THE PLOT DISCOVERED
Olga slowly sat up. The room, she realised, was now empty save for the
man who knelt beside her couch; a man in a long military cloak, that
belonged, she knew, or had belonged, to her arch-enemy, now her
husband. But the man wearing the cloak was not old, dark, and heavily
whiskered. On the contrary, he was young, fair, and without a hair on
his face. Donald Fenton sat on the floor beside her, in Miridoff's
cloak, and he it had been who had said, "Miridoff is dead!"
Olga gazed at him in bewilderment.
"The duke, where is he?" she questioned faintly.
"He is not here," said Fenton. There was something strangely thrilling
about this handsome young alien kneeling before her. It was perhaps
the rapt way in which he was regarding her; almost as though he thought
she belonged to him. His eyes were full of some secret that he wanted
to share with her, a secret that already she intuitively seemed to
understand.
"Have I been dreaming?" she asked. "Did I really go to-night to that
place where all those dreadful people were, or was it just a dream?"
"You were really there," replied Fenton. His tone was quite calm, but
that secret was burning in his eyes.
"Then where is the Grand Duke? And my father--will he----"
"His highness will be quite safe," Fenton assured her. "But as for
Miridoff, he is dead!"
His hand reached out and took possession of hers. It was quite
respectfully done, as though he sought to convey sympathy, assurance.
She made no effort to withdraw her hand.
In a few words he told her of the meeting with Miridoff, of the
struggle on the cliff side, and of the ending, when the Grand Duke,
losing his balance on the edge, fell backward and down into the abyss.
"By a direct dispensation of Providence, his hat and cloak were left,"
he went on. "I realised that if his highness, your father, were to be
saved, it was necessary for the wedding to go on. So I donned the
cloak, hat and mask, and took Miridoff's place."
There was a tense silence. The girl covered her face, scarlet with
confusion and a strange new emotion, in her hands. Fenton struggled to
his feet and gazed down at her for a moment with the most wonderful
tenderness in his eyes and a sad smile of renunciation on his lips.
Then he started to pace the room, quickly, fitfully, nervously, a stern
mental struggle showing in his face. Finally he stopped in front of
her and said, slowly and quietly:
"A wedding over the tongs is considered binding. We are married in the
eyes of the law, perhaps even in the eyes of the church. But it can
quite easily be set aside. I knew that, of course. I was quite
prepared to step aside--so you must not let this worry you!"
The girl raised her head and gazed at him intently for a moment. Then
she stood up and faced him.
"Do you want the marriage set aside?" she asked.
A dull flush spread over Fenton's face. He made as though to clasp her
in his arms, then checked himself with an effort at repression, only to
yield again to the impulse. She felt herself drawn towards him.
"Olga, I dare not answer you!" he cried. "I meant to be firm, but I
can only remember that for a time at least you are my wife!" He rained
kisses on her face and hair and neck. It was a full minute before she
succeeded in drawing herself away--and then it was only to arm's length.
Fenton had expected a storm of indignant protest. He saw instead a
tremulous smile, a radiant flush, and eyes that were filled to
overflowing with happiness. And he heard her say:
"If there is any question as to the legality of the marriage, had you
not better find a priest?"
* * * * *
Fenton's arrival at the lodge, with the princess in his arms, had
created a sensation, to say the least. It was not until he had removed
his mask at Crane's strident command, that his real identity was
discovered. When it developed that the Canadian and Olga were actually
married, Crane retired to the operator's room above in a state of
thorough mental mystification. He tramped in heavily and sat himself
down in his chair, quite ignoring Mademoiselle Petrowa who was seated
at the other side of the table; which was Crane's usual way with women.
The dancer and Crane had been thrown together continuously since the
arrival of the rescuing party at the lodge. Anna had made certain
tentative advances of a mildly flirtatious character, and Crane had
responded by bullying her most ferociously; which, after all, is not so
far removed from love-making. Strangely enough, Anna had not really
understood his attitude. She was puzzled by this stormy, red-haired
individual, who ordered her about as though she were a stage-hand. She
had acknowledged to herself that he was an interesting type of man, a
compelling type. When he had smiled--he had a most engaging smile--she
had felt strangely attracted.
He coolly removed his coat and collar and rolled his shirt sleeves up
to his elbows. Then he produced a pipe that he had found somewhere in
the lodge, a most vile one, too, and settled down for a comfortable
smoke. Through the haze that surrounded him he nodded frowningly at
his companion.
