Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim

      “My friend,” Selingman pronounced drily, “the path of honour and glory, the onward progress of a mighty, struggling nation, carrying in its hand culture and civilisation, might demand even such a sacrifice. Germany recognises, is profoundly imbued with the splendour of her own ideals, the matchlessness of her own culture. She feels justified in spreading herself out wherever she can find an outlet—at any cost, mind, because the end must be good.”

      There was a moment’s silence. Then the tall man stood upright.

      “If you came out to find me, my friend Selingman, to bring me this warning, I suppose I should consider myself your debtor. As a matter of fact, I do not. You have inspired me with nameless misgivings. Your voice sounds in my ears like the voice of an ugly fate. I am, as you have often reminded me, half German, and I have shown my friendship for Germany many times. Unlike most of the aristocracy of my country, I look more often northwards than towards the south. But I tell you frankly that there are limits to my Germanism. I will play no more golf. I will walk with you to the club-house.”

      “All that I have to say,” Selingman went on, “is not yet said. This opportunity of meeting you is too precious to be wasted. Come. As we walk there are certain questions I wish to put to you.”

      They passed within a few feet of where Norgate was lying. He closed his eyes and held his breath. It was not until their figures were almost specks in the distance that he rose cautiously to his feet. He made his way back to the club-house by another angle, gained his taxicab unobserved, and drove back to Ostend.

      * * * * *

      Towards evening Norgate strolled into one of the cosmopolitan bars at the back of the Casino. The first person he saw as he handed over his hat to a waiter, was Selingman, spread out upon a cushioned seat with a young lady upon either side of him. He at once summoned Norgate to his table.

      “An aperitif,” he insisted. “Come, you must not refuse me. In two hours we start. We tear ourselves away from this wonderful atmosphere. In atmosphere, mademoiselle,” he added, bowing to the right and the left, “all is included.”

      “It is not,” Norgate admitted, “an invitation to be disregarded. On the other hand, I have already an appetite.”

      Selingman thundered out an order.

      “Here,” he remarked, “we dwell for a few brief moments in Bohemia. I do not introduce you. You sit down and join us. You are one of us. That you speak only English counts for nothing. Mademoiselle Alice here is American. Now tell us at once, how have you spent this afternoon? You have bathed, perhaps, or walked upon the sands?”

      Norgate was on the point of speaking of his excursion to Knocke but was conscious of Selingman’s curiously intent gaze. The spirit of duplicity seemed to grow upon him.

      “I walked for a little way,” he said. “Afterwards I lay upon the sands and slept. When I found that the steamer was still further delayed, I had a bath. That was half an hour ago. I asked a man whom I met on the promenade where one might dine in travelling clothes, lightly but well, and he sent me here—the Bar de Londres—and here, for my good fortune, I am.”

      “It is a pity that monsieur does not speak French,” one of Selingman’s companions murmured.

      “But, mademoiselle,” Norgate protested, “I have spoken French all my life. Herr Selingman here has misunderstood me. It is German of which I am ignorant.”

      The young lady, who immediately introduced herself as Mademoiselle Henriette, passed her arm through Selingman’s.

      “We dine here all together, my friend, is it not so?” she begged. “He will not be in the way, and for myself, I am triste. You talk all the time to Mademoiselle l’Americaine, perhaps because she is the friend of some one in whom you are interested. But for me, it is dull. Monsieur l’Anglais shall talk with me, and you may hear all the secrets that Alice has to tell. We,” she murmured, looking up at Norgate, “will speak of other things, is it not so?”

      For a moment Selingman hesitated. Norgate would have moved on with a little farewell nod, but Selingman’s companions were insistent.

      “It shall be a partie carree,” they both declared, almost in unison.

      “You need have no fear,” Mademoiselle Henriette continued. “I will talk all the time to monsieur. He shall tell me his name, and we shall be very great friends. I am not interested in the things of which they talk, those others. You shall tell me of London, monsieur, and how you live there.”

      “Join us, by all means,” Selingman invited.

      “On condition that you dine with me,” Norgate insisted, as he took up the menu.

      “Impossible!” Selingman declared firmly.

      “Oh! it matters nothing,” Mademoiselle Henriette exclaimed, “so long as we dine.”

      “So long,” Mademoiselle Alice intervened, “as we have this brief glimpse of Mr. Selingman, let us make the best of it. We see him only because of a contretemps. I think we must be very nice to him and persuade him to take us to London to-night.”

      Selingman’s shake of the head was final.

      “Dear young ladies,” he said, “it was delightful to find you here. I came upon the chance, I admit, but who in Ostend would not be here between six and eight? We dine, we walk down to the quay, and if you will, you shall wave your hands and wish us bon voyage, but London just now is triste. It is here you may live the life the bon Dieu sends, where the sun shines all the time and the sea laps the sands like a great blue lake, and you, mademoiselle, can wear those wonderful costumes and charm all hearts. There is nothing like that for you in London.”

      They ordered dinner and walked afterwards down to the quay. Mademoiselle Henriette lingered behind with Norgate.

      “Let them go on,” she whispered. “They have much to talk about. It is but a short distance, and your steamer will not start before ten. We can walk slowly and listen to the music. You are not in a hurry, monsieur, to depart? Your stay here is too short already.”

      Norgate’s reply, although gallant enough, was a little vague. He was watching Selingman with his companion. They were talking together with undoubted seriousness.

      “Who is Mr. Selingman?” he enquired. “I know him only as a travelling companion.”

      Mademoiselle Henriette extended her hands. She shrugged her little shoulders and looked with wide-open eyes up into her companion’s grave face.

      “But who, indeed, can answer that question?” she exclaimed. “Twice he has been here for flying visits. Once Alice has been to see him in Berlin. He is, I believe, a very wealthy manufacturer there. He crosses often to England. He has money, and he is always gay.”

      “And Mademoiselle Alice?”

      “Who knows?” was the somewhat pointless reply. “She came from America. She arrived here this season with Monsieur le General.”

      “What General?” Norgate asked. “A Belgian?”

      “But no,” his companion corrected. “All the world knows that Alice is the friend of General le Foys, chief of the staff in Paris. He is a very great soldier. He spends eleven months working and one month here.”

      “And she is also,” Norgate observed meditatively, “the friend of Herr Selingman. Tell me, mademoiselle, what do you suppose those two are talking of now? See how close their heads are together. I don’t think that Herr Selingman is a Don Juan.”

      “They speak, perhaps, of serious matters,” his companion surmised, “but who can tell? Besides, is it for us to waste our few moments wondering? You will come back to Ostend, monsieur?”

      Norgate looked back at the streaming curve of lights flashing across the dark waters.

      “One never knows,” he answered.

      “That