THE FOX IN THE WOLF’S DEN
In his first glance at the stranger, the Count told himself that
Gomer was right and there was nothing to be on his guard against in
the withered, decrepit-looking old man who, wrapped in a fur-lined
travelling cloak, stood before him with a demeanour of apologetic
entreaty. At the second glance he was not so sure. But at least there
was nothing physically to be feared from the harbouring of such a
guest, and as to cunning, why, he was himself no fool, and loved
nothing better than to pit his wits against other men’s.
The old traveller had missed his road, it appeared, and got lost in
the labyrinth of small mountain valleys which abounded in the district
He had been anxious to push on, but the task was clearly hopeless for
that night, and as he was told he could expect to come upon no decent
inn for many miles, he was forced to make bold to crave a night’s
hospitality, should it in no way inconvenience the noble Count. The
noble Count was for the moment in two minds about entertaining a guest
whom continued scrutiny rendered less and less prepossessing. But
he was a man of action and of daring: if this dubious old fellow’s
presence meant danger he would delight in finding it out and checking
it, at the same time making his guest pay dearly for his temerity; if
he were but the strayed traveller he represented himself to be, why, he
might count upon a chatty supper companion. Accordingly, he graciously
placed himself and his establishment at the stranger’s disposal and
presently they went in to supper. It would be well, Irromar reflected,
to give his fair prisoner a night’s respite, and to renew their
interview next morning. Once he could bring her into subjection to his
dominant will--and of this he was confident--he would have no fear of
attack or of any unpleasant consequences.
He found he had not been mistaken in his forecast of his guest’s
sociable qualities. Indeed during the meal each of its partakers
considerably astonished the other, not merely by the acute knowledge
of the world which he displayed but more particularly by his intimate
acquaintance with affairs, both political and social, such as was for
the most part denied to outsiders.
“Who,” the Count’s busy brain puzzled, “can this man be, who has such
a confident knowledge of the inner circle of politics? Hardly the
enterprising merchant he would have me believe. It is just possible;
since your eminent trader makes it his business to be _au courant_
with every move in the political world that vigilance or money can
give him wind of. And yet----?” The Count doubted and guessed, turned
the conversation into probing channels, only to grow all the more
interested and doubtful. By degrees the conviction increased that
this pretended wealthy merchant was an emissary whose real errand was
concerned with the recovery of his prisoners. He calculated in his
mind the time it would have taken for their friends to have received
information of their whereabouts and for his guest to have arrived
on the scene. It fitted exactly. He then concluded that the old man
sitting by the fire and chatting with such confident ease was there for
a purpose.
What? That would surely appear if he had the patience to wait for it.
Was this an emissary of Rollmar’s? The Captain, the Chancellor’s son,
had said his captives were ladies of rank. Had Rollmar sent----? Was
this Rollmar himself, this old, sharp-eyed man who carried with him
such an atmosphere of innate power? Was it possible?
For a moment the truth flashed across his mind, only to be dismissed
as preposterous. Nevertheless it was an indication of the Count’s
acuteness of perception. And his reckoning up of his guest showed that
he was, as he was wont to declare himself, no fool.
Rollmar?
The suspicion recurred persistently, and its grounds increased in
colour and plausibility. He was awaiting developments now in a mood
of intense and provocative curiosity. If this man had come with a
purpose, surely he must declare it without much more delay. Except
he came to spy and then---- The suave face which masked the busy
brain darkened for an instant at the idea. As yet his thoughts had
not reached the point of considering what action he would take should
this in truth turn out to be the wily Chancellor. It would be time
enough to determine that when this strange situation--too strange for
belief--presented itself. Meanwhile, he watched his guest like a tiger,
smooth and treacherous, with a readiness to spring hidden under an
attitude of sleek repose.
But he had not to wait long.
“You have entertained me, a chance guest, possibly a not too welcome
intruder, in princely fashion, Count!” the old man said, abruptly
breaking off their subject of conversation, which happened to be Prince
Ferdinand’s _coup-d’etat_. “In return for your unlooked-for hospitality
I feel I must make an unworthy return in a confession and a piece of
information which may possibly astonish you.”
