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[Illustration: CARRICK WAS FAR BEHIND]
TRUSIA
A PRINCESS OF KROVITCH
By
DAVIS BRINTON
With Illustrations by WALTER H. EVERETT
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON GEORGE W. JACOBS AND COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
_Published, September, 1906_
_Reprinted, October_, 1906
_All rights reserved_
Printed in U. S. A.
_To A. M. P. this volume is gratefully inscribed_
CONTENTS
I. A WAGER IS MADE 9
II. "STRANGE COUNTRIES FOR TO SEE" 18
III. A DUEL--OF WITS 24
IV. THE GRAY MAN 34
V. I AM THE LADY TRUSIA 46
VI. THE GRAY MAN AGAIN 53
VII. A COOL RECEPTION 61
VIII. THE SPECTRE OF THE STAR 72
IX. IF ZULKA WERE HERE 80
X. THE GLIMMER OF SUSPICION 98
XI. YOU LOVE TRUSIA 101
XII. CARTER FINDS AN ALLY 115
XIII. A NEW MAJOR OF HUSSARS 121
XIV. FOUND IN THE COURTYARD OF THE INN 134
XV. THE DREAM KISS 149
XVI. YOU ARE THE KING OF KROVITCH 159
XVII. AT THE HOTEL DES S. CROIX 172
XVIII. I SAW--I KNOW 194
XIX. IT WAS JUDSON'S FAULT 202
XX. A SOUND AT MIDNIGHT 214
XXI. CARRICK WAS FAR BEHIND 228
XXII. CARRICK IS KING 240
XXIII. NOBLESSE OBLIGE 257
XXIV. STOLEN SLEEP 263
XXV. THEY MEET JOSEF 271
XXVI. THE VISTULA! 277
XXVII. YOU ARE STILL MY KING 284
XXVIII. A RE-UNION 294
ILLUSTRATIONS
Carrick was far behind _Frontispiece_
Mounted the steps and seated herself
on the throne 82
"Don't let 'im carry your sweet face
to the grave with 'im unless your
love goes with it" 242
"For Trusia!" they shouted, and
then, "For Krovitch!" 260
TRUSIA
I
A WAGER IS MADE
After the termination of a three months' struggle on the floor of
'Change, resulting in the rout of his adversaries, who had counted on an
easy acquisition of his heritage in the P. & S. system, Calvert Carter
was grateful for that particular armchair in the reading-room of the
Racquet Club.
"Those gentlemen, in banking on my inexperience in manipulations," he
chuckled audibly, "evidently forgot that I had been a campaigner in
Cuba. Even though I didn't learn much there about Wall Street or
tickers, I did gather some very valuable knowledge of human nature. I
guess that counts a little in deals, after all." His thoughts, released
from the pressure of financial altercations, were a trifle tumultuous
and wandering. They went bounding back now, at the mere mental
suggestion of Cuba, to that tropic island, the scene of his stirring
military experiences.
Event followed event on the lightened screen of reminiscence. He
recalled with a quick surge of pulse the fervor of El Caney and the tide
that swept San Juan Hill by the chivalry of American manhood. There,
too, was Santiago where his mastery of men had resulted in his being
appointed Provost Marshal of the conquered Spanish citadel. Then his
mind inconsequently turned to the man who had passed through so many
crises with him.
"Carrick came through it all, too," he mused. "The veteran is now the
valet. Poor chap, his life has been a strange one." He recalled the
story the fellow had told of his past--a tale which had won for him the
friendship and aid of the man who had been his captain and was now his
employer.
It had occurred in the white stuccoed house on the Plaza which had been
his official quarters as Provost.
The picture of it, with its stately old-world balconies where violet
shadows nested lovingly, arose before his memory's eyes with a strange
yearning. The recollection of those striped awnings in the white light
of mid-day had potency to cool, even now, the fever of his thoughts. The
barren dignity of Carrick's story had contrasted vividly with the
tropical colorings in which its recital had been inspired.
Prompted by a kindly interest in his orderly's career and ambitions, he
had asked the man as to his past in general and his future in
particular. He was totally unprepared for the undammed flood of
confidence which had burst from the lips of the habitually taciturn
Carrick. The tattered rags of the fellow's humble past were spread
before him in all their pathetic squalor. He saw, as though a living
thing, the barren, inarticulate childhood. He heard, under compulsion,
the tale of youth's indefinable longings, with the meagre story of a
love which lacked not its own shabby tragedy. The delicacy of a
gentleman, who had intruded where he had no right, had caused him to
draw back with an apology; but the orderly had insisted on telling him.
He could almost see the raw, quivering heart in Carrick's breast.
"I wonder," he pondered, "what that medal was he wore under his shirt?
He said it was an heirloom. It looked devilishly like an order of
nobility." He referred to an incident in the man's narrative, when the
latter had drawn from beneath the blue army blouse what had at first
appeared to be a Star of the Bath. It had been solemnly handed to him
for inspection, with the information that the trooper's father had also
worn it.
It was old. The circular scroll, which at one time had doubtless borne
an inscription, was smooth save for a few dimples which indicated
faintly where words had been. The centre was a slightly raised disc
about an inch and a quarter in diameter. Upon this, of blue enamel,
cracked and chipped with age and usage, was the figure of a lion
rampant, a royal crown upon its head. From the central disc, intersected
by the scroll, radiated points of equal length, making a star of the
whole. Something also had been said about papers. Supposing that Carrick
had meant insurance policies, he had paid but passing heed to the
allusion.
