_DOWN TO THE SEA_
When Pauline had gone Trent was immeasurably happier in the hope she had
given him. Until her visit his only chance of escape had been centered
in the expectation that when once his hands were freed he might file the
bars. There was now a scheme in his head worth many of that.
Half an hour after she had left two men entered guided by the now
assured Hentzi.
"You have complained of the dirt here," the secretary explained, "and it
will be removed."
The tiny spring saw was swept up unobserved. Trent saw it disappear now
with a smile where before it would have been black tragedy to him.
He slept well that night and shaved himself next morning in high
spirits. It was not easy, shaving with handcuffs on, but it was
possible. Then he waited for some message from Pauline.
Hentzi came into the cell at five.
"Count Michæl will see you at ten tonight. My friend, I warn you to be
wise and acknowledge defeat."
"That's not my idea of wisdom," Trent grinned so cheerfully that Hentzi
was vaguely disturbed.
"You are more foolish even than the others," Hentzi said, shaking his
head. "Brave men, all three. For my part I would be reasonable. I would
say, 'I have fought a good fight and the odds were against me. How much
can I save from the wreck?' That is the way to talk, my lord."
Suddenly he took a book from his pocket, a book tied with string and
sealed but not enveloped in paper. He handed it to the American.
"This is from a friend," he announced. "I bring danger on myself in
giving it to you but I can rely on your silence, eh?"
"Certainly," Trent said carelessly and betrayed no interest in the gift.
"At ten o'clock tonight? Is that it?"
"It is wise to acknowledge defeat," Hentzi said earnestly.
"We'll see when the time comes," Trent returned. "It's largely a matter
of holding trumps my good Hentzi."
* * * * *
Anthony Trent tore the string from the book eagerly. In the middle,
placed carefully in a space hollowed among the leaves were the bar keys
which might, with luck, open the doors to safety. About them was wrapped
a half sheet of scented, green note paper. On it was scrawled very
faintly in pencil, "I have put it where you told me to."
"Thank God!" cried Anthony Trent.
Then with some difficulty he managed to put the two thin steel bars in a
special pocket long ago prepared for them.
The hours seemed very long until Hentzi, with Sissek and Ferencz, came
for him. The two servants carried their big service revolvers.
The anxious moment was at hand, the moment that was to tell Trent
whether he was to be utterly defeated or to stand a chance of escape.
"Take these off," he said holding out his manacled hands.
"No. No." Sissek and Ferencz cried together.
"The count said so," Trent frowned.
"I have had no orders," Hentzi assured him, "and that is one key I have
not got."
For one desperate moment Anthony Trent thought of bringing down his iron
ringed wrists on Sissek's head and attempting to escape. But he put the
thought from him as futile. There was still another trump to play.
They led him, as he hoped, to the great room where the safe was, the
room he had searched so carefully.
In a carved oak chair at the head of a table sat Count Michæl. Pauline
was there sitting in a chaise longue smoking a cigarette in a very long
amber and gold holder. She did not turn her face from the count to the
prisoner until he had stood there silent for a full minute. Then she
looked at him coldly, sneeringly, and said something to Count Michæl
which brought a peal of laughter from him.
It seemed to Trent that he had never seen the two on such wholly
affectionate terms.
There were two doors to the room. At one stood Peter Sissek, revolver
in hand. At the other old Ferencz watched in armed vigilance. On the
table before the count was a .38 automatic pistol. Shades were drawn
over the long narrow French windows. In a chair before one of them
Hentzi sat nervous as ever in the presence of his violent employer.
Before the other window was a big bronze statue of the dying Gaul. The
stage was set very comfortably for all but the manacled Anthony Trent.
"You said I could have these off," Trent began, "these damned steel
bangles that I've worn so long."
"It is for yourself to remove them," the count said suavely. "I am about
to give you the opportunity. You see I am generous. Others would blame
me for it."
"You are not generous," Trent snapped. "A coward never is."
The count's face lost some of its suavity.
"Who dares call me a coward?" he cried.
"I do," Trent returned promptly. "You are a coward. Here am I, an
unarmed man among three with guns. The doors are locked and yet you keep
me here handcuffed. Generous! Brave!" All his contempt was poured out as
he said it.
"If I take them off will you give me your _parole d'honneur_ to make no
effort to escape?"
Anthony Trent turned to Pauline.
