“Th' juke sent his card up, sir,” said Turk, his master was once
more in his rooms at the Bellevue. Turk was looking eminently
respectable in a new suit of blue serge.
“When?” asked Phil, glancing at Laselli's card. He had forgotten the
Italian, and the sight of his name recalled the plot unpleasantly.
“'Bout eleven o'clock. I watched him leave th' hotel an' go down
that street over there--th' same one you took a little earlier.”
“Watching me, I suspect. Haven't seen that detective fellow, have
you, Turk? You ought to be able to scent a detective three miles
away.”
“I can't scent in this language, sir.”
Early in the evening, as Quentin was leaving the hotel for a short
stroll, he met the duke. The Italian accosted him familiarly and
asked if he were trying to find a cool spot.
“I thought a ride on the tramcars might cool me off a bit,'” said
Phil.
“I know the city quite well, and I, too, am searching for relief
from the heat. Do you object to company in your ride or stroll?”
“Happy to have you, I assure you. If you'll be good enough to wait
here for a moment, till I find my stick, I'll be with you.” The duke
bowed politely, and Phil hastened back to his rooms. He secured his
stick, and did more. Like a wise young man, he bethought himself of
a possible trap, and the quest of the stick gave him the opportunity
to instruct Turk to follow him and the duke and to be where he was
needed in case of an emergency.
The tall, fresh-faced American in his flannels, and the short,
bearded Italian in his trim frock coat and silk hat strolled
leisurely forth into the crowded Place du Palais.
“Shall we walk awhile and then find a cafe where we may have
something to drink?” asked the duke, his English so imperfect that
no writer could reproduce it.
“I am in your hands, and at your mercy,” said the other, clinging
close to him as they merged into the crowd.
“May I ask if you have many friends in Brussels?” Under the
politeness of the inquiry Quentin, with amusement, saw the real
interest. Looking calmly into the Italian's beady eyes, he said:
“I know but four persons here, and you are included in the list. My
servant is another. Mrs. and Miss Garrison are old and particular
friends, you know. In fact, my dear duke, I don't believe I should
have come to Brussels at all were they not here.”
“They are most charming and agreeable,” murmured the duke. “This is
such a frightful crowd Shall we not cross to the other side?”
“What's the use? I used to play football--you don't know what that
is, I suppose--and I'll show you how to get through a mob. Get in
front--that's right--and I'll bring up in the rear.” Laughing to
himself, he brought his big frame up against the little man's back
and surged forward. Sure enough, they went “through the mob,” but
the duke was the volley end of the battering ram. Never in all his
life had he made such hurried and seemingly unnecessary progress
through a blockading crowd of roisterers. When they finally went
lunging into the half-deserted Rue de la Madeleine, his silk hat was
awry, his composure was ruffled, and he was very much out of breath.
Phil, supremely at ease, heaved a sigh of satisfaction, drawing from
the Italian a half-angry, half-admiring glance.
“Much easier than I thought,” said Quentin, puffing quietly at his
cigar.
“We did it very nicely,” agreed the other, with a brave effort to
equal the American's unconcern. Nevertheless, he said to himself
many times before they reached the broad Boulevard Anspach, that
never had he taken such “a stroll,” and never had he known how
little difference there was between a steam and a human propeller.
He almost forgot, as they sat at a small, table in front of a cafe,
to institute his diplomatic search for the real object of the
American's presence in Brussels.
It was twelve o'clock when they returned to the hotel, after a
rather picturesque evening in the gay cafes.
Here is what the keen little Italian deduced: Quentin was to remain
in Brussels until he took a notion to go somewhere else; Quentin had
seen the prince driving on the Paris boulevards; the Bois de la
Cambre offers every attraction to a man who enjoys driving; the
American slept with a revolver near his pillow, and his manservant
had killed six or seven men in the United States because of his
marvellous skill with the pistol; Quentin was a most unsophisticated
young man, with honesty and innocence in his frank eyes, although
they sometimes grew rather searching; he could only be overcome by
cunning; he was in love with Miss Garrison.
