The Double Four Part 37

"The man?"

"It is fitting that you should ask that question," Sogrange replied.

"The name of that man is Bernadine, Count von Hern."

Peter remained speechless. There was something almost terrible in the slow preciseness with which Sogrange had uttered the name of his enemy, something unspeakably threatening in the cold glitter of his angry eyes.

"Up to the present," Sogrange continued, "I have watched--sympathetically, of course, but with a certain amount of amus.e.m.e.nt--the duel between you and Bernadine. It has been against your country and your country's welfare that most of his efforts have been directed, which perhaps accounts for the equanimity with which I have been contented to remain a looker-on. It is apparent, my dear Baron, that in most of your encounters the honours have remained with you. Yet, as it has chanced, never once has Bernadine been struck a real and crus.h.i.+ng blow. The time has come when this and more must happen. It is no longer a matter of polite exchanges. It is a _duel a outrance_."

"You mean----" Peter began.

"I mean that Bernadine must die," Sogrange declared.

There was a brief silence. Outside, the early morning street noises were increasing in volume as the great army of workers, streaming towards the heart of the city from a hundred suburbs, pa.s.sed on to their tasks. A streak of suns.h.i.+ne had found its way into the room, lay across the carpet, and touched Sogrange's still, waxen features. Peter glanced half fearfully at his friend and visitor. He himself was no coward, no shrinker from the great issues. He, too, had dealt in life and death.

Yet there was something in the deliberate preciseness of Sogrange's words, as he sat there only a few feet away, which was unspeakably thrilling. It was like a death sentence p.r.o.nounced in all solemnity upon some s.h.i.+vering criminal. There was something inevitable and tragical about the whole affair. A p.r.o.nouncement had been made from which there was no appeal. Bernadine was to die!

"Isn't this a little exceeding the usual exercise of our powers?" Peter asked slowly.

"No such occasion as this has ever yet arisen," Sogrange reminded him.

"Bernadine has fled to this country with barely an hour to spare. His offence is extraditable by a law of the last century which has never been repealed. He is guilty of treason against the Republic of France.

Yet they do not want him back, they do not want a trial. I have papers upon my person which, if I took them into an English court, would procure for me a warrant for Bernadine's arrest. It is not this we desire. Bernadine must die. No fate could be too terrible for a man who has striven to corrupt the soul of a nation. It is not war, this. It is not honest conspiracy. Is it war, I ask you, to seek to poison the drinking water of an enemy, to send stalking into their midst some loathsome disease? Such things belong to the ages of barbarity.

Bernadine has striven to revive them, and Bernadine shall die."

"It is justice," Peter admitted.

"The question remains," Sogrange continued, "by whose hand--yours or mine?"

Peter started uneasily.

"Is that necessary?" he asked.

"I fear that it is," Sogrange replied. "We had a brief meeting of the executive council last night, and it was decided, for certain reasons, to entrust this task into no other hands. You will smile when I tell you that these accursed pamphlets have found their way into the possession of many of the rank and file of our own order. There is a marked disinclination on the part of those who have been our slaves to accept orders from anyone. Espionage we can still command--the best, perhaps, in Europe--because here we use a different cla.s.s of material. But of those underneath we are, for the moment, doubtful. Paris is all in a ferment. Under its outward seemliness a million throats are ready to take up the brazen cry of revolution. One trusts n.o.body. One fears all the time."

"You or I!" Peter repeated slowly. "It will not be sufficient, then, that we find Bernadine and deliver him over to your country's laws?"

"It will not be sufficient," Sogrange answered sternly. "From those he may escape. For him there must be no escape."

"Sogrange," Peter said, speaking in a low tone, "I have never yet killed a human being."

"Nor I," Sogrange admitted. "Nor have I yet set my heel upon its head and stamped the life from a rat upon the pavement. But one lives and one moves on. Bernadine is the enemy of your country and mine. He makes war after the fas.h.i.+on of vermin. No ordinary cut-throat would succeed against him. It must be you or I."

"How shall we decide?" Peter asked.

"The spin of a coin," Sogrange replied. "It is best that way. It is best, too, done quickly."

Peter produced a sovereign from his pocket and balanced it on the palm of his hand.

"Let it be understood," Sogrange continued, "that this is a dual undertaking. We toss only for the final honour--for the last stroke. If the choice falls upon me, I shall count upon you to help me to the end.

If it falls upon you, I shall be at your right hand even when you strike the blow."

"It is agreed," Peter said. "See, it is for you to call."

He threw the coin high into the air.

"I call heads," Sogrange decided.

It fell upon the table. Peter covered it with his hand, and then slowly withdrew the fingers. A little s.h.i.+ver ran through his veins. The harmless head that looked up at him was like the figure of death. It was for him to strike the blow!

"Where is Bernadine now?" he asked.

"Get me a morning paper and I will tell you," Sogrange declared, rising.

"He was in the train which was stopped outside the Gare du Nord, on his way to England. What became of the pa.s.sengers I have not heard. I knew what was likely to happen, and I left an hour before in a 100 h.p.

Charron."

Peter rang the bell, and ordered the servant who answered it to procure the _Daily Telegraph_. As soon as it arrived, he spread it open upon the table, and Sogrange looked over his shoulder. These are the headings which they saw in large black characters:

RENEWED RIOTS IN PARIS THE GARE DU NORD IN FLAMES TERRIBLE ACCIDENT TO THE CALAIS-DOUVRES EXPRESS MANY DEATHS

Peter's forefinger travelled down the page swiftly. It paused at the following paragraph:--

"The 8.55 train from the Gare du Nord, carrying many pa.s.sengers for London, after being detained within a mile of Paris for over an hour owing to the murder of the engine-driver, made an attempt last night to proceed, with terrible results. Near Chantilly, whilst travelling at over fifty miles an hour, the points were tampered with, and the express dashed into a goods train laden with minerals. Very few particulars are yet to hand, but the express was completely wrecked, and many lives have been lost. Amongst the dead are the following:"

One by one Peter read out the names. Then he stopped short. A little exclamation broke from Sogrange's lips. The thirteenth name upon that list of dead was the name of Bernadine, Count von Hern.

"Bernadine!" Peter faltered. "Bernadine is dead!"

"Killed by the strikers!" Sogrange echoed. "It is a just thing, this."

The two men looked down at the paper and then up at each other. A strange silence seemed to have found its way into the room. The shadow of death lay between them. Peter touched his forehead and found it wet.

"It is a just thing, indeed," he repeated, "but justice and death are alike terrible."

Late in the afternoon of the same day a motor car, splashed with mud, drew up before the door of the house in Berkeley Square. Sogrange, who was standing talking to Peter before the library window, suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence. He stepped back into the room and gripped his friend's shoulder.

"It is the Baroness," he exclaimed quickly. "What does she want here?"

"The Baroness who?" Peter demanded.

"The Baroness von Ratten. You must have heard of her--she is the friend of Bernadine."

The two men had been out to lunch at the Ritz with Violet, and had walked across the Park home. Sogrange had been drawing on his gloves in the act of starting out for a call at the Emba.s.sy.

"Does your wife know this woman?" he asked.

Peter shook his head.

"I think not," he replied. "We shall know in a minute."

"Then she has come to see you," Sogrange continued. "What does it mean, I wonder?"