Carter's ideas were growing patchwork, he confessed. He felt he was
unable, in his weariness, to sustain much connected thought. The mental
trend was all one way, however,--pointing to a desire to escape the
enforced ennui, which was sure to be consequent upon his recent
exhausting contest. Nor was he particularly anxious to meet any one
until he had eased up the terrific pace which his nerves had set him.
Hearing a couple of his friends enter, he determined to wait until they
should discover him before he would make his presence known. Aware that
no one would choose that room for confidential chats, he had no fear of
eavesdropping. As he was yielding to drowsiness the words of one of the
men back of him caused him to sit up alertly. It was Billy Saunderson,
one of the pair who had just entered, who was speaking.
"I tell you, Lang," Saunderson was saying to Langdon of the Diplomatic
Corps,--"I tell you that there'll be war. It isn't going to be any
police-clubbed riot this time. It'll be the real thing." Carter felt a
personal affront in Langdon's sceptical laugh at this assertion.
"How do you figure that, Saunderson?" the government man queried.
"Immigration statistics of the last ten years prove to any sane man that
the natives are returning to their fatherland in unprecedented numbers.
Read for yourself." The pause that followed, broken only by the rustling
of papers, was evidently devoted to a perusal of documents. Then
Langdon's voice again took up the theme.
"All right, Billy, but what do you expect to prove by the fact that
eighty thousand men came here from Krovitch in the last ten years and
sixty thousand return this year?"
"By the fact that it is _men_ that are going back--not women or
children; that Krovitzers don't love Russia well enough to return as
volunteers against Japan; by the fact that ten thousand are trained
soldiers."
"How do you know the last?"
"Private information." Billy's tone was significant. "War Department;
don't repeat. Their enlistment up with Uncle Sam, these men have asked
for their discharges. All first-class soldiers and non coms."
"Hm," Langdon commented, partially convinced; then, as a new objection
struck him, his tone was once more argumentative. "They can't fight
without a backer," he continued. "Banking houses to-day control peace
and war as immutably as Christianity should. I don't believe that any
one would back them."
"Here comes Jackson, he'll know," Saunderson said as the door opened to
admit another man who instantly joined them.
"What's that you are leaving up to me, Billy? Do I hold the stakes?"
Carter recognized the voice as that of one of his bitterest opponents in
the stock battle.
"Saunderson says that there will be real fighting in Krovitch," said
Langdon. "What does the money mart say?" Appealed to unexpectedly on
this topic, Jackson laughed a trifle consciously.
"Well, in strict confidence," he replied, "I'll tell you that I am in a
pool to finance things over there. That coup of Carter's pretty nearly
dumped me on it, too."
Not desiring to become the butt of overheard personalities, Carter arose
at this juncture, and, bowing to the trio, left the room. After his
departure, the eyes of the first comers turned to Jackson, as one who
had just felt the mettle of Carter's steel. The half smile which had
been on Carter's face Jackson was perfectly willing to misinterpret.
"Gloating over our downfall," he remarked with reference to the day's
happenings on the Street.
"Not that kind of fellow," replied Saunderson, coming to the defense of
the absent. "You were caught dancing; he simply made you pay the piper."
"He's hard as nails," retorted Jackson, gloomily; "not a particle of
sentiment in him."
"Look here, Jackson," said Langdon at this juncture, "you are dead wrong
there. Carter's record is different. He went out to Cuba for what we
discount nowadays--patriotism. While there he picked up a poor devil of
a Cockney and made more of a man of him than the fellow had ever dreamed
of becoming. Literally picked him out of the gutter--drunk. That man of
his,--Carrick,--I think that's his name."
"Right," assented Saunderson. "Then look what he did for Marian Griggs
when Jack's western bubble burst carrying her fortune with it. Jack
blew his brains out, leaving her and the kids sky high. Though they had
absolutely no claim on him other than disinterested friendship, Cal, in
the most delicate manner in the world, fixed things so that they should
never want. The girl told me herself. Sentiment? Why, man, he's chock
full of it. He's the sort that, when he hears of this coming scrap in
Krovitch, will throw himself body and soul into it, as his forbears have
done from Marston Moor to date, just because it's likely to be a lost
cause. He's always for the under dog--and I honor him for it. I'm
willing to bet he'll go to Krovitch when he hears."
"A thousand?" inquired Jackson with speculative ardor. Saunderson
narrowed his eyes, as he looked judiciously at the broker. He flicked
the ash from his cigarette before replying.
"Too much. What's the use?" he said. "Make it even money at a hundred
and I'll go you. On any other man I'd ask odds. With Carter, though,
when it comes to war, to women, or to any one needing help, he's right
there with the goods. He's in a class by himself. Do you take the bet?"
"Certainly," answered Jackson as he handed the money over to Langdon as
stakeholder. "Word of honor, Billy, that you will not urge him on?"
"Word of honor, Jackson. Keep your hands off, too." The two shook hands
gravely, while Langdon made a memorandum of the wager.
Before he had reached the corner, the subject of this speculation had
forgotten, for the nonce, all about Krovitch and her troubles. His
wearied mind--like a recalcitrant hunter at a stiffish fence--had thrown
off the idea as too much weight to carry. A week later he was to be
reminded of the episode at the club. Its effects led him far afield into
a tale of romance, intrigue, war and women. Intrigue, war and women are
inseparable.
