At Quevy the customs officers went through the train, and Quentin
knew that he was in Belgium. For some time he had been weighing in
his mind the advisability of searching the train for a glimpse of
the duke and his companion, doubtful as to the sincerity of the
beautiful and mysterious stranger. It was not until the train
reached Mons that he caught sight of the duke. He had started out
deliberately at last to hunt for the Italian, and the latter
evidently had a similar design. They met on the platform and, though
it was quite dark, each recognized the other. The American was on
the point of addressing the duke when that gentleman abruptly turned
and reentered the train, one coach ahead of that occupied by
Quentin, who returned to his compartment and proceeded to awaken the
snoring man-servant. Without reserve he confided to Turk the whole
story of the night up to that point.
“I don't know what their game is, Turk, but we must not be caught
napping. We have a friend in the pretty woman who got off in the
rain at Le Cateau. She loves the prince, and that's why she's with
us.”
“Say, did she look's if she had royal blood in her? Mebby she's a
queen er somethin' like that. Blow me, if a feller c'n tell w'at
sort of a swell he's goin' up ag'inst over here. Dukes and lords are
as common as cabbies are in New York. Anyhow, this duke ain't got no
bulge on us. We're nex' to him, all right, all right. Shall I crack
him on the knot when we git to this town we're goin' to? A good jolt
would put him out o' d' business fer a spell--”
“Now, look here, young man; don't let me hear of you making a move
in this affair till I say the word. You are to keep your mouth
closed and your hands behind you. What I want you to do is to watch,
just as they are doing. Your early training ought to stand you well
in hand for this game. I believe you once said you had eyes in the
back of your head.”
“Eyes, nothin'! They is microscopes, Mr. Quentin.”
Quentin, during the remainder of the run to Brussels, turned the new
situation over and over in his mind. That the prince was ready to
acknowledge him as a dangerous rival gave him much satisfaction and
inspired the hope that Miss Garrison had given her lover some cause
for alarm. The decisive movement on the part of Prince Ugo to
forestall any advantage he might acquire while near her in Brussels
was a surprise and something of a shock to him. It was an admission,
despite his position and the pledge he had from the girl herself,
that the Italian did not feel secure in the premises, and was
willing to resort to trickery, if not villainy, to circumvent the
American who knew him in other days. Phil felt positive that the
move against him was the result of deliberate intent, else how
should his fair friend of the early evening know that a plot was
brewing? Unquestionably she had heard or learned of the prince's
directions to the duke. Her own interest in the prince was, of
course, the inspiration. To no one but herself could she entrust the
delivery of the warning. Her agitated wish, openly expressed, that
Quentin might win the contest had a much deeper meaning than would
appear on the surface.
From the moment he received the warning the affair began to take on
a new aspect. Aside from the primal fact that he was desperately in
love with Dorothy Garrison, there was now the fresh incentive that
he must needs win her against uncertain odds and in the face of
surprising opposition. In this day and age of the world, in affairs
of the heart, an American does not look for rivalry that bears the
suggestion of medieval romance. The situation savored too much of
the story-books that are born of the days when knights held sway, to
appear natural in the eyes of an up-to-date, unromantic gentleman
from New York, that city where love affairs adjust themselves
without the aid of a novelist.
Quentin, of course, was loath to believe that Prince Ugo would
resort to underhand means to checkmate a rival whose real purpose
had not yet been announced. In six weeks the finest wedding in years
was to occur in Brussels. St. Gudule, that historic cathedral, was
to be the scene of a ceremony on which all European newspapers had
the eye of comment. American papers had printed columns concerning
the engagement of the beautiful Miss Garrison. Everywhere had been
published the romantic story of this real love match. What, then,
should the prince fear?
The train rumbled into the station at Brussels near midnight, and
Turk sallied forth for a cab. This he obtained without the usual
amount of haggling on his part, due to the disappointing fact that
the Belgian driver could understand nothing more than the word
Bellevue, while Turk could interpret nothing more than the word
franc. As Quentin was crossing to the cab he encountered Duke
Laselli. Both started, and, after a moment's pause, greeted each
other.
“I thought I saw you at Mons,” said Phil, after the first
expressions of surprise.
