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                              THE DOUBLE FOUR

                         By E. Phillips Oppenheim


CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto & Melbourne
First published _September 1911_.
_Reprinted October 1911_.
Shilling Edition _April 1913_.
_Reprinted February 1917_.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




CONTENTS


 1. THE DESIRE OF MADAME

 2. THE AMBASSADOR'S WIFE

 3. THE MAN FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT

 4. THE FIRST SHOT

 5. THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST

 6. THE MISSION OF MAJOR KOSUTH

 7. THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA HARBOUR

 8. AN ALIEN SOCIETY

 9. THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN

10. THE THIRTEENTH ENCOUNTER




THE DOUBLE FOUR




CHAPTER I

THE DESIRE OF MADAME


     "_It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle here
     on Thursday evening next, at ten o'clock._--SOGRANGE."

The man looked up from the sheet of notepaper which he held in his hand,
and gazed through the open French windows before which he was standing.
It was a very pleasant and very peaceful prospect. There was his croquet
lawn, smooth-shaven, the hoops neatly arranged, the chalk mark firm and
distinct upon the boundary. Beyond, the tennis court, the flower
gardens, and to the left the walled fruit garden. A little farther away
was the paddock and orchard, and a little farther still the farm, which
for the last four years had been the joy of his life. His meadows were
yellow with buttercups; a thin line of willows showed where the brook
wound its lazy way through the bottom fields. It was a home, this, in
which a man could well lead a peaceful life, could dream away his days
to the music of the west wind, the gurgling stream, the song of birds,
and the low murmuring of insects. Peter Ruff stood like a man turned to
stone, for even as he looked these things passed away from before his
eyes, the roar of the world beat in his ears--the world of intrigue, of
crime, the world where the strong man hewed his way to power, and the
weaklings fell like corn before the sickle.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_It is the desire of Madame!_"

Peter Ruff clenched his fists as he read the words once more. It was a
message from a world every memory of which had been deliberately
crushed--a world, indeed, in which he had seemed no longer to hold any
place. He was Peter Ruff, Esquire, of Aynesford Manor, in the County of
Somerset. It could not be for him, this strange summons.

The rustle of a woman's soft draperies broke in upon his reverie. He
turned round with his usual morning greeting upon his lips. She was,
without doubt, a most beautiful woman: petite, and well moulded, with
the glow of health in her eyes and on her cheeks. She came smiling to
him--a dream of muslin and pink ribbons.

"Another forage bill, my dear Peter?" she demanded, passing her arm
through his. "Put it away and admire my new morning gown. It came
straight from Paris, and you will have to pay a great deal of money for
it."

He pulled himself together--he had no secrets from his wife.

"Listen," he said, and read aloud:

     "_Rue de St. Quintaine, Paris._

     "DEAR MR. RUFF,--_It is a long time since we had the
     pleasure of a visit from you. It is the desire of Madame that you
     should join our circle here on Thursday evening next, at ten
     o'clock._--SOGRANGE."

Violet was a little perplexed. She failed, somehow, to recognise the
sinister note underlying those few sentences.

"It sounds friendly enough," she remarked. "You are not obliged to go,
of course."

Peter Ruff smiled grimly.

"Yes, it sounds all right," he admitted.

"They won't expect you to take any notice of it, surely?" she continued.
"When you bought this place, Peter, you gave them definitely to
understand that you had retired into private life, that all these things
were finished with you."

"There are some things," Peter Ruff said slowly, "which are never
finished."

"But you resigned," she reminded him. "I remember your letter
distinctly."

"From the Double Four," he answered, "no resignation is recognised save
death. I did what I could, and they accepted my explanations gracefully
and without comment. Now that the time has come, however, when they
need, or think they need, my help, you see they do not hesitate to claim
it."

"You will not go, Peter? You will not think of going?" she begged.

He twisted the letter between his fingers and sat down to his breakfast.

"No," he said, "I shall not go."

       *       *       *       *       *

That morning Peter Ruff spent upon his farm, looking over his stock,
examining some new machinery, and talking crops with his bailiff. In the
afternoon he played his customary round of golf. It was the sort of day
which, as a rule, he found completely satisfactory, yet, somehow or
other, a certain sense of weariness crept in upon him towards its close.
The agricultural details in which he was accustomed to take so much
interest had fallen a little flat. He even found himself wondering,
after one of his best drives, whether it was well for the mind of a man
to be so utterly engrossed by the flight of that small white ball
towards its destination. More than once lately, despite his half-angry
rejection of them, certain memories, half-wistful, half-tantalising,
from the world of which he now saw so little, had forced their way in
upon his attention. This morning the lines of that brief note seemed to
stand out before him all the time with a curious vividness. In a way he
played the hypocrite to himself. He professed to have found that summons
disturbing and unwelcome, yet his thoughts were continually occupied
with it. He knew well that what would follow was inevitable, but he made
no sign.

Two days later he received another letter. This time it was couched in
different terms. On a square card, at the top of which was stamped a
small coronet, he read as follows:

     "_Madame de Maupassim at home, Saturday evening, May 2nd, at ten
     o'clock._"

In small letters at the bottom left-hand corner were added the words:

     "_To meet friends._"

Peter Ruff put the card upon the fire and went