and the detectives dived into the traffic."

A big man, with an air of authority, drew Sam to one side.

"Did they take anything from you, sir?" he asked.

"I've nothing they could take," said Sam. "And they didn't try to
find out. They just knocked me down."

Forsythe turned to the big man.

"This gentleman is a friend of mine, inspector," he said. "He is
a stranger in town and was at Pavoni's only by accident."

"We might need his testimony," suggested the official.

Sam gave his card to the inspector and then sought refuge in a
taxicab. For the second time he bade his friend good night.

"And when next we dine," he called to him in parting, "choose a
restaurant where the detective service is quicker!"

Three hours later, brushed and repaired by Mrs. Wroxton, and
again resplendent, Sam sat in a secluded corner of Deptford House
and bade Polly a long farewell. It was especially long, owing to
the unusual number of interruptions; for it was evident that Polly
had many friends in London, and that not to know the Richest One
in America and her absurd mother, and the pompous, self-satisfied
father, argued oneself nobody. But finally the duchess carried Polly
off to sup with her; and as the duchess did not include Sam in her
invitation--at least not in such a way that any one could notice it--
Sam said good-night--but not before he had arranged a meeting
with Polly for eleven that same morning. If it was clear, the
meeting was to be at the duck pond in St. James's Park; if it
snowed, at the National Gallery in front of the "Age of
Innocence."

After robbing the duchess of three suppers, Sam descended to
the hall and from an attendant received his coat and hat, which
latter the attendant offered him with the inside of the hat
showing. Sam saw in it the trademark of a foreign maker.

"That's not my hat," said Sam.

The man expressed polite disbelief.

"I found it rolled up in the pocket of your greatcoat, sir," he
protested.

The words reminded Sam that on arriving at Deptford House he had
twisted the hat into a roll and stuffed it into his overcoat
pocket.

"Quite right," said Sam. But it was not his hat; and with some hope
of still recovering his property he made way for other departing
guests and at one side waited.

For some clew to the person he believed was now wearing his hat,
Sam examined the one in his hand. Just showing above the inside
band was something white. Thinking it might be the card of the
owner, Sam removed it. It was not a card, but a long sheet of thin
paper, covered with typewriting, and many times folded. Sam
read the opening paragraph. Then he backed suddenly toward a
great chair of gold and velvet, and fell into it.

He was conscious the attendants in pink stockings were regarding
him askance; that, as they waited in the drafty hall for cars and taxis,
the noble lords in stars and ribbons, the noble ladies in tiaras and
showing much-fur-lined galoshes, were discussing his strange
appearance. They might well believe the youth was ill; they might
easily have considered him intoxicated. Outside rose the voices of
servants and police calling the carriages. Inside other servants echoed
them.

"The Duchess of Sutherland's car!" they chanted. "Mrs. Trevor
Hill's carriage! The French ambassador's carriage! Baron
Haussmann's car!"

Like one emerging from a trance, Sam sprang upright. A little fat
man, with mild blue eyes and curly red hair, was shyly and with
murmured apologies pushing toward the exit. Before he gained it
Sam had wriggled a way to his elbow.

"Baron Haussmann!" he stammered. "I must speak to you. It's a
matter of gravest importance. Send away your car," he begged,
"and give me five minutes."

The eyes of the little fat man opened wide in surprise, almost in
alarm. He stared at Sam reprovingly.

"Impossible!" he murmured. "I--I do not know you."

"This is a letter of introduction," said Sam. Into the unwilling
fingers of the banker he thrust the folded paper. Bending over
him, he whispered in his ear. "That," said Sam, "is the Treaty of
London!"

The alarm of Baron Haussmann increased to a panic.

"Impossible!" he gasped. And, with reproach, he repeated: "I do
not know you, sir! I do not know you!"

At that moment, towering above the crush, appeared the tall figure
of Senator Seward. The rich man of the New World and the rich
man of Europe knew each other only by sight. But, upon seeing
Sam in earnest converse with the great banker, the senator
believed that without appearing to seek it he might through Sam
effect a meeting. With a hearty slap on the shoulder he greeted
his fellow countryman.

"Halloo, Sam!" he cried genially. "You walking home with me?"

