_SAINT ANTHONY_
Count Michæl returned to his castle after Trent had been for fifteen
days a prisoner.
The prince and his suite were now safely hidden in a far Carpathian
retreat and there was no evidence in Castle Radna of their occupancy. It
had been a dreadful moment when Count Temesvar found himself tied to a
tree and his plans in danger of disclosure to his enemies. He had no
opportunity of knowing as yet to what use Alfred Anthony had put his
knowledge.
The London papers told him only that Lord Rosecarrel was the new
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and was already making friends
with the Balkans and cementing an ancient alliance with Greece. That was
bad enough in all conscience. But if it were known that he had hidden a
prince whose only use to him would be the furtherance of his political
ambitions he would be denounced by the government under which he lived.
The easy going, pleasure loving and almost amiable side of Count
Michæl's nature was for the moment put aside. The man who took pride in
his swift travelling Lion and his occasional long drive at golf was
banished by the need of the moment for possessing certain and wholly
accurate knowledge of what Alfred Anthony was and what he had done.
Anthony Trent when he was brought before the count saw this at a glance.
He was Francis the First in his arbitrary moods, the mood that made that
versatile monarch sweep friends to destruction and visit wrath on them
who had offended.
He was led, manacled, between Peter Sissek and old Ferencz and brought
to the big room in which the Chubbwood safe was placed. Hentzi hovered
nervously in the background.
"I have sent for you," Count Michæl said, "so that you may have the
opportunity of making a confession."
"It is thoughtful of you," Trent told him, "but I have no confession to
make. I have some complaints however. I dislike my present quarters.
They are verminous and draughty."
"Is it possible," the count said slowly, "that you fail to understand
your position?"
"What is my position?" Anthony Trent countered.
"You are a nameless prisoner absolutely in my power. There is none in
the outer world to help you. Those other two who came told me as much.
They were sworn not to ask mercy of me or help of my lord Rosecarrel."
"The cases are not parallel," Trent returned equably, "They asked no
mercy of you. I don't either. They did not expect help of--what was the
name you mentioned?"
"The man for whom you risk death is the Earl of Rosecarrel. He cannot
aid you."
Trent shook his head.
"Never heard of him. I wonder what put it into your brain that I had any
definite plans in coming here except to get a position which you forced
on me."
"Why did you take a certain document from my pocket and leave much
money? No, no. It is idle to fence. I have learnt from London that you
were only in the Lion factory a few days and that previously nothing was
known of you. You are not a mechanic; that is plain. You came for a
certain political document worth in money--nothing. You took it. Now,
sir, where is it?"
There was no doubting the count's eagerness or Anthony Trent's
astonishment. The count had not recovered the treaty. So far as Trent
remembered the envelope was in his coat pocket, the same coat he had
taken off among the hay and made a pillow for his head. He assumed,
naturally, that when he was roughly dragged from slumber his clothes
were searched. A light of triumph came into his eyes at the thought that
it did not repose behind those inviolate doors of steel. But it was
amazing that the heap of hay had not been disturbed. He supposed it was
because of the week of almost continuous rain.
"Where is it?" Count Michæl repeated.
"When I saw it was of no value," Trent said, sticking to his chauffeur
rôle, "I burned it."
"For the moment we will assume that you speak the truth. Now, how is it
you made the mistake of supposing that I had here certain guests of high
degree?"
"Just a guess," Trent said calmly, "Wasn't I right? Remember I had to
bring them up from Fiume. I saw coronets on dressing cases and from the
way Hentzi bowed and scraped I imagined they were at least royalties in
disguise."
"You said," Count Michæl insisted, "'Give my love to the prince.' You
could only have meant one particular personage. You did not speak in
generalities you particularized. You said 'The prince.' I warn you you
do not help yourself by denials. I am not a patient man. The world knows
that. Here in my castle of Radna I am supreme. I have not chosen my
servants idly. They are committed to me and my cause absolutely. Old
Ferencz there would die for me or mine. It is the tradition of loyalty
born in him. So with the others. You are surrounded here with those who
regard you as my enemy. How can I chide them if, knowing their lord is
in peril, they seek to remove it?"
