The Everlasting Arms

Polonius was silent for some time. Evidently he was thinking deeply; evidently, too, he saw something of what lay behind the Count's words, for he nodded his head sagely, and into his cunning eyes came a look of understanding.

"Of course you do not care to tell me why you want to make him your slave, body and soul?" he whispered.

"No!" the Count almost snarled. "No man may know that."

"You ask what I would do next?"

"Yes, I ask that."

"No man is invulnerable," said the little man, as though he were talking to himself. "No man ever was, no man ever will be. Every man has his price, and if one can pay it – "

"There is no question of price," said the Count eagerly; "nothing need stand in the way, any price can be paid."

"I see, I see," and the little man's foxy eyes flashed. "You want to work the man's moral downfall," he added. "You want to make him a slave to your will —not to make him a saint?"

The Count was silent.

"If I wanted to make such a man a slave to my will, and I had such means as you suggest, I should find a woman to help me. A woman beautiful, fascinating, unscrupulous. I would instruct her to be an angel of light. I would make her be the medium whereby he could obtain all that such as he desires, and I would make him believe that in getting her he would find the greatest and best gift in life, a gift whereby all that was highest and best in this life, and in the life to come, could be got. At the same time she must be a woman, a woman that should appeal to his desires, and make his pulses throb at the thought of possessing her."

For some time they spoke eagerly together, the Count raising point after point, which the little man was not slow to answer.

"Polonius, did I not know otherwise, I should say you were the devil," laughed Romanoff.

"I know you are," replied the little man in great glee.

"What do you mean?" and there was a kind of fear in the Russian's voice.

"Only that your cleverness is beyond that of ordinary mankind. You have thought of all this long before you asked me."

"Have I? Perhaps I have; but I wanted your opinion."

"The difficulty is to find the woman."

"In two minutes she will be here. Go into the next room and watch, and listen. After she has gone, you shall tell me what you think of her."

A minute later the door opened, and Olga Petrovic entered the room.

CHAPTER XXIX

In Quest of a Soul

"Good evening, Countess. Thank you for coming so promptly. Be seated, won't you?"

Olga Petrovic looked at the Count eagerly, and accepted the chair he indicated. She looked older than when she left Dick Faversham after the interview I have described, and there were indications on her face that she had suffered anxious thoughts, and perhaps keen disappointment. But she was a strikingly beautiful woman still. Tall, magnificently proportioned; and almost regal in her carriage. She was fast approaching thirty, but to a casual observer she appeared only two- or three-and-twenty. She had the air of a grand lady, too, proud and haughty, but a woman still. A woman in a million, somewhat captivating, seductive; a woman to turn the head of any ordinary man, and make him her slave. One felt instinctively that she could play on a man's heart and senses as a skilful musician plays on an instrument.

But not a good woman. She had a world of experience in her eyes. She suggested mystery, mystery which would appear to the unwary as Romance. Because of this she could impress youth and inexperience by her loveliness, she could appear as an angel of light.

She was magnificently dressed, too. Every detail of her glorious figure was set off to the full by her costumier, and her attire spoke of wealth, even while this fact was not ostentatious or even intended. In short, her costumier was an artist who knew her business.

Evidently, if ever she had been in danger by appearing in public, that danger was over. There was no suggestion of fear or apprehension in her demeanour.

"Why do you wish to see me?" she asked abruptly.

"I am quite aware," said Romanoff, without taking any apparent notice of her question, "that I took a liberty in asking you to come here. I should have asked you when it would have been convenient for you to graciously receive me at your flat. For this I must crave your pardon."

There was something mocking in his voice, a subtle insinuation of power which the woman was not slow to see.

"You asked me to come here because you wanted me, and because you knew I should come," she replied. "You knew, too, that I could not afford to disobey you."

"We will let that drop," replied the Count suavely. "I count myself honoured by your visit. How could it be otherwise?" and he cast an admiring glance towards her.

The woman watched him closely. It seemed as though, in spite of their acquaintance, she did not understand him.