"Madame," he said, as though to a stranger, "I cannot congratulate you
on the courage of your friend. So afraid is he of one single man that he
wishes me to give my word I will not try to escape. He forgets I am
unarmed, in a strange and vast house filled with his servants, with
death threatening me at any suspicious move. Are all your noblemen of
Croatia as cautious as he?"
Pauline did not reply to him. Instead she spoke to the count in German.
"Pay no attention to him," she counselled. "I know that you are brave,
my Michæl. Let him laugh at you for a coward if he wishes. I would not
have him hurt you or frighten you for the world."
"Frighten _me_!" cried the count, "Hurt _me_!" He flung a little key
across the table to Hentzi. "Take them off," he commanded.
Trent examined his reddened wrists with a frown.
"This should never have been done," he declared. Then he turned to
Hentzi. "I need a cigarette."
"I did not bring you here to smoke," Count Michæl said acidly. "I
brought you here to interrogate you. Remember that."
"I have been without a decent smoke for nearly two weeks," Trent
returned. "And I want one. Unless I have some I shall not answer any one
of your interrogations. Think it over, count."
Hentzi looked at the American reproachfully. He had supplied his
prisoner with the best of tobacco. That he had done so surreptitiously
robbed him of the privilege of recrimination. The two guards not
understanding a word of the conversation could not deny Trent's
statements.
Count Michæl Temesvar looked closely at his former chauffeur. He was
standing on the rich red rug between the two windows. He was biting his
lips; his face twitched and his fingers worked nervously. It was plain
that he suffered as drug takers do when deprived of their poisons.
There was a cedar lined silver box of cigarettes on the little table by
Pauline's chair. This Hentzi was commanded to place before the prisoner.
Anthony Trent's symptoms were admirably assumed. He inhaled and exhaled
in silent delight and his face grew more peaceful. But he was still
unsettled and nervous. The count, remembering his iron-nerved driver,
attributed the change as much to imprisonment and fear as to lack of
tobacco. In a sense it was a tribute to his power over the man who had
thwarted him. He watched Trent stride up and down by the two windows and
ascribed it to a growing sense of the ordeal about to be undergone.
"I've got to keep moving," Trent said, "I've been tied up in a kennel
for two weeks."
"If you must I shall permit it," the other answered. "But I warn you
that the length of this table must be your limit. Otherwise my faithful
men may have to shoot. You understand?"
"Perfectly," Trent said growing more affable. "I even give you my
_parole d'honneur_ not to go near the doors. Why rush on certain death?"
"You are growing sensible," Count Michæl said smiling. "I knew it would
come. As you say, why rush on certain death? It is foolish. More, it is
unnecessary and to do so wastes one's energy. I have not yet had time to
learn your name and rank but I am treating with you as an equal."
"Thank you!" Trent retorted. "If you call locking me up in a verminous,
rat-haunted cell treating me as an equal I'm hardly grateful."
"I dare take no risks," the count assured him. "You men who came here
for my lord Rosecarrel are different from others. I have not forgotten
that Sir Piers Edgcomb killed three of my honest lads before he died.
There are others who would have treated you less well than I. Now, where
is the paper you stole from me and say you burned?"
"What is the fate of ashes tossed to the four winds?"
"It was never burned," the other snapped. "Somewhere it exists in your
pocket where I saw you place it. Remember this before you answer. If by
your aid alone I find it you may leave this castle."
"How?" Trent demanded. "To walk into ambush outside?"
"There will be twenty square miles of country where none dare touch you.
Do you need more than that, you, who cast aspersions on the courage of
others? Is it possible you are afraid?"
"What is the other alternative?"
"To join your friends." The count laughed cordially. The idea seemed to
amuse him. "To make the third grave. First the trainer, then the butler
and last the chauffeur. I wonder what your chief will send me next."
"He will have no need to send anyone else," Trent said affably. By this
time his nervousness had disappeared and he was cool and calm as ever.
"You mean he will give up the attempt?"
"Why should there be another when I have already succeeded?"
"This is bravado," the count cried. It was his turn to be nervous now.
The importance he attached to the possession of the paper seemed out of
all proportion to its value. Trent knew little of the great eternal
European game of politics. For a few moments in Paris the New World had
its glance at the complicated working but forgot it when booming trade
held sway and salesmen took the place of diplomats. The elimination of
the new Foreign Secretary meant a great deal to Count Michæl. The other
knowledge which Trent stored in his mind was equally dangerous but there
were others who could attend to that. No matter what part Anthony Trent
played the count had assigned him the rôle of the defeated.
