Part 5 (1/2)
Hardly had I finished the immense lunch on which I was compelled to gorge myself, when a waiter brought me a card, the name on which gave me an electric shock.
”_M. Petrovitch._”
Every one has heard of this man, the promoter of the Manchurian Syndicate, and, if report spoke truly, the possessor of an influence over the young Czar which could be attributed only to some occult art.
I could not doubt that this powerful personage had been instigated to call on me by the Princess Y----.
What then? Was it likely that she would have sent the most influential man in the imperial circle to wait upon a traveling fanatic, a visionary humanitarian from Exeter Hall?
Impossible! Somehow something must have leaked out to rouse the suspicions of this astute plotter, and make her guess that I was not what I seemed.
It was with the sensations of a man struggling in the meshes of an invisible net that I saw M. Petrovitch enter the room.
The celebrated wire-puller, whose name was familiar to every statesman and stock-broker in Europe, had an appearance very unlike his reputation.
He was the court dandy personified. Every detail of his dress was elaborated to the point of effeminacy. His hands were like a girl's, his long hair was curled and scented, he walked with a limp and spoke with a lisp, removing a gold-tipped cigarette from his well-displayed teeth.
As the smoke of the cigarette drifted toward me, I was conscious of an acute, but imperfect, twinge of memory. The sense of smell, though the most neglected, is the most reliable sense with which we are furnished. I could not be mistaken in thinking I had smelt tobacco like that before.
”I have come to see you without losing a moment, Mr. Sterling,” he said in very good English. ”My good friend Madame Y---- sent me a note from the Palace to beg me to show you every attention. It is too bad that an amba.s.sador of peace--a friend of that great and good man, Place, should be staying in a hotel, while hundreds of Russians would be delighted to welcome him as their guest. My house is a poor one, it is true, and I am hardly of high enough rank, still----”
The intriguer was asking me to transfer myself to his roof, to become his prisoner, in effect.
”I cannot thank you enough,” I responded, ”but I am not going to stay. The Princess has convinced me that the war-cloud will blow over, and I think of going on to Constantinople to intercede with the Sultan on behalf of the Armenians.”
”A n.o.ble idea,” M. Petrovitch responded warmly. ”What would the world do without such men as you? But at all events you will dine with me before you go?”
It was the second invitation to dinner I had received that day. But, after all, I could hardly suspect a trap in everything.
”Do you share the hopes of the Princess?” I asked M. Petrovitch, after thanking him for his hospitality.
The syndicate-monger nodded.
”I have been working night and day for peace,” he declared impudently, ”and I think I may claim that I have done some good. The j.a.panese are seeking for an excuse to attack us, but they will not get it.”
”The Manchurian Syndicate?” I ventured to hint, rising to go to the bell.
”The Syndicate is wholly in favor of peace,” he a.s.sured me, watching my movement with evident curiosity. ”We require it, in fact, to develop our mines, our timber concessions, our----”
A waiter entered in response to my ring.
”Bring me some cigarettes--your best,” I ordered him.
As the man retreated it was borne in on my guest that he had been guilty of smoking in my room without offering me his case.
”A thousand pardons!” he exclaimed. ”Won't you try one of mine?”
I took a cigarette from the case he held out, turned it between my fingers, and lit it from the end farthest from the maker's imprint.