Sam did not even turn his head.

"No!" he snapped. "I'm busy. Go 'way!"

Crimson, the senator disappeared. Baron Haussmann regarded the
young stranger with amazed interest.

"You know him!" he protested. "He called you Sam!"

"Know him?" cried Sam impatiently. "I've got to know him! He's
going to be my father-in-law."

The fingers of the rich man clutched the folded paper as the
claws of a parrot cling to the bars of his cage. He let his sable
coat slip into the hands of a servant; he turned back toward the
marble staircase.

"Come!" he commanded.

Sam led him to the secluded corner Polly and he had left vacant
and told his story.

"So, it is evident," concluded Sam, "that each night some one in
the service of the Times dined at Pavoni's, and that his hat was
the same sort of hat as the one worn by Hertz; and each night,
inside the lining of his hat, Hertz hid the report of that day's
proceedings. And when the Times man left the restaurant he
exchanged hats with Hertz. But to-night--I got Hertz's hat and
with it the treaty!"

In perplexity the blue eyes of the little great man frowned.

"It is a remarkable story," he said.

"You mean you don't believe me!" retorted Sam. "If I had
financial standing--if I had credit--if I were not a stranger-
you would not hesitate."

Baron Haussmann neither agreed nor contradicted. He made a polite
and deprecatory gesture. Still in doubt, he stared at the piece of white
paper. Still deep in thought, he twisted and creased between his fingers
the Treaty of London!

Returning with the duchess from supper, Polly caught sight of Sam
and, with a happy laugh, ran toward him. Seeing he was not alone,
she halted and waved her hand.

"Don't forget!" she called. "At eleven!"

She made a sweet and lovely picture. Sam rose and bowed.

"I'll be there at ten," he answered.

With his mild blue eyes the baron followed Polly until she had
disappeared. Then he turned and smiled at Sam.

"Permit me," he said, "to offer you my felicitations. Your young
lady is very beautiful and very good." Sam bowed his head. "If
she trusts you," murmured the baron, "I think I can trust you
too."

"How wonderful is credit!" exclaimed Sam. "I was just saying so
to my landlady. If you have only cash you spend it and nothing
remains. But with credit you can--"

"How much," interrupted the banker, "do you want for this?"

Sam returned briskly to the business of the moment.

"To be your partner," he said--"to get half of what you make out
of it."

The astonished eyes of the baron were large with wonder. Again he
reproved Sam.

"What I shall make out of it?" he demanded incredulously. "Do you
know how much I shall make out of it?"

"I cannot even guess," said Sam; "but I want half."

The baron smiled tolerantly.

"And how," he asked, "could you possibly know what I give you is
really half?"

In his turn, Sam made a deprecatory gesture.

"Your credit," said Sam, "is good!"

That morning, after the walk in St. James's Park, when Sam returned
with Polly to Claridge's, they encountered her father in the hall.
Mindful of the affront of the night before, he greeted Sam only
with a scowl.

"Senator," cried Sam happily, "you must be the first to hear the news!
Polly and I are going into partnership. We are to be married."

This time Senator Seward did not trouble himself even to tell Sam
he was an ass. He merely grinned cynically.

"Is that all your news?" he demanded with sarcasm.

"No," said Sam--"I am going into partnership with Baron Haussmann
too!"

THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE

Young Everett at last was a minister plenipotentiary. In London
as third secretary he had splashed around in the rain to find the
ambassador's carriage. In Rome as a second secretary he had
served as a clearing-house for the Embassy's visiting-cards; and
in Madrid as first secretary he had acted as interpreter for a
minister who, though valuable as a national chairman, had much
to learn of even his own language. But although surrounded by
all the wonders and delights of Europe, although he walked, talked,
wined, and dined with statesmen and court beauties, Everett was
not happy. He was never his own master. Always he answered the
button pressed by the man higher up. Always over him loomed his
chief; always, for his diligence and zeal, his chief received credit.

As His Majesty's naval attache put it sympathetically, "Better be
a top-side man on a sampan than First Luff on the Dreadnought.
Don't be another man's right hand. Be your own right hand."
Accordingly when the State Department offered to make him
minister to the Republic of Amapala, Everett gladly deserted the
flesh-pots of Europe, and, on mule-back over trails in the living
rock, through mountain torrents that had never known the shadow
of a bridge, through swamp and jungle, rode sunburnt and
saddle-sore into his inheritance.