"It happens to be the truth," Trent returned.
He could see that Pauline was now listening intently. Her pose of
antagonism to the stranger was swept away by her anxiety for his safety.
Her heart thrilled to see him standing there, debonair, smiling,
dominating. It seemed madness to her, this avowal of success.
"You are learning wisdom," Count Michæl commented.
"We may define the term differently," Trent smiled. "I did not burn the
paper."
"Ah!" the count breathed excitedly. "Now we have it."
"I preferred to keep it so that I could assure the Right Honourable the
Earl of Rosecarrel, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, that I had
indeed succeeded. You will understand my feelings. Perhaps it was
bravado but none seems to believe that such papers ever do get burned.
You, count, seemed to doubt it."
"Where is it?" the count snapped. "Your life depends on your truth."
"I have put it in a safe place," Trent said, resuming his pacing of the
room.
The count's excitement banished the air of toleration he had with
difficulty affected toward one he hated.
"Where is it?" he bellowed.
Anthony Trent was smiling and his eyes were bright. It was one of his
moments.
"I am going to fetch it," he said urbanely.
Long ago he had made a careful survey of the possibilities of the room
in which he stood. He had thoroughly scrutinized windows and doors as
likely aids to future needs.
Every pair of eyes in that great room was turned on him. Sissek and
Ferencz understanding no word only saw that he was unmoved, unruffled,
almost joyous in the presence of the great Count Michæl. They could not
understand it at all. They only hated him the more.
Hentzi was rather thrilled with the spectacle. Here was a young and
handsome man of a type he had longed to be, no doubt the bearer of an
historic title, who in the presence of great peril dared to laugh at
the head of all the Temesvars.
Count Michæl felt the constricting collar that now almost choked him.
These other two who had preceded Alfred Anthony met death bravely but
they acknowledged failure. But this man was different. It was almost as
though he thought himself the victor. What else would have nerved him to
bandy words with his gaoler?
But of them all it was Pauline who watched him most eagerly, and most
feared for his safety. He seemed incredibly rash to antagonize the count
still further. Few guessed the cruelties to which he could sink when his
_amour propre_ was wounded. She had made up her mind that the man she
loved so wholly should not suffer. So far the count had no reason to
suspect her interest in the stranger. His first jealousy had passed when
she protested how needless it was. He trusted women with few of his
political secrets but she knew Trent was a marked man because he had
stumbled on the identity of the princely guest. Therefore he would
suffer unless her woman's wit could aid him. Knowing the count's vanity
so well she perceived that every moment of this unperturbed attitude
added to the severity of the punishment his prisoner would receive.
"You are going to fetch it!" Count Michæl said thickly. "Is it permitted
to ask how and when?"
"By all means," Trent said graciously. "I am going to fetch it now and
thus."
He made a lightning quick leap toward the window where Hentzi was
sitting in a low chair and then a dive over the secretary's shoulder.
Through the small panes of glass he went like a hurled rock. The shade
torn from its roller wrapped itself about his head and shielded him from
flying glass and piercing splinters.
Two shots rang out and he heard Hentzi's voice raised in a shriek of
agony. There were other sounds which drowned even this. The count's
voice bellowed forth instructions. He could hear Peter Sissek and
Ferencz shouting and then, as another shot followed him into the
courtyard Pauline's cry rang high above all other sounds.
Trent landed on his shoulder, bruised but not seriously hurt. When he
pulled the enveloping window shade from his face he was amazed to see
that the room from which he had come was now in darkness. He could hear
the men thrashing about it in a fury of rage at being unable to find the
way of pursuit. Whether failure of the current was the cause or someone
had pressed the button, the delay was of incalculable value.
Trent raced across the paved courtyard and pried open the door of what
had been the prince's apartment. It was unoccupied as was that of the
adjoining room where the military aide had slept.
At the bedroom door leading to the corridor he listened carefully but
heard no sound. He opened it quietly to come upon a servant passing by.
It was an unmannerly fellow who had often jeered at him when they used
the common table, a tall, awkward, stooping creature with a malicious
face. His eyes opened wide when he saw it was the detested English
chauffeur. Visions of reward darted across his brain and he made a
movement as to apprehend the foreigner.
He was instantly gripped with a hold, which agonized him as he sought to
break it, and forced into the bedroom from which Trent had just come.
