As I begin my narrative, my mind travels back for a moment to the days
of my youth, and I am made more vividly aware of the changes that have
taken place in the world. We are living in a new era now--a period
marked by a series of strange occurrences, manifestations of the weird
powers that lurk in outer space. The New Deal has passed into history.
A strangely remote time ago, that was....
The laboratory has supplied us with the basic means of lifting the
curtain of space from scenes and activities at a distance. A system of
sight transmission and reception, comparable in coverage and service to
the world-wide hook-up of sound broadcasting, has brought all nations
closer together. In the friendly exchange of ideas and feelings through
the medium of television and the radio, the whole civilized world
enjoys common participation.
Nationalism no longer endangers the peace of the world. All war debts
between nations have been settled, and tariff barriers laid low.
Internationalism reigns supreme, to the spirit and benefits of which
Henry contributed his share by engaging servants representing seven
nationalities. Thus we harbored at the castle of Sands Cliff about
every conceivable question of society, politics and religion.
Our summer castle is such a place as you read of, in romances of the
Middle Ages. It was built more than half a century ago by a wealthy New
York society woman who must have had a strain of poetic romanticism in
her veins. When Henry purchased the place, it was almost in ruins.
It is perched on the summit of a precipitous sand cliff, commanding
an excellent view of Long Island Sound. From its windows, on a bright
day, the majestic towers of New York appear dimly etched against a
mauve horizon like the spires of a magical city. There it stands, dark
and foreboding, and ivy-clad, in its own grounds, surrounded by a high
brick wall. The main entrance gate is approached by a dark avenue which
winds through a heavily wooded park. There is no other dwelling within
a mile.
There are many mullioned windows in its slim, peaked towers. Inside,
a clutter of rooms--endless rooms--some of them in the upper floors
unused and smelling dusty and dank. The front door opens on a brick
terrace, which has a stone balustrade as a protective measure against
a sheer drop of two hundred feet to the rocky base of the cliff. From
the east end of the terrace, stone steps wind down to a private yacht
landing and a long stretch of beach, fenced in with barbed wire.
An outstanding feature of the castle is its galleried entrance hall,
with its darkly gleaming oak panelling and great, stone staircase;
a hall so large that when one speaks, the sound is echoed like the
whispering of ghosts from the high, oak-timbered ceiling.
There is a queer element of solitude and uncanniness that always cloaks
the castle at the twilight hour, before Orkins, in his routine of duty,
switches on the lights. I noticed it particularly, one summer evening,
about the middle of August, as I walked up and down the terrace,
dinner-jacketed and smoking, awaiting the arrival of our two dinner
guests, Serge Olinski and His Highness Prince Dmitri Matani.
The sun had gone down in a cloudless, violet sky, and purplish twilight
had settled on the Sound and the marshland, stretching westward to a
cove, where the lights of the village of Sands Cliff were beginning to
twinkle. The silence was more oppressive than the heat. Now and then
it was broken by a distant tugboat whistle, like the hoarse croak of
a frog, and the faint calling of a thrush for its mate in the thick
shrubberies that fringed Jane's flower garden, on the north side of the
castle.
Far out in the Sound, two sail-boats were drifting along like tired
ghosts. Presently the fringe of the opposite shore became magically
outlined by tiny strands of lights. As the gloom of night slowly
enveloped the scene, an island lighthouse, a mile away, began to flash
its beacon over the dark, graying water with clock-like regularity.
Against this flashing light, the ruins of our own lighthouse showed
dark and jagged, on a small, rocky island, rising out of the Sound
about a quarter of a mile off our shore, and within easy rowing
distance from the yacht landing. Henry had recently purchased the
island from the Government, and it was now a part of our Sands Cliff
estate. The old beacon tower of stone was built in 1800. In oil-burning
days, its light had counted for something, but now it was nothing but a
picturesque ruin, and largely populated during the summer by bats.
I had no sooner turned my gaze on the ruined lighthouse when a big bat
swooped down at me out of the darkness. Only the night before, one of
them had got into my bedroom. I've never been able to overcome my early
fear of these nocturnal flying mammals. To my childish imagination,
they were the very spirits of evil. I was in no mood this night to be
pestered by them. A vague uneasiness possessed me, an uneasiness caused
on one hand by Henry's strained and haggard look, and on the other, by
his encouraging Prince Matani's attentions to Pat.
Perhaps at the moment, his crazy quest in interstellar communication
annoyed me most. I had already suggested to Jane that we send him to
a psychoanalyst to be overhauled. This delving into the unknown was
too ponderable a matter for a man of his years. It had become fixed on
his mind with all the power of an obsession. All that day he had not
stirred from his observatory, and now Olinski was coming from town to
give a verbal report of his own findings. Much cogitation, much secrecy
was, in effect, nothing at all. Unless they now had found the key. Was
it possible that Olinski might be bringing a transcribed cipher of a
radio message from Mars? His eager acceptance of the invitation to
dinner seemed to hold an important significance for Henry.