II
"STRANGE COUNTREES FOR TO SEE"
In the soul of Calvert Carter arose a vague unrest. A voiceless summons
bade him, with every April stir of wind, to shake off the tale of common
things and match his manhood and keen intelligence in Nature's conflict,
the battle of the male. Six years past had found him in Cuba. In that
brief campaign against Spain, his entire military career, each day so
crowded with anticipation or actual battle, had been laid the foundation
for this _wanderlieb_; this growing appetite for excitement and hazard.
Occasional trips to Europe and even forays after big game had failed to
satisfy him. Without realizing it, his was the aboriginal's longing for
war,--primitive savage against primitive savage, and--his life lacked a
woman.
He paced about his library as in a cage.
He strove desperately to understand the elusive impulse which urged him
to go forth running, head up, pulses flaming; on, on, out of the reeking
city to the cool, clean woods; on, on, to the heart of the world where
all brutes and mankind strove in one titanic fight for supremacy.
Conventions held him fast. He must go somewhere, however. Where? Was
there in Old or New World an unbeaten track his feet had not trodden, a
chance for adventure--man-strife? Manchuria! It would not do. His was
not the mood for the porcelain, perfect politeness of Nippon. He was no
beast to revel in the stupid orgies of the Slav!
The door opened and Carrick entered. It was not the Carrick of
yesterday, but one who, though unable to eradicate all the traces of his
earlier environments, had nevertheless succeeded in achieving externally
and mentally a much higher plane than that on which Carter first found
him. When he spoke, seeing his master was in some perplexity, there
still lingered in his accent the unmistakable evidence of his
Whitechapel origin.
"What is it, sir?"
Carter turned to him with a troubled countenance.
"Carrick," he said, "do you ever feel as if you wanted to be back on the
fighting line?"
The fellow smiled guiltily.
"Yes, Mr. Carter, when I 'ave the go-fever as I call it! Then you see,"
he explained apologetically, "I was allus a sort of a tramp before you
took 'old of me, sir. Don't think it's because the plyce don't suit--no
man ever 'ad a better, thanks to you. Sometimes I think, though, as 'ow
all men get the feelin' in spells. Do you ever feel that wye?"
"I'm chock full of it now, Carrick. I must get away from the manacles of
cities. Hand me that atlas--I'll study the map of Europe again. Thanks.
This is about the tenth time." Carter bent over the plotted page
anxiously while his man stood at his elbow.
"Germany won't do," said Calvert. "I hate the very sight of a
wasp-waisted, self-sufficient Prussian subaltern. They're everywhere.
Imperial arrogance seems to pervade even their beer gardens." His voice
trailed off into silence again, as in a preoccupied manner his finger
wandered over the map. It stopped suddenly as he leaned closer to study
the pink plot on which it rested. "Krovitch; Krovitch!" he muttered,
"now where the devil have I heard of Krovitch? Russian province it seems
but that doesn't give me any clue. I'm stuck, Carrick," he said with a
frank laugh as he looked up to meet the man's responsive smile.
"Can I 'elp you, sir?" He leaned over Carter's shoulder.
"What is there about that little spot to set me guessing?" His finger
kept tapping the indicated locality perplexedly.
His man studied a moment as if some old memory were awakened. "Can't
sye, sir; but wasn't Count Zulka, of the Racquet Club, from there, sir?"
he hesitatingly suggested. "Seems as if I remember 'is man saying as
much."
"Now we are getting at it, Carrick. Certainly. Zulka is a Krovitzer. Has
a mediaeval castle at Schallberg. Capital, I think it is. Saunderson the
newspaper fellow let fall a hint that there was going to be a big fight
over there. That was after Zulka went abroad so suddenly. They're going
to try and restore the ancient monarchy or something. Hand me that
volume of the Encyclopedia--'H-o-r' to 'L-i-b' I think will cover it.
I'll look up Krovitch. Thanks," and he was soon deeply engrossed in the
desired information.
A copy of the Almanac de Gotha lay at his hand. Having avidly absorbed
the meagre narration of the country's history from the pages of the
encyclopedia, his inquiring mind sought enlightenment as to the present
personnel of the house who had ruled the ancient race.
The almanac disclosed no descendant of Stovik. Apparently the dynasty of
which he was the head had ceased with his deposition. "Humph," he
ejaculated, "here is something interesting. 'Sole descendant of
Augustus. Girl, twenty-two, name--Trusia.' Pretty, poetical--Trusia! I
like it. Seems to me I'll be repeating that name a good deal. I wonder
what she's like."
He looked up again, his face glowing with enthusiasm. "Carrick," he said
indignantly, "that country ought to be free. Russia stole it by a shabby
trick. Two hundred years ago the reigning king of Krovitch was a chap
called Stovik. The head of another royal family there named Augustus was
his rival for the crown. Not being able to arouse much of a following
among a loyal people, Augustus sought aid of his namesake, the Czar of
Russia, to help in his contest. Knowing that Augustus would be easily
disposed of once they got a foothold in Krovitch, the Russ, who had only
been waiting for some such pretext, gladly espoused his cause and threw
an army of veterans across the length and breadth of the devoted land.
Stovik was deposed and Russia put her dupe upon the throne. Europe stood
by and let that nation, which, single handed, had time and again saved
them from Moslem invasions, be annexed by the government at Moscow. I'm
going there. I'll look up Zulka and get him to have me counted in if
there's any fight going to occur."