"Pretty business, downstairs," he said, in an aggrieved tone. "Here's
this fellow, Fenton, who knows the work we've got ahead of us and yet
goes and wastes time getting married."
"Married!" cried Anna, in genuine amazement.
"Married," responded Crane with confirmatory disgust. "It seems he
chucked Miridoff off the cliff and then took his place at the ceremony.
The happy couple are downstairs now."
There was a period of silence. Anna had been well aware of the state
of affairs between Fenton and Olga, but its sudden _denouement_ almost
took her breath away. Crane studied her shrewdly out of the corner of
his eye.
"Just the same I admire the beggar's nerve!" he said finally. "He'll
be putting ideas in other heads. Now if an ordinary fellow like Fenton
can pick up with a princess, perhaps even a down-at-heels engineer
could aspire to--er----"
Anna laughed, a rippling laugh thai expressed enlightenment and much
satisfaction. She had seen beneath the armour of bluster, and knew
that in reality Crane would be as wax in her facile hands. From that
moment dated the ascendency of Anna.
Crane frowned with offended dignity, but Anna continued to laugh and to
regard him in a way that said, plainer than words, "At last I have
found you out." Crane's frown was like a threat from the commandant of
the citadel after he has hauled down his flag and surrendered the keys.
Perceiving something of this, Crane turned hastily to the wireless,
glad of an interruption provided by a faint click that gave notice of
an arriving message.
For a moment he regarded the keys with casual interest, then the
expression of his face changed to one of surprise, concern, and finally
to almost incredulous delight. For ten minutes he alternately received
and sent replies, feverish interest showing in every line of him. What
the news could be, flashing back and forth across space, to cause such
concern, his companion could not conceive. She watched him with keen
expectancy.
Completing the sending of a final message, Crane suddenly sprang up
from the instrument. Dragging her from her chair, he waltzed her round
the room hilariously, winding up the performance by lifting her bodily
to a seat on the table. Standing before her he declaimed excitedly:
"You've witnessed the making of history, girl! A most stupendous piece
of luck has come our way. I've blundered on to the means to bring
Ironia into line. To-morrow we'll be at war with Austria!" And he
danced up and down the room, his red face redder than ever.
The first flush of his excitement over, he picked up his pipe again and
began to pull at it furiously.
"Pardon the exuberance," he said. "I felt so pleased with myself and
everything in general that I simply had to do something. You see I've
got an idea, a scheme that's going to take some working out. It's a
big idea, too. Didn't know I had it in me. But, look here, I can't
leave the room for fear the operator over the line there in Austria
takes it into his head to let out some more state secrets. Now run
down and order Fenton to come up here--there's a good girl."
When Anna had gone, Crane did some hard thinking. He had the faculty
of quick calculation. It had instantly occurred to him how the message
he had waylaid might be turned to good account, and, in a dim way too,
he gained a superficial understanding of the details necessary for the
success of his scheme. Swiftly he turned and touched the keys. In a
few moments he was in touch with the Austrian station from which the
first message had come. So intent was he on the business in hand that
he paid no attention when the others entered the room.
"Where exactly is the Ironian regiment ready to join yours?" This was
the question he sent. In a moment he got his answer; and, having
assured the officer with whom he was in communication that his earlier
request should be attended to, he turned and nodded to Fenton.
"Fenton," he said, "I've just received a message that reveals the whole
of Miridoff's plan. It came from Austrian headquarters ten miles
across the line. An hour ago, in accordance with a pre-arranged plan,
a thousand Austrian troops moved out of camp in the direction of the
Russian frontier. The plan, as I understand it now, is this."
He grasped a piece of paper and roughly sketched a map of the district.
"Here's our present position approximately," he explained. "We're
about three miles from the frontier. Now here's the Bhura River, which
serves as the dividing line between the two countries. Five miles up
the river, a small tributary branches off from the Bhura into Ironian
territory, but if you cross the Bhura just above the point where the
tributary stream starts you find yourself in Russia; and the tributary
itself flows between Russia and Ironia. An Ironian regiment, which has
been stationed on the frontier, is now camped close to the junction
point.