He spoke quietly, with an easy unconcern, as though confident of his
resources and of the welcome of his communication. But his preamble
was enough to confirm the Count’s suspicion. No man but one, he told
himself, would have the nerve to be so genuinely at his ease when in
the power of another of his character and reputation. Vanity was a
strong ingredient in his imperious character; many a strong, masterful
man is a baby where his vanity is touched. This one was a ruffian,
yet childishly eager to proclaim himself a paragon of sagacity and
intellect. The temptation to a brilliant and discomfiting move was too
great to be resisted.
“You are going to tell me,” he said quietly, “first that you have
introduced yourself under an incognito, and secondly that your real
name is----” He paused for an instant as the old man shot at him a
sharp glance of curiosity. “Baron von Rollmar, Chancellor of the State
of Waldavia.”
If he had expected his guest to be dumfounded at such startling
evidence of an abnormal faculty of perception, he did not make full
allowance for the old diplomatist’s power of self-restraint. Rollmar
had not practised the art of thinking one thing and looking another
through the course of a long public life to be taken aback even by this
unexpected stroke. Without betraying the slightest sign of surprise
or confusion, Rollmar made a slight bow of acknowledgement. For all
the emotion he showed, his host might have merely set him right on a
question of the day of the week.
“A good guess; you are quite right, Count,” he returned coolly, with
a slight appreciative smile. “I need hardly apologise for my false
pretence, since it appears not to have reached the point of deception.
As to its motive, why, I must confess I was a little doubtful of my
reception here, and it was necessary that I should have the opportunity
of making a certain communication to you privately.”
He spoke with a calm assurance which discounted uncomfortably the
Count’s triumph. Indeed that seemed to have gone for nothing.
“I shall be glad, Baron,” he replied, with a courtesy which covered,
not altogether successfully, his feeling of annoyance, “to learn
to what important circumstance I owe the honour of entertaining so
distinguished a guest.”
“I should have imagined, Count,” Rollmar returned, with quiet sarcasm,
“that your undoubted powers of perception would have saved me also the
statement of this second point. However, I can perhaps understand your
reticence. It is indeed an important matter that has brought me so far
afield. More momentous, perhaps, than even you surmise.”
Again came the sarcastic curl of the mobile lips, provoking a
temptation on the Count’s part to take by the throat and strangle the
contemptuous old man who dared to beard him in his stronghold.
“I can only imagine,” he replied bluffly, “that your presence in my
poor house may be the outcome of another and somewhat extraordinary
visit to me paid yesterday by a Captain Rollmar, presumably a relative
of yours.”
The Chancellor nodded. “My son. The cause of my visit goes beyond that,
as you know well, Count. It is occasioned by the reception you were
pleased to give to Captain von Rollmar’s request.”
The Count gave an ugly laugh. “A strange and unaccountable demand----”
He stopped, as Rollmar held up a protesting hand. “The night
grows late, Count, and I am too old a man to exchange my rest for
unprofitable discussions. Of your courtesy allow me to state plainly my
errand.”
He was cool as ever; nevertheless, behind the calm suavity of his
manner there was a touch of sternness, a suggestion of a latent power,
held back in readiness to be called into action if necessary.
“You have,” he proceeded, “you are ready to deny and absolutely ignore
it--but you have under your roof, detained here against their will, two
ladies. Yes, I said you would repudiate the fact”--for the Count had
made a quick, angry sign of denial--“but that is futile. That these
ladies are for the moment in your power, I am well assured. At any
rate, you will kindly allow me to argue on that supposition.”
“I will not, Baron,” Irromar exclaimed threateningly. “No man shall
charge me with such an outrage.”
“You will do well to hear me out,” Rollmar continued imperturbably. “By
refusing to hear a reasonable argument you may force me to resort to
one more forcible and less pleasant.”
The Count laughed loud and scornfully. “You have come here to threaten
me? I have known the Chancellor von Rollmar’s reputation well, and
always gave him credit for sanity.”
“That is, at least, something,” the old man returned dryly, “I trust
that when we part, your flattering opinion will have been in no
way modified. Justified or not, you might have been sure that the
Chancellor von Rollmar was at least sane enough to recognize the
futility of an empty threat. Sane enough also to have stayed at home,
rather than ride so many leagues to carry a mere threat--which any
bullying sergeant could have done as well--to a man who seems for
many years to have thriven on such empty food. No, Count; it was not
to take up the challenge of your refusal to deliver up these ladies
that I am here, but rather to set right, amicably, I hope, a certain
misapprehension which, doubtless, induced you to refuse Captain
Rollmar’s request.”