Quentin's conclusions: Laselli was a liar and an ass; Prince Ugo
would be in Brussels within ten days; he was careless with the
hearts of women and cruel with their love; French detectives are the
best in the world, the most infallible; Miss Garrison loved the very
ground the prince trod upon. He also discovered that the duke could
drink wine as a fish drinks water, and that he seldom made overtures
to pay for it until his companion had the money in hand, ready to do
so.
Turk was waiting for him when he reached his rooms, and Turk was not
amiable. A very attractive, innocent and demure young lady, who
could not speak English except with her hands and eyes, had relieved
him of a stickpin and his watch while he sat with her at a table not
far from the man he was protecting with his vaunted “eagle eye.”
“An' she swiped 'em right under me nose, an' me eyes square on her,
too. These people are too keen for me. They ain't a fairy in New
York that could 'a' touched me without d' dope, lemme tell you. I
t'ought I knowed a t'ing er two, but I don't know buttons from
fishhooks. I'm d' easiest t'ing 'at ever went to Sunday school.”
It was with a flushed, rebellious face that Miss Garrison stepped
into the victoria the next afternoon for the drive to the Bois de la
Cambre. She had come from a rather trying tilt with her mother, and,
as they drove off between the rows of trees, she felt that a pair of
flaming eyes were levelled from a certain upstairs window in the
Avenue Louise. The Biblical admonition to “honor thy father and thy
mother” had not been entirely disregarded by this willful young
lady, but it had been stretched to an unusual limit for the
occasion. She felt that she was very much imposed upon by
circumstances in the shape of an unreasonable mother and an
inconvenient friend.
Mr. Quentin, more in love than ever, and more deeply inspired by the
longing to win where reason told him he must fail, did not flatter
himself into believing that Mrs. Garrison wholly approved of the
drive. Instead, he surmised from the beginning that Dorothy's
flushed cheeks were not from happiness, but from excitement, and
that he was not altogether a shadowy cause. With rare tact he
plunged at once to the bottom of the sea of uncertainty and began to
struggle upward to the light, preferring such a course to the one
where you start at the top, go down and then find yourself powerless
to get back to the surface.
“Was your mother very much annoyed when you said you were coming out
with me?” he asked. She started and a queer little tinge of
embarrassment sprang into her eyes.
“How absurd!” she said, readily, however. “Isn't the avenue
beautiful?”
“I don't know--yet,” he said, without looking at the avenue. “What
did she say?” Miss Garrison did not reply, but looked straight ahead
as if she had not heard him. “See here, Dorothy, I'm not a child and
I'm not a lovesick fool. Just curious, that's all. Your mother has
no cause to be afraid of me--”
“You flatter yourself by imagining such a thing as--”
“--because there isn't any more danger that I shall fall in love
with you than there is of--of--well, of your falling in love with me;
and you know how improbable--”
“I don't see any occasion to refer to love in any way,” she said,
icily. “Mamma certainly does not expect me to do such an
extraordinary thing. If you will talk sensibly, Phil, we may enjoy
the drive, but if you persist in talking of affairs so ridiculous--”
“I can't say that I expect you to fall in love with me, so for once
your mother and I agree. Nevertheless, she didn't want you to come
with me,” he said, absolutely undisturbed.
“How do you know she didn't?” she demanded, womanlike. Then, before
she was quite aware of it, they were in a deep and earnest
discussion of Mrs. Garrison, and her not very complimentary views.
“And how do you feel about this confounded prospect, Dorothy? You
are not afraid of what a few gossips--noble or otherwise--may say
about a friendship that is entirely the business of two people and
not the property of the general public? If you feel that I am in the
way I'll gladly go, you know. Of course, I'd rather hate to miss
seeing you once in a while, but I think I'd have the courage to--”
“Oh, it's not nice of you to be sarcastic,” she cried, wondering,
however, whether he really meant “gladly” when he said it. Somehow
she felt herself admitting that she was piqued by his apparent
readiness to abdicate. She did not know that he was cocksure of his
ground before making the foregoing and other observations equally as
indifferent.