“Yes; I boarded the train there. Some business called me to Mons
last week. And you, I presume, like most tourists, are visiting a
dozen cities in half as many days,” said the duke, in his execrable
English. They paused at the side of the Italian's conveyance, and
Quentin mentally resolved that the dim light, as it played upon the
face of the speaker, was showing to him the most repellent
countenance he had ever looked upon.
“Oh. no,” he answered, quickly, “I shall probably remain until after
the marriage of my friend, Miss Garrison, and Prince Ugo. Are you to
be here long?”
“I cannot say,” answered the other, his black eyes fastened on
Quentin's, “My business here is of an uncertain nature.”
“Diplomatic, I infer?”
“It would not be diplomatic for me to say so. I suspect I shall see
you again, Mr. Quentin.”
“Doubtless; I am to be at the Bellevue.”
“And I, also. We may see some of the town together.”
“You are very kind,” said Quentin, bowing deeply. “Do you travel
alone?”
“The duchess is ill and is in Florence. I am so lonely without her.”
“It's beastly luck for business to carry one away from a sick wife.
By the way, how is my dear friend, Prince Ugo?”
“Exceptionally well, thank you. He will be pleased to know you are
here, for he is coming to Brussels next week. I think, if you will
pardon me, he has taken quite a fancy to you.”
“I trust, after longer acquaintance, he may not find me a
disappointment,” said Phil warmly, and a faint look of curiosity
flashed into the duke's eyes. As they were saying good-night,
Quentin looked about for the man who might be Courant, the
detective. But the duke's companion was not to be seen.
The next morning Quentin proceeded in a very systematic and
effective way to locate the home of the Garrisons. He was aware, in
the beginning, that they lived in a huge, beautiful mansion
somewhere in the Avenue Louise. He knew from his Baedeker that the
upper town was the fashionable quarter, and that the Avenue Louise
was one of the principal streets. An electric tramcar took him
speedily through the Boulevards Regent and Waterloo to the Avenue
Louise. A strange diffidence had prevented him from asking at the
hotel for directions that would easily have discovered her home.
Somehow he wanted to stroll along the avenue in the early morning
and locate the home of Dorothy Garrison without other aid than the
power which tells one when he is near the object of his adoration.
He left the car at the head of the avenue and walked slowly along
the street.
His mind was full of her. Every vehicle that passed attracted his
gaze, for he speculated that she might be in one of them. Not a
well-dressed woman came within the range of his vision but she was
subjected to a hurried inspection, even from a distance. He strode
slowly along, looking intently at each house. None of them seemed to
him to hold the object of his search. As his steps carried him
farther and farther into the beautiful avenue he began to smile to
himself and his plodding spirit wavered. After all, thought he, no
one but a silly ass would attempt to find a person in a great city
after the fashion he was pursuing. He was deciding to board a
tramcar and return to the hotel when, at some distance ahead, he saw
a young lady run hurriedly down the steps of an impressive looking
house.
He recognized Dorothy Garrison, and with a thump of exultation his
heart urged him across the street toward her. She evidently had not
seen him; her eyes were on the ground and she seemed preoccupied. In
her hand she held a letter. A gasp of astonishment, almost of alarm,
came from her lips, her eyes opened wide in that sort of surprise
which reveals something like terror, and then she crumpled the
letter in her hand spasmodically.
“I thought you lived down here somewhere,” he exclaimed, joyfully,
seizing her hand. “'I knew I could find you.”
“I--I am so glad to see you,” she stammered, with a brave effort to
recover from the shock his appearance had created. “What are you
doing here, Phil?”
“Looking for you, Dorothy. Shall I post your letter?”
She was still standing as if rooted to the spot, the letter in a sad
plight.
“Oh, I'll not--not post it now. I should have sent the footman. Come
with me and see mamma. I know she will be glad to have you here,”
she hurried, in evident confusion. She bethought herself suddenly
and made an effort to withdraw the letter from its rather
conspicuous position. The hand containing it was drawn behind her
back.
“That will be very nice of her. Better post the letter, though.
Somebody's expecting it, you know. Hullo! That's not a nice way to
treat a letter. Let me straighten it out for you.''
“Never mind, Phil--really, I don't care about it. You surprised me so
tremendously that I fear I've ruined it. Now I shall have to write
another.”
“Fiddlesticks! Send it as it is. The prince will blame the
postoffice people,” cried he.