"First and second murderers," Trent commented.
"Executioners," the count corrected.
"It makes no difference what you call them," Trent exclaimed.
"I am glad you look at it in that light," Count Michæl said, "It does
not make any difference as you will see. I shall convince you of that by
relating the sad accident which befell your friend Captain the
Honourable Oswald Hardcastle, formerly of the Royal Dragoons."
"My friend?" Trent exclaimed.
"Certainly," the count returned, "Lord Rosecarrel's military attaché at
Constantinople. Your innocence amuses me. You no doubt know that I owned
that great horse Daliborka a winner of the Grand Prix. I was
dissatisfied with my trainer and asked friends at the Jockey Club in
Paris to recommend me someone. Captain Hardcastle disguised himself much
as you have done. He was no longer an aristocrat, an officer of a great
regiment, but a trainer who was an ex-jockey. He was a good trainer and
a great horseman. Daliborka's time trials were marvelous. I entered him
for the great races in England. My new trainer was so jealous of his
horse he would have no strangers near and none was allowed to follow him
in his rides through the grass meadows." Count Michæl laughed softly,
"Yes, I was deceived, made a fool of, as you have it but I can confess
it as I do in your case with the satisfaction that the last laugh, the
last trick will be mine. It was my laugh at the last with Captain
Hardcastle. You are interested?"
"I was in Paris when Daliborka won," Trent said. "I made money on him.
Most certainly I'm interested."
"Captain Hardcastle wished for the document which you say you have
destroyed. He obtained it. He did not seek to escape as you have done
down the main roads. No. No. He had studied the country profoundly with
all the topographical knowledge gained at the Staff College. He had such
complete charge of my large stables that none questioned his right to do
as he chose and I was too busy at the time even to see him. He planned
his route carefully. He found out a path to the sea where there would
wait him a yacht. It was, oddly enough, the same steam yacht in which my
lord Rosecarrel makes his cruises. At intervals he placed my horses,
horses he had trained for steeple chases. But the first stretch of the
journey, ten miles of velvet turf he had planned to ride Daliborka. It
is sufficient to tell you that we knew his plans in time. He was to
start at midnight. It happened that I passed his quarters at half past
eleven and detained him in talk, talk that gave him no uneasiness."
"Then, thinking I was safely here he rushed to the little outbuilding
where my great black horse was saddled. He sprang to its back quickly.
And as he did so we lit a torch so that he might see how we laughed
last. It was a black horse indeed, but a work horse, a slow placid beast
which we had substituted. I have never seen real despair seize on a
brave man as it did when he saw he had failed. I enjoyed it very much
Arlfrit.
"The stable hands who had always resented his iron discipline, the
discipline of the soldier, took their vengeance of him in my absence.
They are rough, these brave fellows of mine, and do not know their
strength."
"You mean," Trent snapped, "you let them murder a man who was probably
tied as I am tied now?"
Count Michæl shrugged his shoulders.
"A man who puts his head in the lion's den must not complain if the lion
be hungry. This is my house and I do not welcome thieves. Then there was
Sir Piers Edgcomb. I was never sure of him. A big man, slow of movement
and who spoke German so well I believed him to be of Bavaria. He was my
butler. These country bred servants of mine do well enough in most
things but the niceties of table service as I see in your own country
are beyond them.
"A butler who has to take charge of much valuable plate and old,
precious glass should at least be able to clean them. This man--he
called himself Peters knew nothing of these things. So I set traps for
him. He had a wolf's cunning. But a wise hunter can snare a wolf and I
snared him. I did not bring you here to tell you of them so that you
might be entertained. I brought you here to tell you that they who
plotted, failed and died for their cause. You, who have succeeded and
have injured me are my captive just as they were."
"Well?" Anthony Trent said, "What of it?"
"Simply this. You say you have burned the document. That might be true
or untrue. It is possible you have concealed it in some place where I
could recover it only after long search. I shall give you a day to make
up your mind to speak the whole truth."
"And after that?"
"You will be glad to tell what you know," Count Michæl said grimly.
"Your death will be but a poor triumph to me; that I am willing to
admit, but it is the greatest loss that can befall you."