"And me too, sir," answered Carrick, standing like a stag who from a
peak challenges his kind.
Carter looked at the man with evident appreciation and a pleased smile
animated his face.
"It will be the old days over again. I warn you, Carrick, you'll have to
hustle to beat me up another hill."
The Cockney laughed in the free masonry of their mutual reminiscences.
"All right, sir, forewarned is forearmed. How soon do we start?"
"Just as soon as you can get our camp kits ready. We'll board the next
steamer for Danzig. I think I'll take the big auto along, too. It may
come in handy."
III
A DUEL--OF WITS
Russian affairs had reached the climax anticipated by the world as the
result of her persistent encroachments in the Orient.
Precipitated by a fiery aggression from Nippon the gasping Slav had been
pushed back across the Yalu. His ships around Port Arthur had been
crippled and destroyed. The astonished nations, Russia included, awoke
to a grim realization of war.
Not only the home staying Japanese, but millions of Russian subjects
joined in the universal acclaim that hailed these first victories of the
war, presaging that the Banners of the Rising Sun were well able to cope
with the armed hordes which held Manchuria in the name of the Great
White Czar.
First grumbling murmurs, next spasmodic disturbances defying police
discipline, afterward outbreaks of thousands of workmen even in the
larger cities, followed by armed and desperate uprisings in different
provinces, demonstrated with seismic violence that an appreciable
portion of domestic sympathy was with the enemies of the Empire.
The autocracy had been feared only while it had been able to assert
universal invincibility.
Plots and counterplots added to the general uneasiness; failing to
soothe them, more than one minister had been dismissed in disgrace.
In the Imperial Palace a war conference had been called with reference
to a new and startling development. A map lay spread upon the table. A
white-haired grand duke arose and placed a finger on the spot indicating
the Russian capital.
"Here is St. Petersburg," he said dogmatically, "while away off here is
Krovitch just across a little river from Germany and Austria. While
those greedy neighbors may be held back now, you could not restrain them
a moment after revolt broke out in that border province. For two
centuries those Krovitzers have been a defiant and stiff-necked race in
spite of every corrective measure adopted to suppress them. Unless
immediate action is taken to anticipate and abort any movement of
theirs, it may mean the utter destruction of your present southern
frontiers. I am convinced that they will take advantage of the present
disturbances to attempt their independence."
A wan and tolerant smile on the imperial countenance apprised him his
appeal had been in vain. A suppressed buzz of incredulity brought a
flush of resentment to his cheek.
"We are not ungrateful for your loyal advice, Your Grace, and will give
it our future consideration." This imperial acknowledgment dismissed a
matter which apparently was promptly forgotten in the discussion of
events in Manchuria. But the apparition of Krovitch, in arms, would not
so easily down in the minds of the thoughtful present, even though an
autocrat had dismissed the notion as frivolous.
Never having been kind, now was the moment when the least sign of
relaxation would be interpreted by the watchful millions as an evidence
of weakness. Therefore the blows of the knout should be redoubled and
prisons be enlarged the better to maintain hierarchical supremacy.
Provinces, conquered and made subject by the ancient strength of Russian
arms, were becoming restless. Whispers of what a year earlier would have
been avoided by the many in terror were now changed into shouts of
defiance and publicly bruited in the daily papers. On all sides an
oppressed country crouched tiger-like, ready for revolt should the whip
be laid aside for even an instant.
Krovitch once having had a king, a _patrie_ of her own, stubbornly and
persistently kept alive her national feeling, language, and traditions
in spite of imperial _ukase_. Naturally she caused considerable
uneasiness among those who were the real rulers of Russia.
Persistent reports from their apprehensive agents alarmed those who,
standing in the shadows of a toppling throne, feared an outbreak of the
Krovitzers more than they despised the ultimate valor of the Japanese.
An ambitious minister, listening attentively to the warning against
Krovitch, determined to put a quietus on that province, which once and
for all time would blight her hopes of independence. He wired many
questions and voluminous suggestions to his agent in Paris, Casper
Haupt, who was a sub-chief of the White Police. This ardent subject of
Nicholas II had cabled back immediately:
"Have here only one man who can. Must have free foot."
A reference to a portfolio biography disclosed the operator's name to be
Josef Kolinsky.
The conversation resulting in this cabled information to the minister
had taken place in a private room of the Russian consulate in the French
capital between the sub-chief and Kolinsky.
One plan after another had been suggested by the superior only to be
torn into threads by the operator. Finally in desperation the sub-chief
had demanded that Kolinsky furnish a more practical scheme.
A pause followed, in which, with elbows on the table, and flushed,
indignant visage, the Russian leaned forward waiting for the compliance
of his subordinate. Kolinsky, with a sphynx-like face, sat gazing
steadily at a point on the floor slightly beyond his extended feet. His
principal sought in vain to penetrate the pale, smiling mask which he
was beginning to acknowledge held a more subtle mind than his own. He
would have given much to have seen the galloping, tumultuous thoughts,
which, chaotic at first, became as orderly as heaven at their master's
wish.
Impatient at a silence promising to be interminable the Russian agent
coughed suggestively.
Kolinsky, with leisurely indulgence, looked up while the sneering smile
deepened the lines about his mouth.
The face of his _vis-a-vis_ brightened.
"Well," the chief asked breathlessly.