The Count, with a set and not encouraging smile on his face, kept
silent, in an affectation of courteous tolerance. He foresaw that
the point for which Rollmar was making must be the identity of his
captives, and he was anxious to learn it.
“When I tell you,” the Chancellor proceeded, “who the ladies are, whom
for the moment we may presume you are detaining, you will, I am sure,
recognize that your action, unless quickly abandoned, is bound to have
very serious consequences.”
“Another threat, Excellency?” Irromar could not help interjecting.
“You shall judge how far,” was Rollmar’s quiet answer. “This act of
kidnapping is one that must carry with it its natural, its logical
punishment. Threats are here superfluous. But the ladies in question
are of high rank. One is Countess Minna von Croy, principal Maid of
Honour to Princess Ruperta of Waldavia, and the other is Princess
Ruperta herself.”
The hit, so quietly delivered, told the more heavily from its total
unexpectedness. In the game of surprises the Count could not but own
himself worsted. But, with the perfect nerve system of a healthy tiger,
he did not take long to recover himself.
“Then it would appear that my house has indeed been honoured,” he
laughed, as nettled by his discomfiture. “I do not doubt your veracity,
Baron,” he continued, less roughly as he regained greater command of
himself, “since your very presence here goes far to prove it.”
As he spoke, he was rapidly reviewing his position, as seen in this new
light. Could he, even yet, hold this prize? It was not in his nature
to give up anything on which his heart was set. Still the keen old
man confronting him was not one to be brow-beaten. All the same, why
should he not try? At the worst he could but capitulate if he found his
position untenable.
“It is a very pretty story,” he continued, with another disagreeable
laugh of incredulity. “Your statement that your Princess is roaming
about the country is one which I am ready to accept from your lips.
But when you take upon yourself to declare that she is detained under
my roof, I must beg to join issue and repudiate the assertion, even
coming, as it does, from so illustrious a source.”
“You deny it, Count?” Rollmar would cut short this unprofitable
fencing. He was not a man to be played with, although the vivid
recollection of Ruperta’s superb beauty made Irromar neglectful of the
fact.
“I must, Excellency, you are wasting your time----”
“I think I am,” he retorted dryly. “Therefore let me conclude my
errand. As I have already suggested, I should wish to conduct this
business between us in an amicable manner. That being so, I will, if
you will permit me, put before you my view, an old statesman’s view, of
the position in which you stand.”
“By all means, Excellency,” the Count assented readily. The possible
consequences of his act, and its chance of success were just what he
was curious to learn.
The Chancellor put the tips of his long white fingers together, and
spoke as coolly as though, instead of facing in his den, perhaps the
most dangerous and unscrupulous breaker of laws, divine and human, in
Europe, he were discussing a clause of a new bill with a secretary in
his own bureau. But it is in critical situations that the real staying
power of a man’s character shows itself.
“Shortly, then,” he began. “You say that these ladies are not detained
here by you. That may or, pardon me, may not be the truth. I shall
not concern myself to argue it. But,” he proceeded, as the suggestion
of sternness in his equable tone grew somewhat in its restrained
intensity, “we, that is the State which I have the honour to represent,
have the warrant of sufficient evidence to convince us that it is a
denial which we cannot accept. Your own antecedents, Count, you must
allow,” here the old intriguer smiled deprecatingly, “are scarcely such
as make for implicit confidence in your bare word.”
Irromar smiled in his turn, but the smile did not reach his eyes, which
were darkly threatening. “You are a bold man, Baron, to tell me that,
here in my own house. You presume upon your years.”
“Scarcely,” Rollmar replied with a shrug. “Except so far as my age
gives me little life to lose. Any boldness I may show comes from nature
and from the knowledge that I have a mightly protector a stone’s throw
away.”
If the Count wondered what that was, his guest did not at that moment
enlighten him.
