THE TAP OF MILADI’S FAN
“Do you think _it_ will surely come? Are you confident that this entire
hypothesis of yours is correctly grounded?” and Professor Dean peered
with wistful anxiety into Kearns’ face.
That personage stared silently for a moment into the Professor’s
inquiring eyes, and then answered with imperturbability:
“Will ducks swim?”
“I believe that according to established natural laws,” answered the
Professor acidly, “they will.”
“Will this air-ship of yours fly?”
This time the Professor’s reply showed some warmth.
“Hasn’t it been tested? Haven’t you seen for yourself? Aren’t you
satisfied?” he inquired.
“Perfectly,” conceded Kearns bluntly. “Well; just as sure as ducks
swim and as your air-ship flies--and mighty high and rapid is its
flight, I’ll admit--so surely will my hypothesis, as you call it, turn
out scientifically correct and I’ll run my quarry to ground. I’m not
accustomed to failure, you know, and I certainly can’t afford to fail
in this case. Didn’t the warning say that the next will be the last?
That means, I take it, there is going to be at least one more warning
and, judging from past success, they’ll adopt the same means and the
same methods as before. This is just about the time when things are
due; the night, too, judging from present indications, looks as if it
would be the right kind. I’d not be astonished if this was the night!”
The conversation was held in a spacious apartment of the Summer Palace
immediately to the west of the King’s sleeping apartment, forming part
of the suite in the palace assigned to the affairs of the Chancellerie.
Stretching across the apartment upon two rests, which brought it to a
level with the wide bay windows, was a machine resembling in length
and general contour an ordinary steam launch, but differing materially
from a steam launch in its various accessory details. It was Professor
Dean’s much-prized air-ship--christened by Kearns “The Royal Dean.”
The various component parts of this air-ship had been manufactured
with much secrecy at one of the royal dockyards. The parts had then
been forwarded to a secluded portion of the country, where a temporary
workshop had been fitted up for the Professor. There the assembling
of the parts had taken place and the final and successful tests made.
Thanks to the careful and elaborate precautions taken, no inkling of
the nature of the work had filtered abroad. Only three of the workmen
engaged on the assembling really knew that an air-ship had been turned
out, and these three were very securely taken care of for the present.
The same careful and secret precautions were observed in bringing the
air-ship to the Summer Palace and installing it there. At Kearns’
suggestion, the Court had abandoned the Summer Palace at the time the
work was first begun, the Queen and her suite going to Emberton, and
the King and his suite to the City Palace.
At last the work on the air-ship had been completed and that portion
of the Chancellerie suite adjoining the King’s sleeping apartment had
been given over to Kearns. There, after certain preliminary work in
connection with one of the big bay windows so as to permit of the ready
exit of the air-ship, the installation had taken place.
Then and not until then, Kearns gave the word and the King and Queen,
accompanied by their respective suites, returned to the Summer Palace.
This return took place while there were yet three nights left of the
waning moon--just in the nick of time, as Kearns put it.
There was, however, one matter troubling Kearns. The necessity of
secrecy and also of compactness of construction had been such that
it had only been possible to construct an air-ship of very moderate
dimensions--an air-ship equipped to carry only two persons. Now,
one of these persons must necessarily be Professor Dean, since he
alone was competent to navigate the aërial craft. Who was to be the
other passenger? Equally obviously--as Kearns himself was compelled
regretfully to admit--it could not be Kearns. In following the
attacking party, it was impossible to predict what situations might be
encountered or what exigencies might arise. To cope properly with these
situations and meet these exigencies, necessarily required some person
who was familiar with existing conditions and customs, otherwise the
whole pursuit might result in failure and the marauders escape. A man
who had only recently excited the risibilities and the wonderment of
rustics by inquiring for a horse and carriage was hardly the right man
for the task. Sadly and with woebegone mien, Kearns had to concede it.
The solitary passenger accompanying the Professor must be a man
familiar with existing conditions--a man of authority, of resource
and of courage. Casting about them for a selection, neither Kearns
nor the Professor could think of any person possessing better
qualifications for the work in hand than Captain Stanley Mortimer,
of the Imperial Guard. Following upon Beatrice’s introduction and
the Captain’s invitation to visit his quarters, they had both formed
his acquaintance; he had shown them various little attentions and
kindnesses; both were impressed with him.
But Captain Mortimer’s military duties as an officer of the Guard might
possibly interfere with his movements on the critical night. There must
also be a substitute, in case of emergency, and naturally they selected
Captain Mortimer’s comrade, Captain Ralph Swords.
