The Complete Brigadier Gerard Stories. Arthur Conan Doyle
table in the window,” said he, and hurried into the house, whilst I was left waiting beside the carriage.
‘Well, if we could but secure ourselves from interruption for a single half-hour the day would be our own. I had hardly begun to form my plans when I saw the lights of a carriage coming swiftly from the direction of Oxford Street. Ah, if it should be the messenger! What could I do? I was prepared to kill him−yes, even to kill him, rather than at this last moment allow our work to be undone. Thousands die to make a glorious war. Why should not one die to make a glorious peace? What though they hurried me to the scaffold? I should have sacrificed myself for my country. I had a little curved Turkish knife strapped to my waist. My hand was on the hilt of it when the carriage which had alarmed me so rattled safely past me.
‘But another might come. I must be prepared. Above all, I must not compromise the Embassy. I ordered our carriage to move on, and I engaged what you call a hackney coach. Then I spoke to the driver, and gave him a guinea. He understood that it was a special service.
‘“You shall have another guinea if you do what you are told,” said I.
‘“All right, master,” said he, turning his slow eyes upon me without a trace of excitement or curiosity.
‘“If I enter your coach with another gentleman, you will drive up and down Harley Street and take no orders from any one but me. When I get out, you will carry the other gentleman to Watier’s Club in Bruton Street.”
‘“All right, master,” said he again.
‘So I stood outside Milord Hawkesbury’s house, and you can think how often my eyes went up to that window in the hope of seeing the candle twinkle in it. Five minutes passed, and another five. Oh, how slowly they crept along! It was a true October night, raw and cold, with a white fog crawling over the wet, shining cobblestones, and blurring the dim oil-lamps. I could not see fifty paces in either direction, but my ears were straining, straining, to catch the rattle of hoofs or the rumble of wheels. It is not a cheering place, monsieur, that Street of Harley, even upon a sunny day. The houses are solid and very respectable over yonder, but there is nothing of the feminine about them. It is a city to be inhabited by males. But on that raw night, amid the damp and the fog, with the anxiety gnawing at my heart, it seemed the saddest, weariest spot in the whole wide world. I paced up and down, slapping my hands to keep them warm, and still straining my ears. And then suddenly out of the dull hum of the traffic down in Oxford Street I heard a sound detach itself, and grow louder and louder, and clearer and clearer with every instant, until two yellow lights came flashing through the fog, and a light cabriolet whirled up to the door of the Foreign Minister. It had not stopped before a young fellow sprang out of it and hurried to the steps, while the driver turned his horse and rattled off into the fog once more.
‘Ah, it is in the moment of action that I am best, monsieur. You, who only see me when I am drinking my wine in the Café de Provence, cannot conceive the heights to which I rise. At that moment, when I knew that the fruits of a ten-years’ war were at stake, I was magnificent. It was the last French campaign, and I the General and army in one.
‘“Sir,” said I, touching him upon the arm, “are you the messenger for Lord Hawkesbury?”
‘“Yes,” said he.
‘“I have been waiting for you half an hour,” said I. “You are to follow me at once. He is with the French Ambassador.”
‘I spoke with such assurance that he never hesitated for an instant. When he entered the hackney coach and I followed him in, my heart gave such a thrill of joy that I could hardly keep from shouting aloud. He was a poor little creature, this Foreign Office messenger, not much bigger than Monsieur Otto, and I−monsieur can see my hands now, and imagine what they were like when I was seven-and-twenty years of age.
‘Well, now that I had him in my coach, the question was what I should do with him. I did not wish to hurt him if I could help it.
‘“This is a pressing business,’ said he. “I have a despatch which I must deliver instantly.”
‘Our coach had rattled down Harley Street, but now, in accordance with my instruction, it turned and began to go up again.
‘“Hullo!” he cried. “What’s this?”
‘“What then?” I asked.
‘“We are driving back. Where is Lord Hawkesbury?”
‘“We shall see him presently.”
‘“Let me out!” he shouted. “There’s some trickery in this. Coachman, stop the coach! Let me out, I say!”
‘I dashed him back into his seat as he tried to turn the handle of the door. He roared for help. I clapped my palm across his mouth. He made his teeth meet through the side of it. I seized his own cravat and bound it over his lips. He still mumbled and gurgled, but the noise was covered by the rattle of our wheels. We were passing the minister’s house, and there was no candle in the window.
‘The messenger sat quiet for a little, and I could see the glint of his eyes as he stared at me through the gloom. He was partly stunned, I think, by the force with which I had hurled him into his seat. And also he was pondering, perhaps, what he should do next. Presently he got his mouth partly free from the cravat.
‘“You can have my watch and my purse if you will let me go,” said he.
‘“Sir,” said I, “I am as honourable a man as you are yourself.”
‘“Who are you, then?”
‘“My name is of no importance.”
‘“What do you want with me?”
‘“It is a bet.”
‘“A bet? What d’you mean? Do you understand that I am on the Government service, and that you will see the inside of a jail for this?”
‘“That is the bet. That is the sport,” said I.
‘“You may find it poor sport before you finish,” he cried. “What is this insane bet of yours, then?”
‘“I have bet,” I answered, “that I will recite a chapter of the Koran to the first gentleman whom I should meet in the street.”
‘I do not know what made me think of it, save that my translation was always running in my head.
He clutched at the door-handle, and again I had to hurl him back into his seat.
‘“How long will it take?” he gasped.
‘“It depends on the chapter,” I answered.
‘“A short one, then, and let me go!”
‘“But is it fair?” I argued. “When I say a chapter I do not mean the shortest chapter, but rather one which should be of average length.”
‘“Help! help! help!” he squealed, and I was compelled again to adjust his cravat.
‘“A little patience,” said I, “and it will soon be over. I should like to recite the chapter which would be of most interest to yourself. You will confess that I am trying to make things as pleasant as I can for you?”
‘He slipped his mouth free again.
‘“Quick, then, quick!” he groaned.
‘“The Chapter of the Camel?” I suggested.
‘“Yes, yes.”
‘“Or that of the Fleet Stallion?”
‘“Yes, yes. Only proceed!”
‘We had passed the window and there was no candle. I settled down to recite the Chapter of the Stallion to him.
‘Perhaps you do not know your Koran very well, monsieur? Well, I knew it by heart then, as I know it by heart now. The style is a little