"You see," went on Romanoff, "our Bolshevism is a thing of the past. The proletariat of England will have none of it. A few malcontents may have a hankering after it; but as a class the people of England see through it. They see what it has done for Russia, and they know that under a Bolshevist régime all liberty, all safety, all prosperity would be gone for ever."

The woman nodded.

"Besides," went on the Count, "you are in a far more becoming position as the Countess Petrovic, with estates in Russia and elsewhere, than as Olga, the high priestess of a wild and irresponsible set of fanatics."

"You have changed your views about those same fanatics," responded the woman rather sullenly.

"Have I? Who knows?" was the Count's smiling and enigmatical reply. "But I did think they might have served my purpose."

"What purpose?"

"Dear lady, even to you I cannot disclose that. Besides, what does it matter?"

"Because I would like to know. Because – because – " There she broke off suddenly.

"Because through it the man Faversham crossed your path, eh?" and the smile did not leave his face.

"You knew that Bolshevism would fail in England," cried the woman. "You knew that the whole genius of the race was against it. Why then did you try to drag – Faversham into it? Why did you tell me to dazzle him with its possibilities, to get him involved in it to such a degree that he would be compromised?"

"Ah, why?"

"But he would have none of it," retorted the woman. "He saw through it all, saw that it was an impossible dream, because in reality it was, and is, a wild delusion and a nightmare."

"Perhaps that was your fault," replied Romanoff. "Perhaps your powers of fascination were not as great as I thought. Anyhow – "

"Have you seen him lately?" she interrupted. "You know where he is? What he is doing?"

Her voice vibrated with eagerness; she looked towards Romanoff with a flash of pleading in her great lustrous eyes.

"Don't you read the newspapers?"

"Not the English. Why should I? What is there in them for me? Of course I get the Polish and the Russian news."

"If you read the English newspapers you would have no need to ask where he is," replied Romanoff.

"Why, has he become famous?"

As if in answer to her question there was a knock at the door, and a servant entered bringing three London evening papers.

"There," said the Count, pointing to some bold headlines – "there is the answer to your question."

"Great Labour Victory in Eastroyd," she read. "Triumphant Return of Mr. Richard Faversham."

Her eyes were riveted on the paper, and almost unheeding the Count's presence she read an article devoted to the election. Especially was her attention drawn to the Career of the Successful Candidate.

"Although Mr. Faversham, because of his deep sympathy with the aims of the working classes, has been returned to Parliament by them," she read, "he is not a typical Labour Member. As the son of a scholar, and the product of one of our best public schools, he has naturally been associated with a class different from that which has just given him its confidence. Years ago he was regarded as the heir of one of our great commercial magnates, and for some time was in possession of a great country house. His association with the middle classes, however, has not lessened his passionate interest in the welfare of the poor, and although he has of late become less advanced in his views, there can be no doubt that he will be a strong tower to the party with which he has identified himself."

"He will be in London to-morrow," remarked Romanoff, when presently the woman lifted her head.

"In London? To-morrow!"

The Count noted the eagerness with which she spoke.

"Yes," he said; "to-morrow."

"And he will be a great man?"

"Not necessarily so," answered Romanoff. "He will be a Labour Member at four hundred pounds a year. He will have to be obedient to the orders of his party."

"He never will! He is not a man of that sort!"

Her voice was almost passionate. Evidently her interest in him was deep.

"Won't he? We shall see. But he will find it hard to live in London on four hundred pounds a year. London is not a cheap city in these days. You see he has all the instincts of his class."

"Will he be one of the working men? Will he live as they live? Will he be of their order?" asked Olga.

"You seem greatly interested, Countess."

"Naturally. I – I – "

"Yes, I remember your last interview."

The woman's eyes flashed with anger. She suggested the "woman scorned."

"You made love to him, didn't you, Countess? And he – he politely declined your advances?" Romanoff laughed as he spoke.

The woman started to her feet. "Did you get me here to taunt me with that?" she cried. "Besides, did I not obey your bidding? Was it not at your command that I – "

"Yes, but not against your will, Countess. You had what our French neighbours call the grand passion for Faversham, eh?"

