Once more Penelope found herself in the library of the great house in
Park Lane, where Mr. Blaine-Harvey presided over the interests of his
country. This time she came as an uninvited, even an unexpected guest.
The Ambassador, indeed, had been fetched away by her urgent message
from the reception rooms, where his wife was entertaining a stream of
callers. Penelope refused to sit down.
“I have not much to say to you, Mr. Harvey,” she said. “There is just
something which I have discovered and which you ought to know. I want to
tell it you as quickly as possible and get away.”
“A propos of our last conversation?” he asked eagerly.
She bowed her head.
“It concerns Prince Maiyo,” she admitted.
“You are sure that you will not sit down?” he persisted. “You know how
interesting this is to me.”
She smiled faintly.
“To me,” she said, “it is terrible. My only desire is to tell you and
have finished with it. You remember, when I was here last, you told
me that it was your firm belief that somewhere behind the hand which
murdered Hamilton Fynes and poor Dicky stood the shadow of Prince
Maiyo.”
“I remember it perfectly,” he answered.
“You were right,” Penelope said.
The Ambassador drew a little breath. It was staggering, this, even if
expected.
“I have talked with the Prince several times since our conversation,”
Penelope continued. “So far as any information which he gave me or
seemed likely to give me, I might as well have talked in a foreign
language. But in his house, the day before yesterday, in his own
library, hidden in a casket which opened only with a secret lock, I
found two things.”
“What were they?” the Ambassador asked quickly.
“A roll of silken cord,” Penelope said, “such as was used to strangle
poor Dicky, and a strangely shaped dagger exactly like the picture of
the one with which Hamilton Fynes was stabbed.”
“Did he know that you found them?” Mr. Blaine-Harvey asked.
“He was with me,” Penelope answered. “He even, at my request, opened the
casket. He must have forgotten that they were there.”
“Perhaps,” the Ambassador said thoughtfully, “he never knew.”
“One cannot tell,” Penelope answered.
“Did he say anything when you discovered them?” the Ambassador asked.
“Nothing,” Penelope declared. “It was not necessary. I saw his face. He
knows that I understand. It may have been some one else connected with
the house, of course, but the main fact is beyond all doubt. Those
murders were instigated, if they were not committed, by the Prince.”
The Ambassador walked to the window and back again.
“Penelope,” he said, “you have only confirmed what I felt must be so,
but even then the certainty of it is rather a shock.”
She gave him her hand.
“I have told you the truth,” she said. “Make what use of it you will.
There is one other thing, perhaps, which I ought to tell you. The Prince
is going back to his own country very shortly.”
Mr. Harvey nodded.
“I have just been given to understand as much,” he said. “At present he
is to be met with every day. I believe that he is even now in my drawing
rooms.”
“Where I ought to be,” Penelope said, turning toward the door, “only I
felt that I must see you first.”
“I will not come with you,” Mr. Harvey said. “There is no need for our
little conference to become the subject of comment. By the bye,” he
added, “let me take this opportunity of wishing you every happiness. I
haven’t seen Somerfield yet, but he is a lucky fellow. As an American,
however, I cannot help grudging another of our most popular daughters to
even the best of Englishmen.”
Penelope’s smile was a little forced.
“Thank you very much,” she said. “It is all rather in the air, at
present, you know. We are not going to be married for some time.”
“When it comes off,” the Ambassador said, “I am going to talk to the
Duchess and Miss Morse. I think that I ought to give you away.”
Penelope made her way into Mrs. Blaine-Harvey’s reception rooms, crowded
with a stream of guests, who were sitting about, drinking tea and
listening to the music, passing in and out all the time. Curiously
enough, almost the first person whom she saw was the Prince. He detached
himself from a little group and came at once towards her. He took her
hand in his and for a moment said nothing. Notwithstanding the hours of
strenuous consideration, the hours which she had devoted to anticipating
and preparing for this meeting, she felt her courage suddenly leaving
her, a sinking at the knees, a wild desire to escape, at any cost. The
color which had been so long denied her streamed into her cheeks. There
was something baffling, yet curiously disturbing, in the manner of his
greeting.
“Is it true?” he asked.