“Now,” Rollmar continued, with a significant glance at the clock,
“should our friend, Count Irromar, persist, as I do not think he will,
in his repudiation, it will become our unpleasant duty to pursue our
enquiries by force.”
“Force!” Irromar laughed.
“Force,” the Chancellor repeated. “Our Count is a strong man,” he went
on pleasantly, “strong in will and in sinew, he has a strong house,
fortified, doubtless, by art, as it is by nature; he has a garrison at
his command; but my knowledge of men tells me that he is not foolish
enough to put his security to an unwisely severe test, or to imagine
that it enables him to defy the resources of a State, should that State
make up its mind in earnest to pull down his house about his ears.”
Irromar was on his mettle now. “That would depend,” he commented
grimly. “He might begin the tussle with a winning advantage. The
holding, for instance, as hostages of perhaps the two most important
persons in that State.”
Rollmar gave a little triumphant smile. “I note your admission, Count,
that the other is here.”
Irromar had realized the slip when it had passed his lips. He could
only give a shrug of indifference. After all, a bland repudiation
would hardly serve him against this self-controlled, penetrating old
strategist.
“But,” the Chancellor went on, “to resume our argument. His holding
these important persons would simply make it imperative that strong
action should be taken. But, no. You will not make a hostage of me,
Count Irromar. Had such a fate any terrors for me, I should scarcely
have been at pains to put myself in your power. My life is for the
State, and at my master’s disposal; I hold it worthless, when balanced
against the welfare of him and his.”
There was a dignified touch of self-abnegating patriotism in the old
minister’s speech which carried conviction to its hearer, for all that
he affected to smile at the declaration.
“You see, Count,” he went on, “I have, as is my custom, well weighed
the consequences of my act; I doubt whether you have done the same
respecting your own.”
“I am not in the habit,” Irromar replied, with an outburst of scornful,
overbearing pride, “of troubling myself about the consequences of any
act of mine which may commend itself to my fancy. I have hitherto found
myself able to shape such consequences myself.”
“Ah, that is where you are wrong, or at least short-sighted,” Rollmar
returned, with provoking, almost patronising, coolness. “That system
may succeed for a while, but it surely means disaster in the end. You
are within measurable distance--literally measurable distance--of that
now.”
“Indeed?”
“In very truth,” Rollmar maintained steadfastly. “I am an old man,
weak and alone, completely at your mercy.” As he spoke, he rose and
faced Irromar with the dignified power which only years passed in
ruling men can give. “I think I have earned the reputation of knowing
every move, every possibility of the game called state-craft, and I
know the difference between a _brutum fulmen_, an empty threat, and
the absolutely certain result of a well-planned and organized action.
Before I left home, I set in motion the machinery for the alternative
accomplishment of the purpose which brought me here. My reason for
coming to you thus quietly and alone was to avoid making the episode
public, to obviate an unhappy scandal.”
He drew himself up and fastened his fierce, undimmed eyes on the Count,
who stood fumingly playing his waiting game with lessening prospect of
success.
“One word more, Count, and only one, since I tire of stretching my
patience to the length of your equivocation. Standing here before
you, and recognizing your personal power over me, I tell you, even
though they may be the last words my tongue may ever utter, that unless
Princess Ruperta is produced and set free within the hour, this castle
of yours shall, by this time to-morrow be a ruin, and yourself hanged
before its walls.”
For a moment it seemed as though the contingency Rollmar had suggested
might become an accomplished fact, and that provocative old man have
the breath strangled out of him by those muscular hands. But from such
a fate perhaps his host’s complex character saved him. After a few
moments of ugly hesitation, the Count started away and took a turn
across the room. Bold, unprincipled dare-devil that he was, he had yet
a strong idea of the importance of his own welfare. In the midst of his
discomfiture and consequent anger, he felt that he had to deal with no
ordinary man, or even statesman. The threat which stirred up his rage
might be a trick, but the chances were heavily against it. Chancellor
Rollmar was, he knew, a man of action as well as of intrigue. The
position was humiliating, and he cursed the chance that had brought
upon him this fall for his pride, this humbling in his hitherto
unbroken success in defying all who crossed his will. But the prize,
although for the moment within his reach, was not for his grasping;
he realized that, and that nothing now was left to him but to cover
his yielding and minimise his defeat in the best manner his wit could
suggest. And his shrewdness told him that it would be sheer waste of
time and trouble were he to attempt to deceive his keen old adversary
in the manner of accepting his defeat. To retire fighting would hardly
serve to satisfy his own self-complacency. He had better make a clean
surrender. So, when he turned again to his guest it was with a face
almost laughingly genial.