"Why do you taunt me with that?"

"Because the game is not played out. I do not break my promise, and I promised you that he should be yours – yours. Well, the time has come when my promise may be fulfilled."

"What do you mean?"

"Countess, are you still in love with Faversham?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I hate him. Tell me, why have you brought me here to-day?"

"To give you your opportunity. To tell you how, if you still love Faversham, you can win him; and how, if you hate him, you can have your revenge. Surely, Olga Petrovic, you are not the kind of woman who sits down meekly to a snub. To offer your love to a man, and then accept a cold rebuff. I thought I knew you better."

Deeply as his words wounded her, she did not forget her caution.

"What interest have you in him?" she asked. "I have never been able to understand you."

"No, I am not easily understood, and I do not make my motives public property. But Faversham will in future live in London. He, although he is a Labour Member, will have but little sympathy, little in common with his confrères. He will be lonely; he will long for the society of women, especially for those who are educated, fascinating, beautiful. Olga, are you the woman to be beaten? Listen, he with his tastes, will need money. You can give it to him. He will be lonely; he will need companionship. You have a beautiful flat in Mayfair, and you can be as fascinating as an angel."

She listened to every word he said, but her mind might be far away.

"Why do I care for him?" she cried passionately. "What is he to me? A middle-class Englishman, with an Englishman's tastes and desires, an Englishman with the morality of his class. Just a plain, stupid, uninteresting bourgeois, a specimen of the self-satisfied Puritan."

"You found him vastly interesting though."

"Yes, but why should I? Why do I care what becomes of him? He is nothing to me."

"He can be something to you though, Countess; you are a beautiful, fascinating woman. You can appeal to every man's weaknesses, no matter what they are. With time and opportunity no man can resist you. Say the word, and I will give you these opportunities."

"You mean – ?"

"That I want him to be yours. You want him, and I owe you at least this."

"You have some other purpose."

"And if I have, what then? He will be yours, body and soul. Tell me, are you still in love with him?"

The woman walked to the window, and looked out on the tide of human traffic in Piccadilly. For some time she seemed to be lost in thought, then she burst out passionately.

"I am angry whenever I think of him. He was as cold as an icicle; I was like a woman pleading with a stone. Something seemed to stand between us – something – I don't know what."

"What, you?" and there was a taunt in the Count's voice. "You, Olga Petrovic, said to be the most beautiful, the most dangerous woman in Europe, you whom no man has been able to resist, but who have fascinated them as serpents fascinate birds? Are you going to be beaten by this middle-class Englishman, this Labour Member of Parliament with £400 a year? Will you have him boast that Countess Olga Petrovic threw herself at him, and that he declined her without thanks?"

"Has he boasted that?" she cried hoarsely.

"What do you think?" laughed the Count. "Is he not that kind of man?"

"No," the word came from her involuntarily. "Only – "

"Only he is much in favour with the ladies at Eastroyd. I have just been told that."

"I hate him!" she said, and her voice was hoarse.

"I wonder?" queried the Count mockingly.

"Do you know, have you found out who his visitors were that day, that morning when I saw him last?"

"An old man and a chit of a girl."

"Yes, I know that; I saw them as I left the room. The man might have been a poet, an artist, and the girl was an unformed, commonplace miss. But he did not regard them as commonplace. His eyes burnt with a new light as he read their cards. I saw it. I believe I should have had him but for that. I had conquered him; he was ready to fall at my feet; but when he read their names, I knew I had lost. Who were they?"

"I have not discovered. They could have been only casual acquaintances. I have had him watched ever since he left London that day, and he has never seen them since. Of course he may be in love with her. It may be that he prefers an English wayside flower to such a tropical plant as yourself. That he would rather have youth and innocence than a woman twenty-eight years of age, who – who has had a past."

"He never shall! Never!"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. She had evidently decided on her course.

"You may have to play a bold, daring game," insinuated the Count.