When giving him his farewell instructions, the Secretary of State
had not attempted to deceive him.

"Of all the smaller republics of Central America," he frankly told
him, "Amapala is the least desirable, least civilized, least acceptable.
It offers an ambitious young diplomat no chance. But once a minister,
always a minister. Having lifted you out of the secretary class we can't
demote you. Your days of deciphering cablegrams are over, and if you
don't die of fever, of boredom, or brandy, call us up in a year or two
and we will see what we can do."

Everett regarded the Secretary blankly.

"Has the department no interest in Amapala?" he begged. "Is there
nothing you want there?"

"There is one thing we very much want," returned the Secretary,
"but we can't get it. We want a treaty to extradite criminals."

The young minister laughed confidently.

"Why!" he exclaimed, "that should be easy."

The Secretary smiled.

"You have our full permission to get it," he said. "This department,"
he explained, "under three administrations has instructed four
ministers to arrange such a treaty. The Bankers' Association wants
it; the Merchants' Protective Alliance wants it. Amapala is the only
place within striking distance of our country where a fugitive is safe.
It is the only place where a dishonest cashier, swindler, or felon can
find refuge. Sometimes it seems almost as though when a man planned
a crime he timed it exactly so as to catch the boat for Amapala. And,
once there, we can't lay our hands on him; and, what's more, we can't
lay our hands on the money he takes with him. I have no right to make
a promise," said the great man, "but the day that treaty is signed you
can sail for a legation in Europe. Do I make myself clear?"

"So clear, sir," cried Everett, laughing, "that if I don't
arrange that treaty I will remain in Amapala until I do."

"Four of your predecessors," remarked the Secretary, "made
exactly the same promise, but none of them got us the treaty."

"Probably none of them remained in Amapala, either," retorted
Everett.

"Two did," corrected the Secretary; "as you ride into Camaguay
you see their tombstones."

Everett found the nine-day mule-ride from the coast to the capital
arduous, but full of interest. After a week at his post he appreciated
that until he left it and made the return journey nothing of equal
interest was again likely to occur. For life in Camaguay, the capital
of Amapala, proved to be one long, dreamless slumber. In the morning
each of the inhabitants engaged in a struggle to get awake; after the
second breakfast he ceased struggling, and for a siesta sank into his
hammock. After dinner, at nine o'clock, he was prepared to sleep in
earnest, and went to bed. The official life as explained to Everett by
Garland, the American consul, was equally monotonous. When
President Mendoza was not in the mountains deer-hunting, or
suppressing a revolution, each Sunday he invited the American
minister to dine at the palace. In return His Excellency expected
once a week to be invited to breakfast with the minister. He preferred
that the activities of that gentleman should go no further. Life in the
diplomatic circle was even less strenuous. Everett was the doyen
of the diplomatic corps because he was the only diplomat. All
other countries were represented by consuls who were commission
merchants and shopkeepers. They were delighted at having among
them a minister plenipotentiary. When he took pity on them and
invited them to tea, which invitations he delivered in person to
each consul at the door of each shop, the entire diplomatic corps,
as the consuls were pleased to describe themselves, put up the
shutters, put on their official full-dress uniforms and arrived in
a body.
The first week at his post Everett spent in reading the archives of
the legation. They were most discouraging. He found that for the
sixteen years prior to his arrival the only events reported to the
department by his predecessors were revolutions and the refusals
of successive presidents to consent to a treaty of extradition. On
that point all Amapalans were in accord. Though overnight the
government changed hands, though presidents gave way to dictators,
and dictators to military governors, the national policy of Amapala
continued to be "No extradition!" The ill success of those who had
preceded him appalled Everett. He had promised himself by a
brilliant assault to secure the treaty and claim the legation in
Europe. But the record of sixteen years of failure caused him
to alter his strategy. Instead of an attack he prepared for a siege.
He unpacked his books, placed the portrait of his own President
over the office desk, and proceeded to make friends with his fellow
exiles.

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