Desperately bothered by both problems which confronted me, the bats
made things more annoying still. Then, sudden-like, in the haunting
stillness, I saw something moving towards me from the blackish void of
trees and shrubbery bordering the west end of the terrace. At first,
I was conscious only of an oncoming shadow, advancing with a rapid,
noiseless movement.
I could feel my pulse jumping. Whoever or whatever it was, there was
a risk. Rather than face the risk, I moved quietly but swiftly across
the terrace towards the front door. But that did not stop the oncoming
something; it had suddenly changed its direction and was coming right
at me.
Luckily at that moment, the lights were turned on in the lower part
of the castle. Then Orkins opened the front door, and gave voice to a
surprised exclamation as he saw me making hurriedly for the doorway.
Suddenly I stopped, and turned. The glow of a floor lamp in the
entrance hall had spread fanwise across the terrace, and into this arc
of light strode--Serge Olinski.
"Oh, hello, Olinski!" I exclaimed, with respectful familiarity, and
very cordially, stretching out my hand, and smiling to myself at the
start he had given me, coming like an abortive something out of the
shadows of the terrace. "That you?"
"Yes; it is I," Olinski replied, shaking my proferred hand, and
breathing rather heavily.
I faced a short, dumpy, middle-aged man, with a paunch, and a Russian
cast of countenance. Small, intelligent black eyes gleamed through
shell-rimmed glasses, from a round face fringed with a short, black
beard. He carried his hat, and I observed that his primly sleeked hair
was as black as his beard. I had a suspicion that he dyed them.
"I caught an early train from the city, in order to enjoy the benefit
of a walk from the village to your beautiful castle," he explained,
half breathlessly, "after a most exacting but successful day in the
laboratory. A million apologies if I have delayed your dinner."
"Time is infinite in the country, especially on a fine night like
this," I remarked lightly, as we entered the hall, and Orkins relieved
him of his black top-coat and hat. His dinner jacket, I noticed,
was much too small for him, and his waistcoat so short that it came
perilously near revealing a section of his middle-age bulge. There were
soup stains on his shirt-front, which indicated that his shirt had been
out to dinner before.
As I waved him to a chair, I said: "You're really very punctual, even
if you avoided our car which was sent to the station to meet you, and
walked here. You can depend upon it, Prince Matani will not miss the
chance to drive to the castle in state when he steps off the train."
Unconsciously my lips sneered as I spoke the young princeling's name.
Olinski nodded and smiled understandingly. "Ah!" he said. "I take it
that you do not look with favor on the match your scholarly brother is
about to arrange between your charming niece and my noble countryman?"
"To be frank, no," I replied.
"So I gathered. And why?"
"I have very strong reasons for opposing their marriage," I said; "and
my sister, Jane, is just as dead set against it as I am. Every one
knows that the Prince came to America to make a rich and advantageous
marriage. Pat will soon come into a large inheritance from her mother's
estate, and we don't want her to throw her fortune and herself away on
this--this penniless, titled gigolo."
Olinski chuckled. "Perhaps just a trifle over-perfumed for a man," he
said, "and addicted to the habit of biting his fingernails, but such
details cannot detract from his royalty. He dances divinely. He seems
to be your niece's devoted slave."
"He's been camping on our door-step all summer," I retorted. "Why Henry
favors such a nincompoop, I cannot imagine."
"But the charming Patricia seems to have lost her head over him,"
Olinski rejoined. "So what can you do?"
"It's up to you to do something," I answered, promptly. "You are in
a position to know all the discreditable incidents in the Prince's
past, and your word carries great weight with Henry. Surely you do not
believe that he really loves Pat?"
"Only for her money," Olinski replied. "A make-believe of love. Froth
in an empty glass. He needs the money to get his coronet out of pawn,
and get the gas and water turned on at the seedy, shabby chateau in
France he calls his castle."
"Then you will tell Henry the truth about this threadbare, titled
foreigner?"
"Ah, my friend, that will be a great pleasure, although he is the
genuine article, you know. I can't disprove his claim to the title."
"After all, I suppose you have a certain fondness for the Prince," I
suggested.
"Not at all," Olinski replied, almost wrathfully. "He is the most
impudent person I ever met. At the last dinner we attended together,
what do you think he said to me? He accused me of smelling of garlic.
Did you ever hear of anything quite so low? As God is my witness, I
detest that evil-smelling plant, garlic."
He clicked his teeth, and went on with desperate finality.