"I will play any game. I'll not be beaten."

"You love him still – you who never loved any man for more than a month! And Faversham – "

"You must find out where he lives, you must let me know."

"And then?"

"You may leave everything to me."

"Mind, Olga, you may have to appear an Angel of Light in order to win him. In fact I think that will have to be your plan. He has all the old-fashioned morality of the middle-classes."

"We shall see!" cried the woman triumphantly.

"I may trust you then?"

"Tell me why you wish this? Suppose I – I love him really, suppose I am willing to become his slave? Suppose I want to settle down to – to quiet domestic happiness, to loving motherhood? Suppose I want to be good – and to pray?"

The Count's eyes burnt red with anger as she spoke, while his features were contorted as if with pain.

"Stop that," he almost snarled. "I know you, Olga Petrovic, I know too much about you. Besides, the Bolshevists have taken your estates, and – but why argue? You love luxury, don't you? Love beautiful dresses, love your life of ease, love what money can buy, money that you can't get without me?"

"You must tell me all I need to know," she answered with sullen submissiveness.

"Yes."

"Then I will go."

"And you will not fail?"

"No, I will not fail."

She left the room without another word, while Romanoff returned to his chair, and sat for some time immovable. His face was like a mask. His deep impenetrable eyes were fixed on vacancy.

"Yes, Polonius, you can come in. I can see that you are almost tired of watching me. But my face tells you nothing, my little man."

Polonius Slyme slinked into the room like a whipped cur.

"Look here, little man," went on the Count, "I pay you to watch others, not me. The moment you begin to spy on me, that moment you cease to be my servant. Do you understand?"

"But, indeed, your lordship – "

"Do not try to deny. I know everything. I forgive you for this once; but never again. Obey me blindly, unquestioningly, and all will be well with you, but try to spy upon me, to discover anything about me, and the lost souls in hell may pity you. Ah, I see yow understand."

"Forgive me, my lord. I will obey you like a slave."

"What do you think of her?"

"She is magnificent, glorious! She can turn any man's brain. She is a Circe, a Sybil, a Venus – no man with blood in his veins can resist her!"

"That is your opinion, eh?"

"I never saw such a creature before. And – and she has no conscience!"

The Count laughed. "Now, Slyme, I have some more work for you."

"To watch her!" he cried eagerly, rubbing his hands.

"No, not yet. That may be necessary some time, but not now. I have other work for you."

"Yes, my lord."

"To-morrow morning you will go to Surrey. I will give you all particulars about the trains and the stations presently. You will go to a place known as Wendover Park. Near one of the lodge gates of this house is a pretty cottage. It was occupied, and probably still is, by a man called Hugh Stanmore and his granddaughter. You must find out whether he is still there, and learn all you can about them. Report all to me. You understand?"

"Perfectly, your Highness," replied Polonius, whose terminology in relation to the Count was uncertain.

"You will report to me."

"Yes, certainly, my lord, everything."

"Very well, now go."

The night came on, and the room grew dark, but Count Romanoff did not switch on the light. He sat alone in the dark thinking, thinking.

"I have him now," he muttered presently. "Master, you shall have Richard Faversham's soul."

CHAPTER XXX

Voices in the Night

Dick Faversham was on his way to London. He was going there as the Member for Eastroyd, and he was somewhat excited. He was excited for several reasons. Naturally he was elated at being a Member of Parliament, and he looked forward with pleasant anticipation to his political life in the Metropolis, and to his experiences in the House of Commons. But that was not all. This was his first visit to London since he had experienced those strange happenings which we described some time ago. As the train rushed on through the night he became oblivious to the presence of his fellow-passengers in the recollection of the events which were a mystery to him then, even as they were a mystery now.

Especially did his mind revert to that wonderful experience in Staple Inn. He had heard a voice although he saw nothing, and that voice had meant a great deal to him. More than once he had wondered if he had done right in being silent about what had taken place afterwards. Ought he not to have gone to the police and told them what he had heard? But he had not been able to make up his mind to do this. Somehow everything had been associated with what had come to him in Staple Inn, and of that he could not speak. It would be sacrilege to do so. Besides, it might not have been necessary. From the fact that the traitors had left the house so suddenly, he concluded that the police were cognizant of their existence.