“It is not for the prince,” she cried, quickly, and then became more
confused than ever. “Come to the house, Phil. You must tell me how
you happen to be here.”
As they walked slowly to the Garrison home and mounted the steps,
she religiously held the epistle where he could not regard it too
closely should his curiosity overcome his prudence. They were
ushered into the reception room, and she directed the footman to ask
if Mrs. Garrison could see Mr. Quentin.
“Now, tell me all about it,” she said, taking a chair quite across
the big room.
“There's nothing to tell,” he said. “I am in Brussels, and I thought
I'd hunt you up.”
“But why didn't you write or wire me that you were coming? You
haven't acted much like a friend,” she said, pointedly.
“Perhaps I wrote and never mailed the letter. Remember your
experience just now. You still hold the unlucky note in your hand.
Sometimes we think better of our intentions at the very instant when
they are going into effect. It is very mysterious to me that you
wouldn't mail that letter. I can only believe that you changed your
mind when you saw me.”
“How absurd! As if seeing you could have anything to do with it!”
“You ought to tell me if my appearance here is liable to alter any
plan that letter is intended to perfect. Don't let me be an
inconvenience. You know I'd rather be anything than an inconvenience.”
“It doesn't matter in the least; really, it doesn't. Your coming--”
The footman appeared on the landing above at that instant and said
something to her in a language Quentin could not understand. He
afterward heard it was French. And he always had thought himself a
pretty fair French scholar, too.
“Mamma has asked for me, Phil. Will you pardon me if I leave you
alone for a moment?” she said, arising and starting toward the grand
stairway. The letter, which she had forgotten for the moment, fell
from her lap to the rug. In an instant he had stepped forward to
pick it up. As he stooped she realized what had happened, and, with
a frantic little cry, stooped also. Their heads were close together,
but his hand was the first to touch the missive. It lay with the
address upward, plain to the eye; he could not help seeing the name.
It was addressed to “Philip Quentin, Esq., care of the Earl of
Saxondale, Park Lane, London, W. S.” Surprise stayed his fingers,
and hers clutched the envelope ruthlessly. As they straightened
themselves each was looking directly into the other's eyes. In hers
there was shame, confusion, even guilt; in his, triumphant,
tantalizing mirth.
“My letter, please,” he said, his voice trembling, he knew not why.
His hand was extended. She drew suddenly away and a wave of scarlet
crossed her face.
“What a stupid I was to drop it,” she cried, almost tearfully. Then
she laughed as the true humor of the situation made itself felt in
spite of consequences. “Isn't it too funny for anything?”
“I can't see anything funny in tampering with the mails. You have my
letter, and I hope it won't be necessary for me to call in the
officers of the law.”
“You don't expect me to give it to you?” she cried, holding it
behind her.
“Most assuredly. If you don't, I'll ask Mrs. Garrison to command you
to do so,” he threatened, eagerly. He would have given his head to
read the contents of the letter that caused her so much concern. All
sorts of conjectures were racing through his brain.
“Oh, please don't do that!” she begged, and he saw real supplication
in her eyes. “I wouldn't give you the letter for the world, and
I--I--well, don't you see that I am embarrassed?”
“Give me the letter,” he commanded, Sternly.
“Do you wish me to hate you?” she blazed.
“'Heaven forbid!”
“Then forget that your name is on this--this detestable envelope,”
she cried, tearing the missive into pieces. He looked on in wonder,
chagrin, disappointment.
“By George, Dorothy, that's downright cruel. It was intended for
me--”
“You should thank me. I have only saved you the trouble of
destroying it,” she said, smiling.
“I would have kept it forever,” he said, fervently.
“Here's a small bit of the envelope which you may keep as a
souvenir. See, it has your name--'Philip'--on it. You shall have that
much of the letter.” He took it rather gracelessly and, deliberately
opening his watch, placed it inside the case. “I'd give $10,000 to
know what that letter had to say to me.”
“You can never know,” she said, defiantly, from the bottom of the
steps, “for I have forgotten the contents myself.”
She laughed as she ran upstairs, but he detected confusion in the
tone, and the faint flush was still on her cheek. He sat down and
wondered whether the contents would have pleased or displeased him.
Philosophically he resolved that as long as he was never to know he
might just as well look at it from a cheerful point of view; he
would be pleased.