"I will tell you one thing more, and then I shall have told you
enough. Your niece and Prince Matani should never marry, for he
has a hereditary malady--sudden and violent attacks which produce
unconsciousness. Some great excitement, and, then--pst!--he falls
unconscious. At Monte Carlo, he gambled all he had, and lost. Pst!"
"Shocking!" I murmured.
"No doubt about its being hereditary," Olinski continued. "When
the Czar of Russia first bestowed the title of prince upon his
great-grandfather, Carlos, for his war-like feats, what does his
great-grandfather do but get so excited he falls in convulsions at the
feet of the emperor."
"What luck!" I reflected as soon as Olinski had finished. An intimate
little peep into the private life of a royal personage, if ever there
was one! And I was about to voice my appreciation for this absolute
proof that the Prince was not a proper person to marry Pat when Henry
entered, immaculately swallow-tailed for dinner.
Seizing Olinski's hand, he shook it heartily. "And you walked all the
way from the station?" he exclaimed. "How extraordinary! But I'm glad
you've come ahead of our Prince Charming. It's very important that we
should get together, at once."
Linking his arm in Olinski's, he marched him off to the far end of the
hall. Their heads together, whispering excitedly, and putting so much
meaning in words that meant nothing to me, because I could not hear
what they said, it was easy to assume that they had made some important
and startling discovery in their crazy quest of exchanging radio
communications with Mars.
I was diplomatic enough to leave them to themselves. A few minutes
later, Jane appeared on the scene, and after greeting our guest, I
took her to one side, as I was burning to tell her what Olinski had
said. Jane is a plump, gushing soul, with soft, silvery hair, and very
distinguished in her manner. She had sponsored Pat's formal coming-out
the previous winter, and felt her responsibility keenly.
After she had heard all I had to report, she said: "Well, that's
something. But things still seem to be against us. The spark of desire
to be a princess or duchess burns in every girl's nature, whether she's
rich or poor. Pat is just pent up with romance, but she's never had a
chance to express it until Prince Matani came along."
"Just a lot of romantic piffle," I said. "What we need is some artful
lead to get her mind off the Prince."
"I'm afraid it's too late," she sighed. "Even if Mr. Olinski tells
Henry everything that you've just told me, he'll simply turn up his
nose. Henry's as obstinate as a mule once his mind gets set on
something, and it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he announced their
betrothal at dinner, tonight."
Pat's future now appearing to be an unpleasant speculation, and feeling
utterly disheartened about the whole situation, for I was enormously
fond of her, I was about to go to Henry and speak my mind, when she
suddenly appeared in the picture.
I had often thought of having a great artist do a study in oils of
Pat coming down our great, stone staircase; she does it so gracefully
and with such regal poise. Slim, brown-haired, and blue-eyed, no one
could look at her without being enthralled. Her fragility, like a
rare piece of Dresden china, was most appealing; she was so intensely
feminine. She looked particularly lovely this night in her simple
dinner frock, the soft and filmy draperies seeming to envelop her like
a pastel-tinted cloud.
As Olinski advanced eagerly to meet her, she favored him with
a delightful smile. He bowed low and kissed her hand, not in a
perfunctory, European-custom way, but rather warmly and explosively.
"My dear Patricia!" he exclaimed. "You look--adorable."
"And you look hungry," she returned his compliment with a mischievous
twinkle.
"And so I am," Olinski replied.
"As soon as I knew you were coming for dinner, I asked Aunt Jane to
have one of your favorite desserts prepared--steamed peach roly-poly,
with cream sauce," Pat informed him.
"Thank you for being so thoughtful and nice," he said under his breath.
"Of course, I never allow Pat to touch sweets," said Jane. "Girls of
her age should keep their angles as long as possible."
"Speaking of angles," Olinski remarked, good-humoredly, "I've often
wondered how Prince Matani, who dines out so much, manages to keep his
angles."
"Oh, the Prince!" said Jane, taken a little unawares. "He is very
slender, isn't he?"
"And very handsome and distinguished looking," Pat interjected, softly
but emphatically.
Jane gave a little snort. "I hadn't noticed that particularly," she
said, rather coldly, and walked away.
It was so unlike Jane's usual tone and manner that Pat looked after her
in surprise, and then her anxious eyes met Olinski's.
"What is the trouble?" he asked, obviously to draw her out. "Is it
possible that your Aunt is unfriendly to the young man with whom you're
in love?"
She looked at him and laughed softly. "In love with Prince Matani? How
amusing."
"But he seems to be very much interested in you," said Olinski. "Most
girls would consider his attentions a supreme compliment. Is it
possible that you're not in love with him?"
"I'm almost tempted to tell you," she answered with calm, amused eyes,
"but I think I'd better leave you to make your own discoveries, just as
you and Uncle Henry are doing about Mars--perhaps you'll get more fun
out of it!"