Prince Matani was certainly good-looking and _distingué_; slender and
dark, with an absurdly small black mustache plastered over his rather
thick and sensuous lips. Scrupulously dressed for dinner, every detail
of him indicated the care he devoted to his person.
Bowing formally and stiffly on entering the hall, he looked past us
and made a swift movement forward to Pat's side. He kissed her hand
with dazzling grace. Then he turned his brilliant smile upon her, and
beneath that smile, greatly to my alarm, she seemed as wax.
The cocktail prelude to dinner was unavoidably lengthened to a quarter
of an hour, for Jane was called unexpectedly to the telephone. Her
absence left Henry and Olinski still conversing earnestly at one
end of the hall, while I sat patiently at the other end, under the
staircase, fidgeting with my glass, and glancing around anxiously from
time to time at Pat and the Prince, who were sitting informally, but
luxuriously, on some cushions the Prince had placed on the lower steps
of the stairs. Sipping at her cocktail Pat seemed to become more and
more responsive to the young nobleman's flatteries.
Presently my position grew to be a most embarrassing one. While their
voices came to me at first only in murmured undertones, I became
suddenly conscious of hearing every word they said. Any attempt at
eavesdropping is beneath my dignity, but confronting a situation so
fateful and momentous in Pat's life, with the Prince exercising his
fascinations upon her, I cast aside my principles and listened. And
of all the fatuous, syrupy conversations, I had never heard the like
before.
"It was so awfully, awfully sweet of you to ask me to dinner tonight,"
the Prince was saying in a low, rapturous voice.
"But I didn't invite you," Pat countered. "Uncle Henry did, for some
reason or other."
"Some excellent reason, I hope," said the Prince. "He seems to
appreciate my chivalrous devotion to you, my unselfishness and utter
trustworthiness. And a truer help-mate I could never find. You are such
a sweet-natured and lovable girl."
"You have said that before, Your Highness," Pat gently reminded him.
"And I shall say it a thousand times again," he answered. "True, I am
well-born but penniless. But, please--please don't say that your regard
for me is compounded more of pity than of love."
"We'll talk about that, after dinner, shall we?" Pat suggested artfully.
"Your pleasure is my pleasure," he said. "Yes; we'll talk about that
after dinner. We'll take a stroll in the garden, where the night air
is intoxicating with its rich aroma of flowers. Or on the terrace,
whichever you like. It's such a terribly sweet night, we mustn't miss
it."
"I love sweet nights, don't you?" Pat cooed.
"They are very useful at times," the Prince rejoined. "What would you
say if, in the sweet darkness, I found a pair of sweet lips."
"Oh, Your Highness! You wouldn't dare!" Pat exclaimed, in a disturbed
voice. "I've always found you so--so perfectly trustworthy in the dark.
Besides, taking undue advantage of a helpless young lady is only done
by bores of the lower classes."
"Oh dear, no!" the Prince responded. "You're quite wrong there. The
most extraordinary things happen to people in our class. Sort of
dignified things, you know." Then he laid his hand on hers. "My dear,"
he went on, "I think you have offered every excuse there is. What I
want now is to be told exactly what you think of me."
"I will also tell you that, tonight--after dinner," Pat replied,
evasively.
"But I cannot--I cannot possess my soul in patience," he said. "I must
know now--at this very moment. But if you are cruel, and spurn me--you,
so gentle-souled, who would never intentionally hurt a fly, I know,--I
will leap off the cliff. Men of my race, in love or in war, always act
on the spur of the moment. You don't want me to jump off your cliff?"
"Listen, Your Highness," answered Pat. "This is what I want you to do
for me. Just nothing at all."
"I'm afraid you'll have to grin and bear it--this deed of violence. But
it will be a happy death."
"It'll put us all to a lot of trouble," Pat sighed.
"That's true. I hadn't thought of that. You'll have to buy orchids and
go to my funeral."
"No; I'll have to go to the autopsy, first," she corrected him.
To my great astonishment, she seemed perfectly informed on that
subject, probably from reading so many murder mystery stories.
"Very well," the Prince concurred; "perhaps it would be foolish for me
to jump off your cliff. Some perfectly innocent person, like--well,
like your Uncle Livingston--might be accused of pushing me off,
and there would be a murder trial, and all those horrid newspaper
reporters and photographers would make your life miserable. No; I
cannot let the innocent suffer."
