Prince Ugo's face was livid, and his black eyes bulged with
horrified amazement. The unscrupulous, daring, infallible duelist
whom he had induced to try conclusions with Quentin in a regular and
effective way, had been overthrown at the outset by a most peculiar
transaction of fate. He had assured the Russian that Quentin was no
match for him with the weapons common to dueling, and he had led him
to believe that he was in little danger of injury, much less death.
Kapolski, reckless, a despiser of all things American, eagerly
consented to the plan, and Ugo saw a way to rid himself of a
dangerous rival without the taint of suspicion besmirching his
cloak. Sallaconi was an accomplished swordsman, but it would have
been unwise to send him against Quentin. Ugo himself was a splendid
shot and an expert with the blade, and it was not cowardice that
kept him from taking the affair in his own hands. It was wisdom,
cunning wisdom, that urged him to stand aloof and to go up to his
wedding day with no scandal at his back. But the unexpected, the
miraculous had happened. His friend, his brother prince, his
unwitting tool, had gone down like a log, his vaunted skill
surpassed by the marksmanship and courage of an accursed American.
To his credit be it said that he did all in his power to preserve
the life of Prince Kapolski. More than that, he did all that was
possible to keep the story of the encounter from reaching the world.
So powerful, so successful was his influence that the world at large
knew nothing of the fight, the police were bribed, and the
newspapers were thrown completely off the scent.
Ugo's first thought after the fall of Kapolski was to prevent his
opponent from leaving the room alive, but common sense came to his
relief a second later, and he saw the folly of taking a stand
against the victor. He rushed to Kapolski's side and helped to
support the moaning man's body. The surgeon was there an instant
later, and Dickey, as white as a ghost, started mechanically toward
the fallen foe. Ouentin stood like a man of stone, stunned by relief
and surprise. One glance at the bloody, lacerated face and the
rolling eyes caused Savage to flee as if pursued by devils.
For hours Quentin and Turk sought to comfort and to quiet him; the
millionaire, who refused to desert them, sat up all night to manage
the information bureau, as he called it. He personally inquired at
Ugo's rooms, and always brought back reassuring news, which Quentin
doubted and Dickey utterly disbelieved At four o'clock Prince Ugo
himself, with Duke Laselli, came to Quentin's rooms with the word
that Kapolski was to be taken to a hospital, and that Dr. Gassbeck
pronounced his chance for recovery excellent. The prince assured Mr.
Savage that secrecy would be preserved, but advised him to leave
Brussels at the earliest possible moment. Kapolski's death, if it
came, would command an investigation, and it would be better if he
were where the law could not find him.
Quentin with difficulty restrained from openly accusing the prince
of duplicity. Afterthought told him how impotent his accusation
would have been, for how could he prove that the Russian was acting
as an agent?
Just before daylight Turk saw them take Prince Kapolski from the
hotel in an ambulance, and, considering it his duty, promptly
followed in a cab. The destination of the ambulance was the side
street entrance to one of the big hospitals in the upper part of the
town, and the men who accompanied the prince were strangers to the
little observer. Prince Ugo was not of the party, nor were Laselli
and Sallaconi. On his return to the Bellevue he had a fresh task on
his hands. He was obliged to carry a man from Quentin's apartments
and put him to bed in the millionaire's room, farther down the hall.
The millionaire--for it was he--slept all day and had a headache
until the thirtieth of the month. Turk put him to bed on the
twenty-seventh.
During the forenoon Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi called at
Quentin's rooms. They found that gentleman and Mr. Savage dressed
and ready for the street.
“Good morning,” said Dickey, pleasantly, for the two Americans had
determined to suppress, for diplomatic reasons, any show of
hostility toward the Italians. The visitors may not have exposed
their true feelings, but they were very much astounded and not a
little shocked to find the duelist and his friend in the best of
spirits.
“And how did you sleep?” asked Ugo, after he had expressed his
sorrow over the little unpleasantry of the night before, deploring
the tragic ending to the night of pleasure.
“Like a top,” lied Dickey, cheerfully.
“I was afraid the excitement might have caused you great uneasiness
and--ah--dread,” said the prince. The count was industriously
engaged in piercing with his glittering eyes the tapestry in a far
corner of the room. Mr. Savage possessed the manner of a man who
shoots someone every morning before breakfast.
“Not in the least; did it, Quentin?”
“He slept like a baby.”
“By the way, before I forget it, Prince Ugo, how is the gentleman I
shot last night--ah, what was his name?” asked Dickey, slapping his
leg carelessly with his walking stick.
“Prince Kapolski is in the hospital, and I fear he cannot recover,”
said the prince. “I came to tell you this that you may act
accordingly and with all the haste possible.”
“O, I don't know why I should run away. Everybody there will testify
that the fight was forced upon me. You will swear to that, yourself,
Prince Ugo, and so will the count. I had to fight, you know.”