"First, monsieur, if my plan is adopted, do I, alone, unaided, have free
foot to work it out? Otherwise I'll not tell you a word of it."
Indignant for a moment that an underling should impose conditions, the
Russian determined to resort to censure, but when he looked into the
culprit's eyes he was puzzled at his own acquiescence.
"You may have a free foot," he said, "now your plan."
Kolinsky shifted his chair close to that of the other man to whisper
long and earnestly in his ear. His auditor evidently endorsed his
suggestion, judging by his grunts of applause and the grinning display
of teeth.
"It is good, fine, superb," he said as Kolinsky concluded and leaned
back comfortably in his chair the better to appreciate the approval
displayed in his chief's countenance. He was not to view these
flattering symptoms for long, however. His superior as though
discovering a fatal weakness in the completed structure, said in renewed
despair: "while you have the right man, it won't do."
"Why, Excellency," asked Josef with no diminution of that glacial smile.
It was as though he held his superior in hardly concealed contempt.
"The papers," said Haupt. "They can't be forged. We have no precedents
to follow. Those chaps over there will know the thing by rote and
probably would recognize the signatures more quickly than their own."
"Why not use the originals?"
"Where are they? We have so much time to find them." The sarcasm was
crushing. "They probably were lost or destroyed years ago." He concluded
temporizingly, under the compelling eyes gazing coldly at him.
"Documents of that kind are never lost or destroyed," Josef announced
dogmatically.
"Where are they then? In Krovitch?" The sub-chief sneered.
"No." The reply was so positive that the Russian agent leaned forward
intently. He was growing suspicious, therefore becoming cautious.
"You have seen them, I suppose." This was thrown off casually.
"Oh, certainly. That's what suggested the plan." Josef smiled like a cat
who has enclosed a cup of cream.
"Then you have seen them recently." He only half waited for the
assenting nod as he queried, "They are in Paris?"
"Yes." Kolinsky smiled at the other's undisguised astonishment that he
would admit so much.
The sub-chief drew himself together, then turned sternly to his
subordinate.
"See here, Kolinsky, that's impossible. I've been head of this bureau
for ten years, and if documents of such importance had come into the
possession of the French or any other government, I would have known
about it. If they had been turned into this office I would have
remembered."
"Nevertheless, Excellency, they are in Paris."
There was another long pause. The Russian lighted a cigarette, while he
sought in silent meditation to unravel the mystery which seemed not only
a challenge to his acuteness, but also an impeachment of his regime.
With a casual movement that he hoped was unnoticed, he drew back into a
shadow where he could note Kolinsky's face while his own avoided
scrutiny.
"Kolinsky, how long have you been a member of the White Police?"
"Twelve years, Excellency."
"Two years before I came here, eh?" In a flash he had solved the enigma.
"It is as I imagined. Have you the papers with you?"
"Yes, Excellency."
"May I see them?"
"They are my personal property, remember."
"How long ago did you get them?"
"Fifteen years ago the eighth of August. That was before I joined the
secret police. The owner had died and it took some clever work to gain
possession of them."
"How did you know of their existence?"
"It was an accident." Kolinsky answered haltingly.
"And your candidate for the crown?" asked the Russian in a slight tone
of derision.
"Is a Parisian artist. A good-natured fool." Kolinsky's tone of voice
echoed the other's, whose hand was held out hesitatingly across the
table for the papers. Deliberately Josef drew a bundle from his inside
pocket and opened it before his chief.
The parchments were old and the Latin was in an ancient cramped hand
while the impression of the seal was well-nigh obliterated. When
sufficient time had elapsed for the Russian to make a complete mental
note of their appearance, Josef drew the papers away from him, refolded
them carefully and replaced them in his pocket.
"Kolinsky, you know what will happen should you desert us when once in
Krovitch?"
Josef was standing near the door. He smiled with supreme indifference.
"Do I get the mission, Excellency?" was the only reply he vouchsafed.
"Y-e-s." The superior's single acquiescence was prolonged into three
syllables, urged by the acknowledged supreme ability of Kolinsky and
restrained by a fear of apprehended duplicity.
Aware of this struggle the clever fellow turned back in the doorway to
laugh at the other's perplexity.
"Really, Excellency, you have only one thing to fear." His chief started
up suspiciously.
"What is that?" he asked tersely.
"That I may decide to claim the throne of Krovitch myself," Josef
replied, as with his habitual smile he softly closed the door and
hurried from the house.
IV
THE GRAY MAN
"Do you realize, Carrick, that three weeks have passed since I proposed
this trip to Krovitch?" They were whirling along a badly kept road in
that province of Russia as Calvert Carter made the above remark which
was also an interrogation. The place of their debarkation had been an
unusual one--Danzig--chosen because it had been the more accessible to
the Russian frontier. Slowing down the automobile for obvious reasons,
Carrick turned a ruminating expression in the direction of his master.
"Seems yesterday, sir."
"How's the go-fever? Still working?"
Carrick laughed. "Overtime, sir. Hundred miles an hour till we get there
wouldn't be too fast for me." He turned his attention again to the
machine and the rutty way before him.
The other drew out a road map which he consulted with trained eyes that
correctly approximated both locality and distances. Slowly refolding it
he replaced it in an inner pocket. Being in a mood that anticipated
much at the end of the journey, he was not loath to break into his
chauffeur's taciturnity.