"You are trying to make a bargain with me?"
"Perhaps. I will say at least that if the document is procured Alfred
Anthony would be free to return to London on one condition."
"Which is?"
"That he gave me his word of honor to forget every face and name he had
seen or heard in Castle Radna. Under the circumstances I could allow
myself to be so generous but I should require the most solemn of oaths."
The count leaned forward a little and spoke impressively. "Remember
again, that your death will be but poor consolation for me yet it is the
most terrible thing that can happen to you."
"I'm not so sure," Anthony Trent muttered.
In that moment there was stripped from him the cunning and audacity that
success in crime had brought. Often he had seen himself in a
melodramatic almost heroic light, laughing at the nice distinctions of
wrong and right, stretching out his hand to take what he wanted and
caring nothing for the judgments of men. With the egocentricity of the
successful criminal he had felt himself superior to all his opponents
and had seen himself in future performing such exploits as none had
dared to do.
His months at Castle Radna had been very dull. The plentiful food was
coarse; his companions boors; of music he had heard not a note. He was
anxious to be back again among people he liked. Such a chance was
offered him now. He believed if he gave his solemn word that the
count--in order to retain his hold on Lord Rosecarrel--would give him
safe conduct to Fiume.
Yet he was amazed to find that he would not accept Count Michæl's offer.
Rather than tell him the truth about the document and so bring disaster
again on the family of the woman he loved he was content to give up his
life. Perhaps there was another reason which brought him to this way of
thinking also. Daphne was not for him. That, long ago, he had realized.
Life without Daphne! Dreary days that would hold no joy lengthening into
months and years of heart hunger and at last into dissatisfied old age.
He was brought back from his thoughts by the count's voice.
"Of what are you not sure? That I shall not keep my word?"
"I'm not sure that I shall give mine," Trent answered.
"You will have a day and a night to think it over. I shall find you in a
more reasonable mood when I see you again. But remember this. After
tomorrow there will be no other opportunity. I am not a patient man and
I am holding back my anger with difficulty. I do not relish being sick
of chagrin."
Anthony Trent held up his manacled hands.
"This is a sporting way of doing things, isn't it?" he exclaimed.
"Until tomorrow," Count Michæl smiled.
It was dark when the prisoner reached his cell. An oil lamp lit the bare
room. It was hung on a nail in the little cage out of reach of any
occupant of the stone chamber.
Peter Sissek and old Ferencz had brought him to his prison. They offered
him no violence. Evidently they were acting under orders. The count had
made no comment on the bruises that still discoloured the American's
face.
He had been sitting an hour on the edge of his cot when the outer door
opened. Trent did not even look up. It was at this hour unappetizing
food was brought and thrust under the cage, food he could pick at
clumsily with his hands in iron bracelets.
Hearing no grating sound of heavy plate being pushed over the uneven
floor he looked up. Pauline stood in the cage with Hentzi. The latter
was obviously nervous and alarmed. He looked about him in dread and
listened unhappily for sounds that might indicate the coming of others
along the flagged passage.
"Open the gate," Pauline commanded, pointing to the steel barrier.
"If the count should hear of it!" he wailed.
"I will bear the blame," she said. "Be quick."
"You must be but five minutes," he insisted.
"I shall take ten," she retorted.
Wringing his hands Hentzi, the prey of many apprehensions, left her
alone with the prisoner. It chanced that Pauline was aware of some petty
thefts on the secretary's part, defalcations which would destroy Count
Michæl's faith in his probity. It was a threat of exposure which forced
him to bring her here.
Trent rose when she came in and offered his visitor the single rush
bottomed chair the cell contained.
He looked at her warily as one antagonist gazes at another before a
struggle. Always she had called up in him this need for caution. Her
violent and passionate nature were graven on the face which had brought
so many men to folly and disgrace. Hentzi had told him many stories of
the life she had lived in great cities and the tragedies which had come
to those who had loved her.
She was dressed tonight very splendidly. Jewels that should have
belonged to the poor countess who was passing her days in retreat were
about her neck. An emerald necklace which in other days would have set
Anthony Trent's eyes glittering matched her strange almond eyes. There
was a certain tiger grace about the woman which would have attracted
men's notice and women's from wherever she might have gone. Did she, he
wondered, come in peace or in war? He was on his guard.