Then the door was locked and he was a prisoner. When, a minute later his
master and the others came bursting through he supposed them to be other
than they were and hid under a bed where the redoubtable Sissek pursued
him and beat him soundly until his identity was established.
Leaving him in the room Trent made his way carefully to the _armoire_,
that rock of refuge in a weary land, and entered it noiselessly.
It was established that no stranger could have left the castle by any of
its exits. Such as were not barred had servants near them. It was clear
that Alfred Anthony was concealed somewhere in the vast building. His
capture was only the matter of time, the result of careful searching.
This search was gone about systematically Count Michæl directing his men
personally. It was the count's theory that one of his bullets, the first
shot at which Hentzi had screamed because of its nearness to his head,
had wounded the fleeing man, and that he would sooner or later be traced
by a trail of blood.
Hardly had plans been made for the disposition of the searchers than an
agitated footman reported Peter Sissek's wife with dire news. She was
brought before her employer trembling with excitement.
"Excellency," she cried, "He has escaped in the English car."
Pauline at the count's side clutched his arm.
"Thank God!" she breathed.
"They shall suffer who let him pass," the count roared, "Swine, children
of swine, spawn of the devil."
"Let me go after him Excellency," Peter Sissek pleaded. "I will bring
him back to you dead or alive as you command."
"Fool," the count shouted, "Who are you to do this, you who have not his
skill nor so fast a car! Get you to Agram. I will telegraph to Fiume and
Zara and Trieste and have him stopped for a thief."
"But," Pauline protested, "how dare you let it be known that it is the
paper he has stolen? Dare you invite notice of it?"
The count looked at her very oddly. Never had he looked so coldly.
"Is it also his car?" he asked. "Have I no right to that?"
* * * * *
Weeks before Anthony Trent had hidden a spare key to the garage in a
secret place. From the moment of closing the door of the _armoire_
behind him, climbing down the copper pipe and starting his engine,
Anthony Trent had not consumed more than four minutes. As he drove it
out of the yard he saw Mrs. Sissek running toward him. Soon they would
be on his track again. He did not care. He knew there was never a driver
in all Europe who could hope to catch him between Castle Radna and
Fiume.
A quick glance had assured him all was well with his Lion. Two extra
wheels were carried which could be put on in three minutes. There was
gasoline in his tanks and the purring hum of the motor was like a
Beethoven symphony to his ears. And he knew that somewhere in the
toolbox was concealed the little scrap of paper which had cost two lives
already and might take his own as toll were he not careful. He prayed
that the gods of chance might give him no less than an even break.
Down the mountain side he went singing. At night there was little or no
traffic. The peasants were early abed and the way would be deserted
until he struck the Marie Louise road.
Anthony Trent knew that not a car in the garage would pursue him with
any chance of success. They would probably send a telegram from Agram
but that contingency did not worry him very much. It had taken no more
than a minute of his time to do damage that would take a hundred times
as long to remedy. He smiled to think of the savage Sissek trying to
start his Panhard. Then they would attempt to get the Fiat going and
finally, the old and tricky Mercedes. And they would all balk because
that skilled mechanic Alfred Anthony had had his finger in the pie.
At the roar of his engines, magnified in the night silences, peasants
turned over and went to sleep again. It was their lord or one of his
exalted guests who passed. Sometimes one of them would hear, floating
out for a moment, the sound of his singing.
It was a night of triumph and hope for Anthony Trent. He had succeeded
where others had failed. The hours brought him nearer to a sight of the
woman he loved and he could not put away from him the hope that
somewhere happiness and content might wait for them.
There was not an untoward incident in his journey until he reached the
high land overlooking the harbor of Fiume. Day would break in less than
an hour. Stopping his motor he took the rain stained document from its
shelter. Pauline had not failed him. She showed her thoughtfulness by
placing sandwiches and a flask of wine in the tool box. He thought of
her with a flood of gratitude. Until this reminder he had forgotten her
very existence in the thought of the other woman.
Trent had not come idly to Fiume with the bare hope of being able to
make his escape. He knew that there were in port several British
destroyers that lay off a certain breakwater which he had observed on
many occasions. Tied up at this stone pier were a number of rowboats. It
would be an easy task to pull off to a destroyer and climb aboard. No
commander would deny him the privilege he sought and there was not a gun
in Fiume which dare be trained on a British or American vessel.