"Well, cheer up. Even at this rate we ought to make Schallberg by
sunset. It's eight o'clock now."
"Seems more than an hour since I 'ad my breakfast."
"I know, but no man's stomach is a safe timepiece, Carrick. On the road
I could name at least six meal times by that organ of mine."
For a few miles the jolting of the machine over rough places punctuated
their progress with a conversational hiatus.
The rarely occasional peasants working in the fields or plodding along
the way, paused in their occupations to regard the novel vehicle with
stolid wonderment.
"Seems odd, sir," hazarded Carrick when a comparatively smooth piece of
road permitted more than monosyllabic profanity, "seems odd that we've
seen ten women to one man so far. These are all 'has beens.' No young
chaps workin' in the fields. What do you make of it, sir?"
"The ones not already drafted for Manchuria are dodging Russian
conscription most likely."
"Think so, sir?" Carrick's tone raised a question.
"Why? Don't you?"
"Oh, I don't know, sir. They've all taken it on the run for some reason
or other. Maybe the Krovitch army is already mobilized."
"Egad, Carrick, that _is_ a possibility. I never thought of that.
Suppose I expected them to wait for us. We don't want to miss the
opening gun. Hump her up for all she's worth. Full speed and never mind
the jolts."
The chauffeur bent readily to the task and their further advance into
the country of their hopes was such that boded ill to any bewildered
fowl that might recklessly seek to cross in front of them. The dial
indicated seventy miles an hour.
"Suppose this were Fifth Avenue." Carter bent over to assure himself of
the speed as he spoke.
"Umph. We won't go into that, sir. Too 'arrowing to think of. You'd have
to mortgage everything to pye the fines. Any'ow you'd go into bankruptcy
after you'd bailed me out." Carrick paused to view the route before
them. "That's a pretty steep 'ill a'ead, sir. Mybe we'd better stop at
the top and reconnoitre a bit. We ought to get a good view from there.
It looks too bloomin' rocky for this rate any'ow."
"Where are the glasses?" inquired his companion with unconcealed
eagerness, fumbling about in the locker beneath the seat. "Never mind, I
have them," he said, producing the binoculars.
At the crest of the Here they stopped to view the panorama of the
Beyond.
From the height on which they halted, they looked out upon a wilderness
of which they had no previous conception, for the hill they had just
ascended had masked it from view.
Below them, at a distance of about two miles, as far as the eye could
see from left to right stretched a black and dense forest of unknown
antiquity. Behind and beyond it at increasing distances peak upon lofty
peak, mountain after mountain, like Babel, reached upward for the sky.
Of these the one nearest and directly in front of the knights errant
claimed attention.
"Looks like a giant coal scuttle, sir," said Carrick the trite. The
description was apt, for the freak of nature which confronted them.
Towering high above its neighbors this mountain was unusual. Some
outraged Titan in his ire had, in some long-forgotten aeon, apparently
seized and turned upon its head the top-heavy crest, whose form roughly
speaking was of a reversed truncated cone. Upon the wide plateau at the
top, with battlemented walls and towers outlined against a turquoise
sky, stood a high pitched castle whose topmost turrets seemed suspended
from the heavens above them.
"Can you myke out the flag, sir?" Carrick asked anxiously, seeing that
his master was viewing the donjon critically through the glasses.
Much depended on the nationality of the standard, which, hardly visible
at that distance, was only discernible as a blur upon the blue of the
otherwise immaculate sky. The castle undoubtedly commanded that highway
on the far side of the wood along which they must pass. Carter had
descended into the road and was eagerly adjusting the focus for a better
view.
"Can't make it out exactly. It's not Russian for one thing. Field's red.
Device is blue. Dragon or something. Have to take a chance till we get a
nearer look."
Carrick, meanwhile, was peering intently down the road ahead of him
where it disappeared into the midnight gloom of the forest. His alert
eyes had noted two or three objects emerge from among the trees and
stop.
"Look there, sir," and his outstretched arm indicated the direction
while Carter swung his glasses around to the place.
"Videttes," he exclaimed without looking up. "Sizing us up through
glasses, eh?"
"Russians?" The chauffeur's excitement was manifest, for he was frowning
in a vain endeavor to discern the distant specks.
"I don't know. We're in sort of a fix," was the answer as Carter looked
up at Carrick with a frank laugh. The dilemma was not causing him much
alarm. "If they are," he continued, "we're dished unless we can get by
them. I'll take a chance anyhow. We won't stop to investigate. Right
through the woods as if the devil was after us," with which instructions
he leaped into the machine.
Carrick grinned. Such orders were just to his taste. A touch on the
lever and the automobile shot down the hillside at a speed more rapid
than Terror's own. Nearing the scattered outposts, whose frightened
horses flattened themselves against adjacent fences, the occupants of
the touring car were greeted by a shower of bullets, all of which went
wide owing to the disconcerted aim of the sentries, who seemed to fly by
the autoists in phantom shapes as the wood was safely gained. Once in
its tree-protected road they never relaxed speed until five miles had
been placed between them and possible pursuit.
"That's done with, anyway," remarked Carter jubilantly. He turned and
faced his comrade whom the hum of bullets had exhilarated.
"Were they Russians? Did you notice anything?"
Carrick laughed outright. Peal followed peal before he could control
himself. "I just saw one 'oss, sir. 'E was bally well scared. I'll never
forget 'is look,--eyes bulging and mouth open as if 'e was going to
swallow a whole hyrick. After spying 'im I couldn't 'ave looked at 'is
rider if I 'ad tried."