"You are surprised to see me?" she began.
"I cannot choose my visitors," he reminded her.
"You have never liked me," she returned, "Why?"
"You were a danger to my enterprise," he answered.
"A danger now removed," she said quickly. "What are those marks on your
face?" she cried as he turned his head from the shadow to where the dim
lamp light showed him more dearly. "Who has dared to strike you?"
"That is nothing," he cried impatiently. "Certainly the least of my
troubles. I am very weary; there may be very unpleasant hours before me
and I need sleep. It cannot be such a great triumph to see me in this
cell?"
"Why do you stay here?" she demanded. "I know what Count Michæl has told
you. I know you have only to give him that piece of paper and your word
of honor as a gentleman and you are free to go. It is very fortunate for
you. Those two friends who also came are dead."
"Did he send you here?" Trent asked.
"He would be furious if he knew," she said quickly. "Certainly it would
do you no good if he learned of it. You know," and Pauline looked at him
through lowered lashes, "he has always been jealous of you."
"He has had no reason to be," Trent reminded her coldly.
"I know," she said, bitterness in her tone, "but he will not believe
that. And now he knows you are noble and were masquerading as a
chauffeur he will be all the more jealous."
"I'm not a nobleman," he said almost angrily. He resented her presence.
"You cannot deceive me," she said tenderly.
"If you did not come here to speak for Count Michæl, may I ask then for
what purpose?"
"I want to warn you not to keep that paper from him."
"It was burned long ago," he answered. "If he can collect the ashes he
is welcome to them."
"At present he is trying to collect your coat," she told him and noted
with a smile his start of alarm. "When they took you you were coatless.
He thinks somewhere in the forest they will find it and when they find
it the paper will be there and perhaps other things of your own which
will be interesting."
"I fear he will be disappointed," Trent said calmly, "but if he will
return a favorite pipe in one of the pockets I shall be obliged."
She looked at him steadily. Hers was not always an easy face to read.
"I pray that they will find the coat," she said.
"Thank you," he exclaimed. "At least you make no pretence of wanting me
to win."
"You don't understand," she cried, "it is because they will force you to
tell if they cannot find it. I am speaking no more than the truth.
Cannot you see that you have mixed yourself in high matters and are a
menace to Count Michæl? He must know and he will know."
She saw his mouth tighten.
"Men just as strong and brave as you have broken down and told all."
"That may be," he answered, "but I am not going to alter my story about
burning the paper and I am not going to weaken under any punishment they
think of trying on me."
He was not going to tell her that in a few days he would be able to make
his way out of this very cell if they kept handcuffs from him a little
longer. Kicked out of sight among the dust on the floor was one of his
most useful tools. It was a strip of highly tempered steel spring with a
saw edge--forty teeth to the inch--and could bite its way through the
barred window. When first he entered his prison he thought the opening
too small for exit but he had revised his calculations and was now
certain he could wriggle through it.
"It is for a woman you do this," Pauline said. "It is because of a woman
you are cold and ask no help of me."
"I can't prevent your wild guesses," he answered. There was no mistaking
his distaste of her meddling.
"I do not give up easily," he told her. "I used to think that in a duel
between love and duty love should always win. It doesn't seem to work
out that way always. And I used to think that a man who had not been
worthy of a woman should be given a chance to rebuild his life if he
really loved her." He shook his head. "It isn't the right idea.
Sentimental nonsense the world calls it. The wedding gift a man offers
his bride is his past." He shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't qualify."
Anthony Trent looked at the rough wall and saw only those dancing days
of happiness and love in another castle. And instead of Pauline with her
world weary face, her knowledge of every art to hold men, he saw his
slim and lovely Daphne. He knew that both of them loved him. Vaguely he
understood that Pauline had come to offer to save him but he had kept
her from telling him so yet. There might conceivably be a future with
her in which he would find eventually his old ambitions stirring and his
pride in his hazardous work revive. There might even be years that were
almost happy; reckless, passionate, quarrelling years. But the thought
of it was nauseating. He swept it aside. He remembered the phrase of
Private Smith in the dug-out that he was dying in better company than he
knew. Well, Anthony Trent if the worst came would die better than he had
lived.