“It seems to me, Mr. Savage, that you were rather eager to fight. I
cannot vouch for your safety if the prince dies,” said Ugo, coolly.
“But he isn't going to die. I did not shoot to kill and the ball hit
him just where I intended it should--on the chin. He'll be well in a
couple of weeks. True, he may not feel like eating tough beefsteak
with that jaw for some time, but I knew a fellow once who was able
to eat very comfortably after six weeks. That was as good a shot as
I ever made, Phil,” said Dickey, reflectively.
“I think Buckner's nose was a cleaner shot. It wasn't nearly so
disgusting,” said Phil.
“Do you mean to say you are able to hit a man just where you
please?” demanded the count.
“Provided he does not hit me first,” said Mr. Savage. “Gentlemen,
let me order up a quiet little drink. I am afraid the unfortunate
affair of last night has twisted your nerves a bit. It was rather
ghastly, wasn't it?”
When the four parted company in front of the hotel, a quarter of an
hour later, the two Italians sat down to reflect. They wondered
whether Mr. Savage usually carried a pistol in his pocket, and they
agreed that if he did have one of his own he would be much more
accurate with it than with a strange one, such as he had used the
night before. The two Americans were not jubilant as they strolled
up the street. They had put on a very bold front but they were
saying to themselves that Kapolski's death would be a very
disastrous calamity. Cold perspiration stood on Dickey's brow and he
devoutly prayed that his victim would recover.
“I'd feel like a butcher to the last day of my life,” he groaned.
“The big brute got what he deserved, Dickey, but that isn't going to
relieve us if he should die. Prince Ugo would use it as an excuse to
drive you out of Europe and, of course, I would not desert you. It
was my affair and you were unlucky enough to get into it. There is
one thing that puzzles me. I directly insulted Ravorelli last night.
Why does he not challenge me? He must be positive that I recognize
him as Pavesi and can ruin him with a word. I am told he is a
remarkable shot and swordsman, and I don't believe he is a coward.”
“Why should he risk his head or his heart if he can induce other men
to fight for him?”
“But it seems that he has traitors in his camp. I wonder who that
waiter was?”
After a long silence Dickey dolefully asked: “Say, do you believe
the Saxondales turned me down on that shooting box party?”
“I can't believe it. All is well between you and Lady Jane, of
course?”
“As well as it can ever be,” said the other, looking straight ahead,
his jaws set.
“Oho! Is it all off?”
“Is what all off?” belligerently.
“O, if you don't know, I won't insist on an answer. I merely
suspected a thickness.”
“That we were getting thick, you mean? You were never more mistaken
in your life. The chances are I'll never see her again. That's not
very thick, is it?”
“I saw a letter just now for you, in my box at the hotel. Looked
like a young woman's chirography, and it was from London--”
“Why the devil didn't you tell me it was there?” exploded Dickey.
“Does Lady Jane make an R that looks like a streak of lightning with
all sorts of angles?”
“She makes a very fashionable--what do you mean by inspecting my
mail? Are you establishing a censorship?” Dickey was guilty of an
unheard of act--for him. He was blushing.
“My boy, I did not know it was your property until after I had
carefully deciphered every letter in the name. I agree with you; she
writes a very fashionable alphabet. The envelope looked thick, to
say the least. It must contain a huge postscript.”
“Or a collection of all the notes I have written to her. I'll go
back, if you don't mind, however. I'm curious to know who it's
from.”
Dickey went back to read his voluminous letter, and Quentin seated
himself on a bench in the park. A voice from behind brought him
sharply from a long reverie.
“Mr. Quentin, last night, possibly in the heat of excitement, you
inferred that I was in some way accountable for the controversy
which led to the meeting between Prince Kapolski and your friend. I
trust that I misunderstood you.”
Quentin was on his feet and facing Prince Ravorelli before the
remark was fairly begun, and he was thinking with greater rapidity
than he had ever thought before. He was surprised to find Ugo, suave
and polite as ever, deliberately, coolly rushing affairs to a
climax. His sudden decision to abandon the friendly spirit exhibited
but half an hour before was as inexplicable as it was critical. What
fresh inspiration had caused him to alter his position?
“We say many things when we are under stress of excitement,” said
Phil, sparring for time and his wits. Count Sallaconi was standing
deferentially beside the prince. Both gentlemen had their hats in
their hands, and the air was pregnant with chill formality.
“Can you recall my words, Prince Ravorelli?”
“You said that you would hold him to account if your friend--” began
the count, but Quentin turned upon him coolly.
“My quarrel, if there is one, is with the prince, Count Sallaconi.
Will you kindly allow him to jog his own memory?”