"The plan is simplicity itself. The Austrians march until they reach
this junction of the two streams. Then they signal to the Ironians,
who are officered by men in Miridoff's pay. A joint raid across the
river into Russian territory follows, with the burning of a village or
two. The Russian troops will soon drive the raiders back, of course,
but the mischief will be done. Ironia will have committed an open act
of war against Russia."
"A diabolically clever scheme," exclaimed Fenton. "Not even the death
of Miridoff can stop it. Certainly we can do nothing now."
"Can't we?" cried Crane triumphantly. "By the roaring bull of Bashan,
we can stop it! I have a plan that will just reverse things
completely. Look at this map again! Two miles west of the first
tributary there is another stream branching off the Bhura in the same
direction as that higher up the river. If the Austrians in the
darkness were to mistake this stream for the one higher up they would
cross the Bhura there and so get into Ironian territory instead of
Russian! Now, just supposing that they made this mistake, they would
run right into an Ironian hamlet consisting of a church and a dozen
houses or so. In accordance with instructions they would proceed to
set fire to this, with the idea that it was a Russian village.
Ironians, conveniently stationed there for the purpose--under our
friend Larescu--would promptly attack the invaders and drive them back
across the river. The same result follows as is expected if the plan
of Miridoff is carried out, except that the position of the countries
will be reversed. Austria will have committed an open act of war
against Ironia. It will act like a spark on dry tinder. Ironia will
blaze up and war will follow immediately!"
"That is all very plausible," said Fenton, "but the possibility of the
Austrians crossing at the wrong stream is negligible. Their plans will
be too carefully laid for any miscarriage."
"They will cross at the wrong place!" declared Crane triumphantly.
"The wireless message that first came through was from the officer in
command of the Austrians. He's new to this part of the country, and,
as the Bhura is starting to flood, he wanted Miridoff to send someone
over to guide him to the best junction-point with the Ironian troops.
I wired back that one Neviloff was leaving at once for the purpose.
Well, what with the darkness of the night, the floods and the
similarity of the two streams, Neviloff will see that they get over the
wrong one."
"Neviloff?" The question came from Fenton and Anna simultaneously.
"Exactly. You see, it occurred to me that Miridoff would have been
most likely to send a man he could rely on for a mission of this kind,
and the name is probably familiar to the Austrians."
"Do you mean that you intend to go yourself?" asked Fenton in surprise.
Crane nodded. "I speak both German and Ironian, and there ought to be
a suitable uniform around this place somewhere. Well, I ride over to
Tisza," he indicated a point on the map just across the border, "and
report to the Austrian commander there. Luckily I've been all along
the Bhura on a surveying trip. What would be easier on such a night
than to make a mistake and bring them over the river too soon--over
into Ironia, where the tribesmen of Take Larescu will be waiting to
provide a suitable welcome? The plan can't go wrong."
"You propose to decide the fate of Ironia on a gambler's throw," said
Fenton. "It's a wonderful scheme, Crane. But, man, do you realise
what it would mean to you? You take your life in your hands. If they
find you out they'll shoot you on the spot. It will be a Hungarian
troop sent for this work, and the Magyars are a vindictive lot. But
even if you escape detection at first they would certainly suspect when
they discovered they had been led astray."
"No danger at all," said the Englishman easily. "I've got it all
figured out, and there's not one chance in a hundred of failure. When
the fighting starts, I slip away easily enough. Now, Fenton, you get
started on your part of the undertaking, which is to have Larescu on
hand with a couple of thousand of his men to drive the Austrians back.
We'll have to take a chance on the Ironian troops not moving out. I
don't think they will. In all probability Miridoff intended to ride
over there and direct things himself. Not hearing from him, they will
wait for further orders."
Fenton grasped Crane's hand warmly.
"Phil, it is worth trying," he said. "If it succeeds, the credit for
deciding the final outcome of the Great War may belong to you. I wish
I could go with you."
"When Mr Crane returns I shall tell him how wonderful it is I think him
to be," said Anna, shaking his hand in turn.
"I'm coming back right enough," replied Crane, with a steady regard,
and retaining her hand the while. "And when I do, I shall have
something myself to say to you."
Half an hour later, warmly cloaked, and booted and spurred, Crane rode
down the mountain-side toward the Bhura River. Looking back he could
see a beacon light burning brightly on one of the highest peaks, and he
knew that Larescu was gathering his band for the night's work.