To Pauline, who loved him, the idea of a violent ending to one of his
ability and address was tragic.
An Austrian by birth, Pauline had been taken to Berlin then blossoming
into extravagant and vulgar night life by a mother who was a dancer.
Vain, ambitious and jealous of the success of others, Pauline offered no
objection to anything whereby she might become widely known. Later, when
she had attained international fame as a skater she grew more selective
in her affairs. She was the rage for several years and but for the
suicide of a Serene Highness would never have been banished from Berlin.
Count Michæl Temesvar was an old admirer. The war swept away Pauline's
possessions and there was no manager to engage her at a living wage.
At twenty-eight she had known many capitals, enjoyed great success and
never been really in love. Then she saw Anthony Trent on the golf links
and never passed a moment but was filled with thoughts of him. His
consistent repulsing of her threw her into moods of anger which she
visited mainly on her protector. And when she summoned scorn and anger
to her aid in dealing with this Alfred Anthony, she found them only
ministers to her infatuation.
She looked around as Hentzi came into the cell.
"It is ten minutes," he whispered.
"Another five," she said. "I shall come with you then."
Hentzi withdrew nervous and expostulating. Trent noticed that her manner
was different when she spoke. There was a certain timidity about her, an
air of unhappiness almost of hopelessness.
"Have you thought what difference it will make to me?" she asked.
Gone from her face were those meretricious smiles, those little ways
cultivated through intimate association with her world of warring sex.
The Pauline who looked at him now was a woman stripped of artifice, a
woman who suffered and loved.
There was an uncomfortable silence, the awkwardness of the man in the
avowed affection of the undesired woman.
"Let there be no deception between us," she said quietly. "I see that it
is someone else who claims your heart. I did not think there were men
like you who would be steadfast and loyal in a moment such as this. I
know only that we--you and I--are alike in one thing. We both love where
there is no hope. I came here to offer you freedom at a price most men
would be glad to pay. I will not insult you by saying what it was. I
have known few good men and I know you are good."
"No, no," he cried, embarrassed by her manner, "Indeed if you only
knew."
She would not listen.
"Love can redeem all," she said. "I pray the good God whom I have
neglected," she smiled a little ruefully, "to redeem me. I feel that my
life is over. I have had everything I wanted and am wearied of the
taste. Everything I wanted until now. There comes a time when one is no
longer so eager to live. It is so with me." She looked at him wistfully.
"Can you believe me when I tell you I want to help you?"
"I do believe it," he said gratefully. "I am glad enough to have a
friend in this dismal place."
"Then let me help you," she said eagerly. "Something tells me you have
hidden that paper. I warn you if it is still in existence, it will be
found. Can I get it for you?"
Anthony Trent did not answer for a moment. The thought that there yet
might be a way of getting the treaty draft to Lord Rosecarrel almost
made speech an effort. If that were done with what energy and hope might
he not bend his skill to means of escape!
"I should be putting my honor in your keeping," he said slowly.
Her face fell.
"And you dare not trust me?"
It was caution which had saved Anthony Trent a hundred times before and
he hesitated just a moment now. Then he looked at Pauline again and was
convinced of her sincerity. And, after all, no better way presented
itself.
"I will trust you," he said, "but can you find out the place where they
captured me?"
"I know it already," she said, "it is the farm of Zencsi and lies no
more than thirty miles away."
"Thirty!" he cried, "I thought it was twice that distance."
"You went miles out of your reckoning."
"Have you a pencil?" he cried. "I want to draw a plan of it."
"Alas, no," she exclaimed, "but Hentzi will be here and he shall get
one."
The five minutes were up and the count's secretary entered entreating
Pauline by fear of discovery to come with him.
"A pencil," she snapped, "and paper. A leaf from that little red
memorandum book where you keep account of what money you have saved by
cheating your master."
She waved him away.
"Three more minutes," she commanded.