“I'm not sarcastic; quite the reverse. I'm very serious. You know
how much I used to think of you--”
“But that was long ago, and you were such a foolish boy,” she cried,
interrupting nervously.
“Yes, I know; a boy must have his foolish streaks. How a fellow
changes as he gets older, and how he looks back and laughs at the
fancies he had when a boy. Same way with a girl, though, I suppose.”
He said it so calmly, so naturally that she took a sly peep at his
face. It revealed nothing but blissful imperturbability.
“I'm glad you agree with me. You see, I've always thought you were
horribly broken up when I--when I found that I also was indulging in
a foolish streak. I believe I came to my senses before you did,
though, and saw how ridiculous it all was. Children do such queer
things, don't they?” It was his turn to take a sly peep, and his
spirits went down a bit under the pressure of her undisguised
frankness.
“How lucky it was we found it out before we ran away with each
other, as we once had the nerve to contemplate. Gad, Dorothy, did
you ever stop to think what a mistake it would have been?” She was
bowing to some people in a brougham, and the question was never
answered. After a while he went on, going back to the original
subject. “I shall see Mrs. Garrison to-night and talk it over with
her. Explain to her, you know, and convince her that I don't in the
least care what the gossips say about me. I believe I can live it
all down, if they do say I am madly, hopelessly in love with the
very charming fiancee of an Italian prince.”
“You have me to reckon with, Phil; I am the one to consider and the
one to pass judgment. You may be able to appease mamma, but it is I
who will determine whether it is to be or not to be. Let us drop the
subject. For the present, we are having a charming drive. Is it not
beautiful?”
To his amazement and to hers, when they returned late in the
afternoon Mrs. Garrison asked him to come back and dine.
“I must be dreaming,” he said to himself, as he drove away. “She's
as shrewd as the deuce, and there's a motive in her sudden
friendliness. I'm beginning to wonder how far I'll drop and how hard
I'll hit when this affair explodes. Well, it's worth a mighty
strenuous effort. If I win, I'm the luckiest fool on earth; if I
lose, the surprise won't kill me.” At eight he presented himself
again at the Garrison house and found that he was not the only
guest. He was introduced to a number of people, three of whom were
Americans, the others French. These were Hon. and Mrs. Horace
Knowlton and their daughter, Miss Knowlton, M. and Mme. de Cartier,
Mile. Louise Gaudelet and Count Raoul de Vincent.
“Dorothy tells me you are to be in Brussels for several weeks, and I
was sure you would be glad to know some of the people here. They can
keep you from being lonesome, and they will not permit you to feel
that you are a stranger in a strange land,” said Mrs. Garrison.
Quentin bowed deeply to her, flashed a glance of understanding at
Dorothy, and then surveyed the strangers he was to meet. Quick
intelligence revealed her motive in inviting him to meet these
people, and out of sheer respect for her shrewdness he felt like
applauding. She was cleverly providing him with acquaintances that
any man might wish to possess, and she was doing it so early that
the diplomacy of her action was as plain as day to at least two
people.
“Mamma is clever, isn't she?” Dorothy said to him, merrily, as they
entered the dining-room. Neither was surprised to find that he had
been chosen to take her out. It was in the game.
“She is very kind. I can't say how glad I am to meet these people.
My stay here can't possibly be dull,” he said. “Mile. Gaudelet is
stunning, isn't she?”
“Do you really think so?” she asked, and she did not see his smile.
The dinner was a rare one, the company brilliant, but there was to
occur, before the laughter in the wine had spent itself, an incident
in which Philip Quentin figured so conspicuously that his wit as a
dinner guest ceased to be the topic of subdued side talk, and he
took on a new personality.