But his eyes had been opened. That was why, when Olga Petrovic visited him, he was unresponsive. And yet he was not sure.

Should he ever see this beautiful woman again, he wondered?

He was afraid of her even while he longed to see her. Even then he recalled the tones of her voice, and the look in her eyes as she had pleaded with him. He had felt himself yielding to her pleading, all the barriers of his being seemed to be breaking down before the power of her glorious womanhood.

Then there was the coming of Hugh Stanmore and his granddaughter. They were the last persons he had expected to see, and yet the sight of their names seemed to break the spell which Olga Petrovic had cast over him.

There seemed no reason why they should come, and their interview, considering the circumstances under which he had seen them last was of a very prosy nature. Hugh Stanmore had happened to meet with a man who was a Government official, and who had told him of one Richard Faversham who was one of a deputation to his department, and who had pleaded passionately for certain things which the working-classes desired. This led to his learning the name of his hotel, and to the visit which had followed.

Hugh Stanmore had scarcely referred to his life at Wendover, and seemed to be in ignorance of Tony Riggleton's whereabouts. Dick wondered at this after the interview, and reproached himself with not asking many questions. At the time, however, he seemed to be indifferent.

To Beatrice he spoke only a few words. She appeared to be shy and diffident. If the truth must be told, she seemed ill at ease, and not at all pleased that her grandfather had brought her there. She was far less a child than when he had seen her at Wendover, and he had reflected that she was neither so interesting nor so good-looking as she had been two or three years before. Still, he was glad to see her, and he remembered the pleasant smile she had given him when she had left the room. His conversation with Hugh Stanmore had been almost entirely about his life at Eastroyd, and the conditions which obtained there.

He realised, too, that a subtle change had come over his opinions on his return to Eastroyd. Not that he had less interest in the class whose cause he had espoused; but he knew that he had been led to take larger views.

That was why some discontent had been felt among his most ardent supporters. Even those who had worked hardest for him during the election felt it incumbent upon them to raise a note of warning as they accompanied him to the station that night.

"It's all very well, Dick, lad," said one advanced Socialist, "but we mun make a bold front. I don't hold with Bolshevism, or owt of that sort; but the Capitalist is the enemy of the working man, and we mun put those money-bags in their right place."

It was a cold, dark, wintry morning when he arrived in London. The station and the streets were almost empty, the vehicles were few, and he felt cold and lonely. He had made no arrangements for his stay in the Metropolis, but he felt sure that the manager of the hotel where he had previously made his home would find him temporary accommodation. As it was impossible to get a taxi, he left his luggage at the station, and determined to walk. He knew the way well, and as the distance was only about a mile, he started with comparative cheerfulness.

As I have said, the streets were well-nigh deserted, and not a single soul passed him as he made his way up Euston Road. Nevertheless he had the feeling that he was being followed. More than once he looked around, but could see no one. Several times, too, he felt sure he heard following footsteps, but when he stopped there was silence.

When he turned at St. Pancras Church he looked up and down the street, but nothing suspicious met his gaze. A milkman's cart, a drayman's waggon, and that was all. The street lamps threw a sickly light on the cold wet road, and the houses were dark. London looked asleep.

For some time after he had passed St. Pancras Church he heard nothing; but, as he neared Woburn Square, he again heard footsteps. It seemed to him, too, that he was surrounded by dark influences. Something sinister and evil seemed to be surrounding him. He was not afraid, and his nerves were steady, but his brain was filled with strange fancies.

Almost unconsciously his mind reverted to Count Romanoff. He had seen him only once since he had left Wendover Park, and the man was still an enigma to him. He had a thousand times reflected on the strange happening in the library there, but although he felt he had been saved from something terrible, he had not definitely associated the Count with anything supernatural. For Dick was not cast in a superstitious mould.