"Well, they'll have trouble overtaking us anyhow if they were children
of the Czar. Look, Carrick," he continued, indicating the wider and more
frequent patches of sunlight flecking the road, "it's lighting up. We'll
soon be out of the woods."
"Better not halloa till we are, Mr. Carter."
"Gad, that's a prophecy all right. Our way is blocked." The machine came
to an abrupt halt.
Not far distant the exit from the forest disclosed to plain view an
extensive segment of open country to the southward.
"Not less than a thousand in that bunch," commented Carrick with gloomy
reference to a dense throng of men along the road outside the forest.
"Mixed troops. 'Ow many more there are we can't see for these bloomin'
trees."
"Certainly are cavalry and infantry. But they don't appear to be paying
much attention to this end of the road. They're all looking the other
way. That black and gold hussar uniform beats the gray and silver of the
foot. I don't believe they're Russians," Carter concluded with a joyful
start. "Those uniforms! Since we can't go back, we'd better go ahead."
With apparent unconcern they boldly emerged from the woodland.
To their left, about fifty yards back from the highway, stood a quaint
old inn built against a sheer cliff face which in the air seemed to bend
over the puny habitation. To the right stretched fields under
cultivation, but beaten hard under the feet of ten thousand men in the
uniform already noticed.
A little group of officers, well mounted, stood together in the commons
before the hostelry. They caught but the momentary attention of the
interlopers, which, as by some hypnotic influence, was drawn to one of
three men quietly conversing on the stone porch of the inn.
He was short and spare of figure, lean and colorless of face, while
about him hung an atmosphere of grayness.
As the puffing automobile drew up to the steps he turned quietly to
survey its occupants, vividly contrasting the surprise displayed by his
two companions. One of these was evidently the innkeeper from the
professional air of deference which tempered even his amazement, while
the other, square of jowl and deep of eye, was a peasant.
These latter could divert attention for but the moment from the gray
man, their companion, whose face seemed set in a habitual, cynical
smile, the intent of which was inscrutable. The deep creases running
from the corners of the mouth to the narrow nostrils showed the
expression was habitual and without the saving grace of mirthfulness.
Without a doubt he was of those who gain the dislike of the class from
which they are derived and usually not more than the tolerance of those
with whom they are thrown in daily contact. Carter admitted after a
critical survey that the Gray Man, as he mentally dubbed him, was an
exception to this rule. Though he bore every external evidence of being
of the upper servant class, there were power and masterly cunning
disclosed in every line of the set face. He was of those who, in times
of great crises, if they do not attain to power always pass through
dangers which engulf nobler men, to emerge with profit if not with honor
from even a nation's downfall. That behind the grinning mask lay a wide
knowledge of the working of the human mind, Carter saw, as the Gray
Man's crafty eyes weighed the repugnance he knew he had inspired. As
their glances met, uncontrollably, a challenge gleamed in that of the
autoist which was answered by a cold defiance on the part of the elder
man.
Meanwhile the boniface, who had achieved a partial composure, hurried
forward to greet the travelers.
"I am sorry, messieurs," he said in excellent French, "that every bed,
every table, in my inn is engaged. I am overwhelmed. The 'Lion'
doubtless loses noble guests," and he fetched a fat sigh as his keen
little eyes apprised the worldly stations of the two strangers.
Evidently revolving some question in his mind he hit upon, to him, a
happy solution to it.
"The castle," he said, with a significant wink accompanied by an upward
jerk of a pudgy thumb, "the castle, messieurs, is but two miles further
along this road. Perhaps, if milords have friends there, they can find
accommodations."
"While I admit, Monsieur of the Lion," said Carter, "that I would like
few things better than a good square meal just now, I would forego that
gratification for information regarding the whereabouts of a gentleman
of these parts."
The Gray Man drew nearer as this was said. A subtle change flickered
across the wide expanse of the innkeeper's face, while a tinge of
suspicion added a chill to his immediate inquiry.
"Monsieur would pay well doubtless?" He eyed the tourist narrowly. "Who
is it, monsieur?"
"I'd give ten golden florins to know where to find Count Paul Zulka. Do
you know him?"
The boniface gasped and grew apoplectic. "I never heard of him," he
said, which, in the face of his perturbation, was manifestly a lie.
The Gray Man stepped to the fore at this juncture.
"In the public squares of Schallberg, monsieur will doubtless gather
much information," he said ironically and with a covert meaning at that
moment not appreciated by Carter. "Monsieur must travel that way. He
should not turn back," and with a nod of his head he indicated a troop
of cavalry guarding the way along which the travelers had approached.
The significance of this was not lost on Carter who was now convinced
that this was an army of Krovitzers and that his innocent inquiry had
brought him under some sort of suspicion. Though he was burning up with
curiosity to learn if it was the patriotic army, he wisely refrained
from asking. With a short laugh he turned back to the Gray Man.
"I never turn back," he said. "The road toward Schallberg is better, I
hope?"
"It is easier traveling, monsieur," the fellow replied insolently with
an unchanging smile.
Carter was satisfied from this that if he used discretion he would be
permitted to reach Schallberg or the army probably investing it. He
gave the necessary orders to Carrick and without undue haste while in
the vicinity of the inn the automobile proceeded on its quest.