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. It was amazing that he should
ignore that other tragical incident, that he should think of nothing but
this! Yet, in a way, she accepted it as a natural thing.
“It is true that I am engaged to Sir Charles Somerfield,” she answered.
“I must wish you every happiness,” he said slowly. “Indeed, that wish
comes from my heart, and I think that you know it. As for Sir Charles
Somerfield, I cannot imagine that he has anything left in the world to
wish for.”
“You are a born courtier, Prince,” she murmured. “Please remember that
in my democratic country one has never had a chance of getting used to
such speeches.”
“Your country,” he remarked, “prides itself upon being the country
where truth prevails. If so, you should have become accustomed by now
to hearing pleasant things about yourself. So you are going to marry Sir
Charles Somerfield!”
“Why do you say that over to yourself so doubtfully?” she asked. “You
know who he is, do you not? He is rich, of old family, popular with
everybody, a great sportsman, a mighty hunter. These are the things
which go to the making of a man, are they not?”
“Beyond a doubt,” the Prince answered gravely. “They go to the making of
a man. It is as you say.”
“You like him personally, don’t you?” she asked.
“Sir Charles Somerfield and I are almost strangers,” the Prince replied.
“I have not seen much of him, and he has so many tastes which I cannot
share that it is hard for us to come very near together. But if you have
chosen him, it is sufficient. I am quite sure that he is all that a man
should be.”
“Tell me in what respect your tastes are so far apart?” she asked. “You
say that as though there were something in the manner of his life of
which you disapproved.”
“We are sons of different countries, Miss Penelope,” the Prince said.
“We look out upon life differently, and the things which seem good
to him may well seem idle to me. Before I go,” he added a little
hesitatingly, “we may speak of this again. But not now.”
“I shall remind you of that promise, Prince,” she declared.
“I will not fail to keep it,” he replied. “You have, at least,” he added
after a moment’s pause, “one great claim upon happiness. You are the son
and the daughter of kindred races.”
She looked at him as though not quite understanding.
“I was thinking,” he continued simply, “of my own father and mother. My
father was a Japanese nobleman, with the home call of all the centuries
strong in his blood. He was an enlightened man, but he saw nothing in
the manner of living or the ideals of other countries to compare with
those of the country of his own birth. I sometimes think that my mother
and father might have been happier had one of them been a little more
disposed to yield to the other I think, perhaps, that their union would
have been a more successful one. They were married, and they lived
together, but they lived apart.”
“It was not well for you, this,” she remarked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Do not mistake me,” he begged. “So far as I am concerned, I am content.
I am Japanese. The English blood that is in my veins is but as a drop
of water compared to the call of my own country. And yet there are some
things which have come to me from my mother--things which come most to
the surface when I am in this, her own country--which make life at times
a little sad. Forgive me if I have been led on to speak too much
of myself. Today one should think of nothing but of you and of your
happiness.”
He turned to accept the greeting of an older woman who had lingered
for a moment, in passing, evidently anxious to speak to him. Penelope
watched his kindly air, listened to the courteous words which flowed
from his lips, the interest in his manner, which his whole bearing
denoted, notwithstanding the fact that the woman was elderly and
plain, and had outlived the friends of her day and received but scanty
consideration from the present generation. It was typical of him, too,
she realized. It was never to the great women of the world that he
unbent most thoroughly. Gray hairs seemed to inspire his respect, to
command his attentions in a way that youth and beauty utterly failed to
do. These things seemed suddenly clear to Penelope as she stood there
watching him. A hundred little acts of graceful kindness, which she had
noticed and admired, returned to her memory. It was this man whom she
had lifted her hand to betray! It was this man who was to be accounted
guilty, even of crime! There came a sudden revulsion of feeling. The
whole mechanical outlook upon life, as she had known it, seemed, even in
those few seconds, to become a false and meretricious thing. Whatever
he had done or countenanced was right. She had betrayed his hospitality.
She had committed an infamous breach of trust. An overwhelming desire
came over her to tell him everything. She took a quick step forward and
found herself face to face with Somerfield. The Prince was buttonholed
by some friends and led away. The moment had passed.
“Come and talk to the Duchess,” Somerfield said. “She has something
delightful to propose.”