Reluctantly, therefore, Kearns consented and the subject was broached
to the two officers, under strictest promise of secrecy. To no one must
they breathe one word of the expedition, neither before nor after the
event, until relieved from their respective promises by Mr. Kearns.
Both eagerly consented to embark upon what promised to be at least an
interesting adventure. They had contemplated leaving the Imperial Guard
and exchanging into another regiment, but in view of this adventure
they decided to postpone matters.
Following his customary methods, Kearns communicated these selections
to no one--not even to the King. Mr. Kearns liked to deal only in
results.
In addition to the air-ship, there was a “little side invention,” as
Mr. Kearns termed it, which gave that gentleman much satisfaction
and comfort. The Professor dubbed it “an aërestograph,” but Kearns
preferred to refer to it as “the aërial telegraph.” This latter not
inaptly described it. It was an instrument fastened to the end
of a support some four feet in height. Supplied each with one of
these instruments, two persons many miles apart could interchange
messages, without the use of any connecting wire, provided there
were no interfering obstructions. The Professor referred to it as
an exceedingly simple invention, based to some extent upon the same
principles as those applied by Marconi, but with apparatus much
simplified. One of these instruments was mounted in the room in the
Chancellerie given over to Kearns; the other instrument was stored away
in the air-ship. By rising in the air-ship to a sufficient altitude
to clear intervening obstructions, there would thus be constant
possibility of communication between the air-ship and Kearns. By means
of this instrument, Kearns felt that he was at least in touch with the
Professor and the news.
So matters stood on the night of the recorded conversation between
the Professor and Kearns. The night was dark--slightly hazy and
overcast--corresponding in many respects, as Kearns noted with
joy, to the night when the previous visitation had taken place. To
complete further the resemblance, a ball was being held in the Summer
Palace--not upon the scale of magnificence of the preceding event,
but a Court ball, nevertheless, with all the accessory brilliancy and
gayety.
Shortly after midnight, the Professor, Kearns and Captain Mortimer sat
watching in the room of the Chancellerie assigned to them. Immediately
next to them, but separated by a solid wall, was the King’s sleeping
apartment, in the antechamber of which Captain Swords was on duty as
Officer of the Day.
Not long after midnight a messenger handed a note to the sentinel at
the end of the corridor. It was passed on from sentinel to sentinel
until it reached Captain Swords. It was a delicately perfumed little
missive, addressed in a large and straggling feminine handwriting. The
Captain tore it open and read:
“Captain Swords: Since you have been so inconsiderate as to be on
guard to-night, you might at least send Captain Mortimer to dance
one little waltz with me. He, too, seems to have disappeared. If you
don’t manage this little favor for me, you need never speak to me
again.
“B. C.
“P. S.--I am awfully disappointed and angry.
“P. P. S.--I may be at the entrance to the Queen’s Walk at fourteen
o’clock to-morrow, but it would be no use for you to try to meet me
there, because I should refuse to tell you anything interesting which
might have taken place at the ball.”
Captain Swords smiled as he read, afterward standing for a moment,
reflecting, with the note between his fingers. With the air of a man
who has suddenly made up his mind, he left the antechamber, walked
up the corridor past the King’s apartment and knocked lightly at the
nearest door of the Chancellerie suite. Captain Mortimer promptly
responded to the summons and a brief whispered conference took place
between them. Then Captain Mortimer turned to Kearns and whispered:
“I suppose ’twouldn’t do for me to absent myself for half an hour--to
go downstairs for one dance.”
“Why not?” replied Kearns. “The King hasn’t yet retired and isn’t
likely to for some time. It’s certainly too early to expect anything.
Go, by all means, but don’t stay too long.”
Still Captain Mortimer hesitated.
“I shouldn’t like by my absence to spoil any chance,” he said.
“No danger,” answered Kearns; “besides, should anything happen
unexpectedly, we could summon Captain Swords.”
“But he’s on duty in the King’s antechamber.”
“Well, we could immediately send for you to take his place.”
“That would be somewhat irregular,” objected Captain Mortimer.
“Go,” insisted Kearns. “You’ll be perfectly safe in doing so, provided
you are back here by the time the King retires.”
“Oh, long before that,” answered the Captain, and off he started for
the ball-room, Captain Swords returning to his post of duty in the
antechamber.
On reaching the ball-room, Captain Mortimer had little difficulty in
discovering Beatrice, seated between Dorothy Brandon and Baroness
Maquehaye. He made his way to where they sat and, presenting himself
before them, bowed.