“I do not like your tone, Mr. Quentin,” said the count, his eyes
flashingly angrily. Phil's blood was up. He saw it was useless to
temporize, and there was no necessity for disguising his true
feelings. They had come to the point where all that had lain
smothered and dormant was to be pricked into activity; the mask was
to be thrown down with the gauntlet.
“So much the better; you are not in doubt as to what I meant. Now,
Prince Ravorelli, may I ask you to speak plainly?”
“Your remark of last night was one that I believe I would be
justified in resenting,” said the prince, flicking the ash from his
cigarette, but not taking his burning eyes from Quentin's face.
There was not a tinge of cowardice in his eyes.
“It is your privilege, sir, and I meant precisely what I said.”
“Then I have to demand of you an apology and a satisfctory
explanation.”
“'I presume it would be travesty on politeness if I were to ask you
to be seated, so we may stand up to each other and talk it over. In
the first place, I have no apology to make. In the second place, I
cannot give an explanation that would be satisfactory to you. Last
night I said I would hold you to account if Mr. Savage was hurt. He
was not hurt, so I will not carry out my threat, if you choose to
call it such.”
“You enlarge the insult, Mr. Quentin,” said Ugo, with a deadly tone
in his voice.
“You may as well know, Prince Ravorelli, that I have long been
acquainted with the fact that you bear me no good will. Frankly, you
regard me as a man dangerous to your most cherished aspirations, and
you know that I heard Giovanni Pavesi sing in days gone by. You have
not been manly enough to meet me fairly, up to this instant. I am
perfectly well aware that Prince Kapolski was your guest last night
for no other purpose than to bring about an affray in which I was to
have been the victim of his prowess and your cleverness.”
For a moment the two men glared at each other, immovably,
unwaveringly. Prince Ugo's composure did not suffer the faintest
relaxation under the direct charge of the American.
“My only reply to that assertion is that you lie,” he said, slowly.
“This is a public place, Prince Ugo. I will not knock you down
here.”
“It is not necessary for me to give you my card. Count Sallaconi
will arrange the details with any friend you may name. You shall
give me satisfaction for the aspersion you have cast upon my honor.”
He was turning away when Quentin stepped quickly in front of him.
“If you mean that you expect me to fight a duel with you, I must say
you are to suffer disappointment. I do not believe in duelling, and
I believe only in killing a man when there is no other alternative.
To deliberately set about to shoot another man down is not our
method of settling an issue. We either murder in cold blood or we
fight it out like men, not like stage heroes.”
“I will add then, sir, that you are a coward.”
“I have been brave enough to refrain from hiring men to do my
fighting. We will fight, Prince Ravorelli, but we will not fight
with weapons made by man. You call me a coward and I call you a
scoundrel. We have hands and arms and with them we shall fight.”
“Count Sallaconi is my second, I do not care to hear another word--”
“If Count Sallaconi comes to me with any ridiculous challenge from
you, I'll knock him down and kick him across the street. My friend
shot the face off of your poor tool last night. I do not care to
repeat the tragedy. I shall not strike you here and now, because the
act might mean my arrest and detention on no one knows what sort of
a trumped-up charge. You need not bother me with any silly twaddle
about swords and pistols I shall pay no attention to it. Ordinarily
Americans do not delay actual combat. We usually fight it out on the
spot and the best man wins. I will, however, give you the chance to
deliberate over my proposition to settle our differences with our
hands.”
Ravorelli calmly heard him to the end. Then he turned and strode
away, smiling derisively.
“You are the only American coward I have ever seen. I trust you
appreciate, the distinction,” he said, his white teeth showing in
malicious ridicule. “Your friend, the hero of last night, should be
proud of you.”
Quentin watched them until they were lost in the crowd near the
Palace, his brain full of many emotions. As he walked into the hotel
his only thought was of Dorothy and the effect the quarrel would
have on their friendship.
“Which will she choose?” he mused, after narrating to Savage the
episode of the park. For the first time Dickey noticed the pallor in
his face, the despair in his eyes, the wistful lines about his lips.
“There's only one way to find out, old man,” said he, and he did not
succeed in disguising the hopelessness in his voice.
“Yes, I guess I'm up to the last trench. I'm right where I have to
make the final stand, let the result be what it may,” said the
other, dejectedly.
“Don't give up, Phil. If you are to win, it will take more courage
than you are showing now. A bold front will do more than anything
else just at this stage. The result depends not entirely on how
eager she is to become a princess, but how much she cares for the
man who cannot make her a princess.”
“There's the rub. Does she care enough for me?”
“Have you asked her how much she cares?”
“No.”
“Then, don't ask. Merely go and tell her that you know how much she
cares. Go this afternoon, old man. O, by the way, Lady Jane sends
her love to you, and wants to know if you will come with me to
Ostend to-morrow to meet her and Lady Saxondale.”