When out of earshot of the hostelry, the Cockney, who had been a silent
observer of the controversy, gave a prodigious sigh of relief.
"I wouldn't trust that grinning ape with a dead pup. 'E's a sly one.
'Opes we don't run into 'im again."
"I don't like him, either. I have a feeling, though, that we'll meet him
again soon and like him less."
V
I AM THE LADY TRUSIA
"I hope she's not dead," Carter said fervently as he bent over the
unconscious girl. He beckoned to his chauffeur. "You can't catch her
horse, Carrick. No use trying. Just hand me my flask."
As he forced the brandy through the pale lips he inwardly cursed his own
lust for speed which had been the cause of the possibly fatal
catastrophe.
Tempted by a bit of road, straight and smooth, full power had been put
on in a feverish desire to interpose as much space as possible between
the automobile and the Gray Man at the inn, repugnance for whom seethed
in Carter's soul. As the touring car had neared a turn in the way, its
two occupants had been horrified to see a spirited black horse, ridden
by a beautiful girl, swing at a sharp gallop directly in their path. A
rare presence of mind on Carrick's part had prompted an instant
application of the brakes which had undoubtedly prevented a collision
although it had very nearly hurled him and his companion from their
seats. The steed for a fraction of a second had been petrified with
fear. Then it had reared violently, thrown its rider, and
panic-stricken, had turned and fled in the direction of its coming.
Carter, kneeling, gently placed the girl's head against his shoulder,
while he passed an arm around her the better to support the relaxed
body. He looked helplessly at the Cockney.
"Wasn't there some one with her?" he inquired, with the memory of a
meteoric vision of another rider fleeing back along the road on a
plunging, squealing steed.
"Yes, Mr. Carter, a young chap in uniform. 'Is 'oss bolted too, sir. 'E
stuck on all right though. We've certainly 'ad a bad day for a start,
don't you think, sir?"
Calvert did not answer; he was bending anxiously over the still face,
praying for a sign of life. He was appalled by the girl's beauty and a
twofold fear possessed him. He feared she was dead. Scarcely less than
this, if fortunately she was alive, he dreaded the necessity that would
require his laying desecrating masculine hands upon her for her better
resuscitation.
"Is she dead, sir?" asked Carrick, bending above them as he noted Carter
groping blindly for her pulse. "She looks like a queen," he added in a
voice husky with the awe inspired by the marble stillness of her face.
Hesitatingly Carter's finger rested on her wrist. A lump leaped to his
throat, he could have shouted with joy as he found that the pulse still
stirred.
"She is not dead," he said in a voice vibrant with thanksgiving. His
eyes sought the Cockney's for a responsive gleam of gratitude.
His trembling fingers awkwardly loosened the habit about the round white
throat. The unavoidable contact with the satiny skin caused his head to
whirl and his face to crimson. Finally controlling himself he began to
watch patiently for the sign of returning consciousness. During the ages
it appeared to take, he inventoried the beauty of the face, the perfect
ensemble of which had impressed him as she rode into view.
A shapely little head of wavy black hair lay in the crook of his elbow.
The loosened strands breeze-blown against his cheek seemed light as the
sheen of a spider's craft. These waved to the rhythm of beauty above a
low white forehead veined in an indefinite tint of blue. The eyebrows
were fine and daintily arched. Black lashes long and up-curling swept
the unexplainable curve of her cheek, at the present time apparently
masking eyes too rare for the vision of man. The nose, thin and ever so
slightly bridged, was an epitome of aristocracy.
The mouth, just beginning to quiver with reanimation, was curved in the
curl of flowers in bud, and sweet and kind as the animate soul of a
rose. A womanly chin turned, none could say where, into the matchless
sweep and curve of the throat and breast, a glimpse of which he had had
vouchsafed in such a breathless vision.
"Where's her hat, Carrick?" Carter asked, not because there was any
immediate use for that article of apparel, but with the instinct of an
orderly man to keep all things together. After a considerable search the
chauffeur picked up something from the gutter by the side of the road
and handed it to his master.
"This must be it, sir," he commented. It was a broad felt hat with one
side of the brim looped up with a jewel _a la cavalier_ while a fine
black plume curled about it. For the first time, attracted doubtless by
the head covering, Calvert noticed that the girl's was not the
conventional costume one sees on equestriennes either in the Park or
along the Row. Nevertheless the habit itself was elegantly plain.
Across from the right shoulder passing to the waist at the left was
stretched a broad ribbon as red as war. A great jeweled star moved
sluggishly upon it above her faintly struggling breast. The centre of
the medal bore a lion rampant in blue enamel. On the beast's head was a
royal crown. There was something suggestive about it which awakened his
mind to grope tentacle-like for that of which it was reminiscent.
A startled exclamation from Carrick caused him to look up quickly.
Fumbling nervously at his shirt with one hand, with the other the
wide-eyed Cockney was pointing at the star.
"The guvnor's shiner," he exclaimed excitedly as he drew forth from the
folds of his blouse a battered duplicate of the medal she wore.
Barring its condition attributable to time and rough usage it was
similar in every respect.
Growing surmise as to its origin and Carrick's connection thereto were
interrupted by a tearful incoherence on the part of the reviving girl.
Her bosom heaved convulsively, her eyes opened wide and startled into
life. She arose to a sitting posture glancing around as a child might
who has been suddenly awakened from slumber. Carter still knelt at her
side with ready arm for her support should weakness overtake her.