“I come under orders from Captain Swords,” he said to Beatrice, “to act
as his proxy for this waltz. May I have that honor?”
But the young lady looked up at him with large and mischievous eyes.
“I’m so angry with Captain Swords,” she answered severely, “that I’ll
not dance with him even by proxy. I’ve decided to give the waltz to
Count D’Arville, of the French Legation. Ask Miss Brandon. Perhaps she
may take pity on--Captain Swords’ proxy.”
At these audacious words, Miss Brandon turned several colors and cast a
sharp and furious glance upon Beatrice, who sat demurely looking up at
the Captain. Captain Mortimer also glanced quickly at the speaker, but
if the glance conveyed astonishment it certainly contained no anger.
With presence of mind, he turned to Dorothy.
“You’ve witnessed my discomfiture,” he said. “Won’t you take pity on
me?”
“As a proxy?” she asked, with an arch upward flash of the eyes.
“As a proxy, or--as you will!”
For answer she rose and took his arm.
They gained their positions upon the floor; the band struck up the
opening bars. Once more his arm encircled her; once more he held her
to him, as they glided around and around, amid the maze of waltzers.
Again he felt the intoxication of her presence; the sweet, pleasurable
thrill of physical contact which set heart and nerves a-throb within
him. Through his brain there flitted the wild phantasy that for the mad
joy of holding her enfolded in his arms, her heart crushed against his
heart, his lips to her lips--that for one long minute of such ecstasy
he would be willing to suffer instant annihilation thereafter. Then
came the thought, sharp as a sword-thrust, that perhaps this waltz was
their last, their eternal farewell; that never again might he hold her
thus. So they danced on, the minutes seeming as seconds, until the band
played the final bar and the waltz was at an end.
Half-dazed, he started to lead her back to her seat, but with a gentle
restraining pressure upon his arm, she stopped him.
“I don’t want to return yet,” she said, and the look she gave him was
half-beseeching, half-imperious. “Let us walk around a little. You
don’t mind, do you?”
Mind! What was he not willing to pay for every additional moment that
gave him her gracious presence!
He did not--he could not--answer, but he instantly turned and with
her on his arm, walked in the opposite direction. There was too much
crowding upon the floor for comfortable walking; mechanically, without
intention on his part, he made his way to the entrance to the great
conservatory and they passed in.
“I suppose this is the last place I should seek,” he said, at last
finding speech and scarce knowing what he was saying.
“Why?” she asked archly.
“A soldier, you know, seldom cares to revisit the scene of a reverse,”
he said.
“I have read somewhere,” she answered demurely, “that all great
soldiers seek to retrieve a reverse, and Captain Mortimer, it is said,
is a great soldier.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” he answered with some embarrassment;
“but I fear you are amusing yourself at my expense.”
“One doesn’t amuse oneself,” she answered gravely, “at the expense of
those who wear that Order,” and she touched lightly with her gloved
finger-tips the Columbia Cross glittering upon his breast. “You must
tell me some day the story of how that was won,” she continued in a low
voice. “I’d like to hear the details from your own lips.”
“I fear narration is not my strong point,” he answered, again evincing
embarrassment. “Besides,” he added hastily, “the credit of that affair
really belonged most largely to the dearest fellow on earth--my
comrade, Ralph Swords.”
“I’ve heard of Captain Swords’ connection with that affair,” said
Dorothy dryly; “but I don’t always believe quite all I hear.”
“No?”
“No,” she replied, “just as people sometimes say things they don’t
fully mean, I suppose. For instance,” she continued with meaning,
“indelicate and careless remarks in the excitement of play at
baccarat!”
“Indelicate and careless remarks--baccarat!” he repeated, with evident
wonderment. “I realize I am stupid, but I don’t understand.”
She turned her great eyes upon his face and as she saw the perplexity
there her heart gave a joyful leap. Long ago she had to herself fully
exonerated him and had pitilessly condemned herself for having ever
entertained a single doubt. Now, it seemed, the entire story of the
infamous Brooke was a falsehood woven out of whole cloth. Still, with
the spirit of inquisition natural to womankind, she determined to probe
the entire matter to the bitter end.
“Yes; at baccarat, I said,” she answered gayly. “Weren’t you with the
Tenth before you came to the Guards?”
“Yes,” he answered, wondering what was coming next.
“And the Tenth were sorry gamblers, were they not?” she persisted. “Was
there not a great deal of baccarat playing toward the close of the
season at Oldport?”
“I don’t know whether I ought to disclose the secrets of the
mess-room,” he replied; “but I don’t mind admitting what was generally
known and talked about. Your information is quite correct, I regret to
say.”