"I hid in a mound of hay quite close to the farm house. It was the one
nearest a tree recently struck by lightning. It was a plum and the fruit
was still red and unwrinkled. I hid my coat there primarily with the
idea of it being a pillow. When they dragged me out I kicked it down and
out of sight. Three things may have happened. One, that owing to the
rain they have not canted the hay. Second, that a farm hand found the
coat and took the money in it and destroyed everything else. The third
contingency is that the document may have been undisturbed. In this case
it will be returned when the count inquires broadcast for stray
garments."
"Yes, yes," Pauline said, excitement in her voice, "but tell me exactly
what to do."
"Can you motor to this Zencsi farm without being found out?"
"It will not be easy but it shall be done."
Her air of assurance heartened him.
"You can only find the blasted tree by day light," he said thoughtfully,
"and in day light you may be seen. Can you be there at dawn before the
farmer himself is up."
"But that is easiest of all," she cried, "Listen to me. I shall wait
until everyone here is asleep. Then I shall take the Fiat and get to
Zencsi in a little more than an hour. I can hide the car in the forest
and make my search. If I find it I can be back here before any man or
maid is stirring." Her face fell. "But what am I to do with it? I dare
not give it to you who may be searched."
"It ought to be destroyed," he answered, "but I've sworn to give it to
the man who sent me here. I've got it. Put it in the tool box of the
Lion, among the cotton waste. Can you get into the garage?"
"Hentzi has all keys, as you should remember," she said. "What keys he
has are mine. And then?"
"You will find at the bottom of the big tool box a couple of keys. They
are punched out of two thin steel bars. Really there are four keys. It
is most important that you bring them to me. You will not forget?"
"When your life hangs on it? What else? We must be quick. I do not fear
Hentzi but his master must not find me here."
"If the coat has been removed you must go to the farm house. There is a
watch dog who barks but he pines for affection and you can win him
easily. Find out who has the coat. If it isn't in the hay someone on the
farm has it. If the document is handed to you look at it eagerly to make
sure it is what I want and if it is, tell them the thing is worthless
and not what the count wants. And if you find the paper in the breast
pocket do the same thing."
"Why?" she demanded.
"If you show them it is what you came for the count who will certainly
hear of it will want to get it. What would happen if he knew you had
given it to me?"
"Why think of that now?" she returned. But he noticed that a shade of
fear passed over her face at the thought of it.
"If you get it and put it in the tool box he will only think how well
you have served his interests in coat hunting while his lazy varlets
were abed. Of course if they don't hand it to you at the farm and it
isn't in the coat it may be destroyed. I'm afraid you'll have to do some
bullying and threatening to get at the truth but the truth I must have."
She rose from the rush bottomed chair with a sigh.
"You believe that there are those who can read fate?"
Anthony Trent hesitated. Men of his profession were usually
superstitious attaching unwarranted importance to fortuitous things,
watching for signs and portents and abandoning planned enterprises at
times because of some sign of misfortune which had met them.
"I don't believe it," he admitted, "but that sort of thing influences
me. Why?"
"There is a woman nearby who can tell," Pauline replied, "Yesterday I
gave her money. She said--can you think of it--that I should die happy."
"I hope you do," he said.
"But it is impossible," she cried. "None clings to life as I do. I am
tired of this life. I love the life of cities, the restaurants, the
crowds. I am city bred. In a year when conditions are better I shall go
back. I shall appear in Berlin again, Petrograd, perhaps and of course
in London and they want me in New York. I shall hate to die. But I did
not mean to speak of myself. She told me that the man I loved would be
successful. Fate makes no mistake. Keep up your courage for you will win
and I shall die happy. What more could we want?"
But there were tears in her eyes as she said it.
He took both her hands in his.
"What a splendid woman you are!" he said with conviction.
"My dear," she answered, her voice a little uneven, "do not tell that to
the woman you love. She would hate me and I want to live a little in
your heart without anyone else to share it. Promise me that?"
There was in his mind to tell her Daphne was different. That Daphne
would love her too, but he said nothing. Her intuition told her more
than his hope could foretell.
"I promise," he answered, "and I promise that I shall never forget."
Hentzi's agitated voice disturbed them.
"Not one moment longer," he whispered. "I dare not."