At this juncture, their voices trailed off again into indistinctness,
leaving me in a mood to give the Prince all the encouragement he
needed in his threat to jump off our cliff. Most unjust of me, but
most human, I fear. At any rate, their tête-à-tête was soon interrupted
by the return of Jane, and, a few minutes later, by Orkins' dignified
announcement that dinner was served.
I was further agitated in mind when Henry linked arms with Pat and
the Prince, and, walking between them, escorted the romantic pair to
the dining room. The definite warmth with which he treated the Prince
seemed to settle the matter. The announcement of their engagement
seemed an assured thing. When we were finally seated at the candle-lit
table, I began to pray silently, though desperately, that something
might happen to stay Pat's unfortunate romance with the Prince, in what
I felt to be its penultimate stage.
Luckily something did happen. Altogether, it was an extraordinary
meal. We had just passed from soup to fish, when the telephone in the
library, adjoining the dining room, began to trill, and what occurred
after that, so disturbed Henry's peace of mind that the affair between
Pat and the Prince became of secondary importance to him.
Niki, Henry's slim but powerfully muscled valet and bodyguard, was
relieving Orkins and the second man during the serving of dinner.
From my place at the table, I watched him through the wide connecting
doorway as he answered the persistent telephone calls in the library,
and curtly dismissed them with a quick hang-up of the receiver.
Finally, when the bell began to trill at five minute intervals, he
left the hook off the receiver, and stepped into the dining room and
approached Henry.
"Pardon," he said, in his smooth, suave manner, and bowing low, "but
there have been many telephone calls for you. The same voice in each
case. The gentleman says it is veree important, but he will not give
his name."
Henry nodded thoughtfully, and said: "And what does the gentleman
require of me, Niki?"
"An appointment for an interview, sir, if you would be so kind," said
Niki. "A very agitated gentleman, I gathered, sir."
"Very good, Niki," said Henry. "Tell the agitated gentleman that I will
make an appointment to see him at nine o'clock tonight. Say that I am
at dinner and cannot be disturbed at present."
Niki bowed, and started to withdraw.
"On second thought, Niki," Henry called after him, "tell the gentleman
that I will make the appointment only on condition that he identifies
himself--now."
Returning in a few moments, Niki said: "The gentleman says to tell you
his name is Meester Robert McGinity."
Henry looked at him in quick astonishment, and then made a face
expressive of extreme displeasure. "Is Mr. McGinity still on the wire?
Yes; well, then, go back and tell him that under no consideration will
I grant him an interview. You understand?"
Niki bowed understandingly, and re-entered the library, where he
delivered Henry's ultimatum, which silenced the telephone during the
remainder of the dinner.
Although Henry strove mightily to pretend unconcern, I could easily see
that McGinity's telephone call had upset him terribly. His face became
more drawn and whiter than it had been. I sensed at once that he had
been thrown into a state of perturbation and dismay, in the belief that
the reporter had somehow obtained inside information on the result of
his and Olinski's research work in interplanetary radio communication,
as he had on the comet.
Olinski seemed equally perturbed. "McGinity! The reporter?" he gasped.
"Do you think he's found out anything?"
Henry smiled grimly, and replied: "He must have some knowledge of our
discovery or he wouldn't have called up. As our first move, we must
find out where the leak is, and stop it."
As he finished speaking, he glanced over his shoulder at Orkins, who
was standing at his side with a bottle of sherry in his hand. Orkins,
whom I had always regarded as a secretive, suspicious person, despite
his dignified appearance as a well-trained butler, leaned over and
spoke to Henry, which was an unusual proceeding on his part.
As he refilled Henry's glass with sherry, I heard him mutter: "If
you've any suspicions about any of the servants in the house, sir, it's
your plain duty to say so."
Henry looked coldly at the butler out of the corner of his eye, and
replied, in a low voice: "I have no suspicions at all, Orkins, in that
direction." Then his attention was attracted to Olinski, who said:
"Your best move will be to continue to exercise the utmost caution, and
to prevent any possible personal contact with this reporter."
Henry wagged his head defiantly. "He's certainly a mono-maniac on
the subject of news, but I've got my eye on him now, and I'll give
him something to try his teeth on. He'll never get the best of me
again--never!"
At that point, Pat chimed in. "What's all this fuss about a reporter?"
she asked. "Is this Mr. McGinity, who just called, the same reporter
who got the first news about the comet?"
"The same cheeky rascal," Olinski replied; "and now, apparently, he's
bent on getting some advance information about our experiments in
interplanetary radio communication."
"And aren't you going to oblige him, Uncle Henry?" Pat inquired.