“You regret?” she asked. “Why? It is rumored that Captain Mortimer was
one of the most assiduous devotees.”
“Then rumor falsifies,” he answered gravely; “for I disapprove upon
military grounds of all forms of gambling in military quarters. _I
never played baccarat in a regimental mess-room in my life._”
She gave a little cry of astonishment and joy. Complete, indeed, was
this refutation of the tale of the Brooke!
“Why,” she exclaimed, with the inconsequence of a true woman, “why did
you never tell me this before?”
“Tell you before!” he repeated. “Why should I?”
“Never mind,” she answered, panting, “I’m still quite angry with you.”
“Angry?” he asked, perturbed. “Why? Because I haven’t played baccarat?”
“No, no,” she retorted impatiently. “Because you are so credulous.”
“Credulous?”
“Yes,” she replied petulantly. “What was that interesting story told to
you at the last ball regarding a certain lady who shall be nameless?
A story which you accepted and believed, I suppose!” she added
indignantly.
He stared straight ahead and made no reply.
“Oh, it was told to you in strictest confidence, I presume?” she pouted.
“That which I’m told in confidence I make a point of forgetting I’ve
ever heard,” he replied, fencing. “You surely will not blame me?”
“That’s doubtless right,” she admitted; “but let me say,” she added
with meaning, “the waters of a certain Brooke may babble not only
unceasingly, but also very falsely. Will you bear that in mind if you
should remember a certain confidence?”
“You’re not angry with me?” he pleaded.
“Very little,” she answered; “in fact, so little that you may have the
next waltz--if you care for it.”
A troubled look came into his face.
“I fear I can’t,” he replied with disappointment. “I’m on duty and must
return at once.”
“On duty!” she exclaimed; “why, I understood Captain Swords was on
guard to-night?”
“Yes,” he replied, “he is; but I’m on special duty--a scouting
expedition, I might say.”
“A scouting expedition!” she repeated. “You speak as if it were a time
of war. Tell me about it.”
“I can’t,” he answered reluctantly. “I am pledged upon honor not to
speak of it.”
Her blue eyes opened wide in mingled astonishment and concern.
“If there is so much secrecy,” she said slowly, “it must be a matter of
importance. Is there any danger to--to--you?”
“I could hardly say there is,” he answered lightly. “Call it an
interesting little adventure--nothing more serious than that.”
But she was not lightly to be put aside.
“On your honor, is there no danger?”
“None that I know of,” he answered reassuringly.
“That you know of?” she repeated. “Then you can’t tell.”
“No,” he admitted, “the circumstances are so novel--so unusual--I can’t
tell.”
They had reached a secluded part of the great conservatory and stood
facing each other, she with downcast eyes, he looking down upon her
with rapt admiration.
“I must return,” he whispered; “although never did I go to duty so
unwillingly.”
She took his arm and they walked slowly back toward the ball-room.
“Why so silent?” he whispered to her as they walked.
She sighed.
“I have a foreboding,” she answered sadly, “that this undertaking--this
secret expedition of which you cannot speak--is one of difficulty and
of danger.”
“No, no,” he answered cheerily; “you’re mistaken. But,” he added in a
low voice, “were it so, would you care?”
For answer, she looked upward and her glance met his. Softly he
whispered to her and more softly still came her whispered reply--a
reply that brought the light to his eyes and the hot flush of joy to
his cheeks.
It was with that light in his eyes, that color in his cheeks, they
passed out of the conservatory into the ball-room. Not ten paces from
them as they entered stood a man wearing the uniform of the Imperial
Guard. As they walked, he looked after them, with black brows bent
and an expression in the dark face that was not good to look upon. He
turned sharply at a tap from a lady’s fan upon his arm, the scowl still
upon his face.
“Ah, Lady Brooke!”
“A word with you, Milord Ashley,” she said.
He led her aside and they stood for some minutes engaged in
conversation.
“I’ll do it,” he said to her as she was about to pass on. “You may
count upon my managing it.”
“And you may count upon me,” she answered, “to repair matters when the
proper time comes. As you are aware, I still have some influence with
His Majesty.”
Lord Ashley bowed low.
“Repair, eh!” he muttered under his black mustache when she had gone,
“if you’ll consult the past, Milady, you’ll find that when I’ve
finished with those who cross my path, there’s little left to repair!
Your suggestion is good, though, Milady! You certainly are a born
_intrigante_. An excellent suggestion, indeed! And I’ll lose no time in
carrying it out!”