“I scarcely think the impregnability of my house will be put to a test
over this business, Excellency,” he said with, to all appearance,
unruffled frankness. “But to one of your eminent shrewdness and
perspicacity I need hardly explain the motives of my action and my
caution in admitting it.”
As Rollmar’s sign of agreement suggested that he had put a rather
different construction on the words from that which was intended, the
Count was fain to explain them.
“I have done myself the honour to retain the Princess under my roof
from motives of protection.”
“Ah!” Rollmar evidently accepted the statement for what it was worth.
“You will allow,” Irromar continued, with dogged complacency, “that the
circumstances under which her Highness came under my roof were, to say
the least, extraordinary, and might be held to excuse any ignorance or
error on my part.”
“Assuredly, Count,” Rollmar agreed. “The circumstances were no doubt,
peculiar.”
“They suggested caution, if not interference, on my part,” his host
proceeded, “even before I was aware of the identity of my guests.”
“Certainly.”
The dominant feeling which now possessed the Count’s mind was intense
curiosity. “The strange conduct and personality of the ladies’
companions were calculated to fill one with suspicion.”
He paused after his tentative speech, but Rollmar merely bowed his
agreement.
“The circumstances and manner of the party’s arrival here were
mysterious.”
Again he paused enquiringly, only to receive the same provoking, silent
response.
“May I ask,” the Count said blandly, “since a mutual understanding
has been established, and before I have the satisfaction of restoring
the Princess to your guardianship, may I ask who the two men were who
formed her escort?”
All this time, Rollmar had been turning over in his mind a certain idea
which was closely connected with the subject of the other’s curiosity.
And it resulted in his answering--
“Another surprise for you, Count, I fancy. Of Captain von Ompertz you
know as much as I; the other was a man of some interest just now,
namely, Prince Ludwig of Drax-Beroldstein.”
“Prince Ludwig? The man who should be King of Drax-Beroldstein?”
The Count was indeed surprised, and showed it the more unrestrainedly
that there was no reason for its concealment.
“The same. Now the mystery is explained.”
“Indeed it is,” Irromar replied thoughtfully. “Had I only known it
sooner, what trouble and cross-purposes would have been avoided. What
lives spared. Prince Ludwig of Drax-Beroldstein.”
The Chancellor stood watching him in silence, an amused smile playing
at his lips.
Presently the Count spoke again, as he got a better grasp of the
situation. “The Princess runs away, then, with her intended husband;
the one you have provided for her. Ah, doubtless to face the usurper,
Prince Ferdinand.”
Rollmar’s smile deepened with a grim intent. “Ah, that is where the
romance appears, romance not provided for in my scheme. I scarcely
blame you, Count, that you have not yet threaded the maze. It has a
deeper winding yet. What if the Princess should be ignorant of the fact
that her lover is Prince Ludwig?”
“You are surely pleased to joke, Baron?”
“So far as my knowledge goes,” Rollmar maintained, “she does not know
that he is more than Lieutenant von Bertheim.”
“Or perhaps she would not have fallen in love with him?”
“A shrewd deduction, Count. When one wishes a woman to go forward it is
not a bad plan to draw her back. Now, you see the pretty affair into
which chance has thrust you.”
Irromar laughed. “My house has indeed been honoured in receiving
three such illustrious guests. The Princess of Waldavia, the renowned
Chancellor von Rollmar and--I hardly know how to describe my third
guest--a sovereign prince and yet no sovereign.”
His glance at Rollmar was suggestive of a question. The old man drew
back the corners of his mouth in a significant smile.
“No sovereign, certainly, at present,” he responded.
The other was not slow at perceiving the hint.
“Have I, then, done you, after all, a service, Baron? Does that alter
your plans? Or is my question indiscreet?”
Rollmar gave him a curiously indefinable look.
“My plan is an alliance between our Princess and the reigning King of
Drax-Beroldstein,” he said quietly.