It was Anthony Trent's way to look for opposition in his ventures and be
a little uneasy if he met none. So far things had gone almost too
smoothly.
He had threaded his way through the narrow streets of Fiume without
other than a few laborers when he was suddenly halted by a policeman.
The policeman stood before the Lion and waved his sword. It was plain he
labored under stress of great excitement. Three others of his kind came
running from a side alley. It seemed to the policeman that the great
automobile made a vicious jump at him. He leapt aside with marvelous
agility as the accelerated Lion passed him on its way to the pier.
There was just sufficient light for Trent to see the destroyer lying at
her anchorage. Everything would have been comfortably done but for the
cries of the pursuing police.
A groom of Count Michæl's had ridden a fast horse into Agram and the
Fiume authorities were bidden apprehend a thieving chauffeur driving a
blue and silver Lion. There was so liberal a reward that the police
force was almost disorganized in contemplating it. Pursuers among
civilian laborers and sailors joined in the chase.
Trent's heart sank to see the little cove where the boats were tied was
not empty at this early hour as he expected. There was a group of seven
or eight fishermen getting their nets ready. Their quick ears caught
sounds of the disturbance and saw that the man in the motor was to be
caught. They seized a two inch hawser and stood across the pier barring
the motor's way. Four men holding to one end and three, to another.
Trent took the situation in at a glance. Stupidly enough the fishermen
supposed themselves to be able to stop the car of their own strength.
Had they fastened the hawser around the cleats at their side Anthony
Trent would have gone down to defeat. It was plain that he could not
carry out his plan of rowing to the destroyer with these men at his
heels.
There was one last desperate thing to do.
The great car responded to the accelerator and by the time it had
reached the men holding the rope it was going at fifty miles an hour
over the smooth stone breakwater. Two of the men were jerked clear into
the water. They were all thrown down and one had an arm broken.
Fascinated they watched the great car racing down the pier straight to
destruction as they supposed. Then they looked, horrified, as it seemed
to hurl itself from the jetty, hurtle through the air and disappear in a
tomb of foam.
When police and fishermen strained their eyes and could see no trace of
the chauffeur they naturally assumed he had been caught in the car.
"He has killed himself!" the sergeant cried.
"He was mad!" said another.
Anthony Trent had no difficulty in freeing himself from the sinking
Lion. It was his wish to swim under water as far as possible and so
elude those who watched for him in the faint light.
There was a strong current running and the destroyer lay a couple of
cable lengths distant. It was a hard swim, clothes encumbered as he was,
and he dare not discard the garment that held the paper. There was a
despairing moment when he thought he could never make headway against
the tide which would take him back into the harbor.
It was an astonished marine who saw the dripping exhausted man clamber
aboard and fall to the deck.
"I must see your commander at once," Trent cried, when his breathing was
easier.
Lieutenant Maitland awaked from his sleep was not inclined to see him.
"What's he like and the devil is it all about?" he demanded crossly.
"He's about knocked out," the marine answered, "and he says he won't
tell his business to anyone but you."
Lieutenant Maitland put on a bath robe and interviewed the stranger. He
was instantly taken by the man's face and manner. He saw, too that he
was dealing with one of his own class.
"I have important despatches for Lord Rosecarrel the Foreign Secretary
which I must get to him at once."
"Yes?" Maitland said interrogatively.
"I want you to take them and me," Anthony Trent said.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," said the officer. "You see that is a
little out of my beat. Even if your papers were for the First Lord of
the Admiralty I could not proceed to a home port without instructions.
I am bound for Malta and weigh anchor in a little while."
Anthony Trent was silent for a moment. He knew that private matters
concerning Lord Rosecarrel and his son had nothing to do with the
government directly. He knew, too, that to commandeer a destroyer for a
private errand was inadmissable. But he was determined to get back and
had no appetite for Fiume. There was a trump card which he had yet to
play.
"Why does a squadron of destroyers stay so long in Fiume?" he asked.
"Admiralty orders," Lieutenant Maitland said briefly.
"They are here because trouble may break out at any moment. The
information I carry is necessary for the interests of your country and
my own. I'm an American as I supposed you guessed. You will be thanked
by the prime minister for taking me and my information back."
"Why not cable it?" Maitland suggested, "I'll wireless it for you in
code."
"I dare not trust it," Trent said emphatically, "and they wouldn't
believe it anyhow. Mine is a preposterous story but it's one that your
government needs to know. Can't Malta get on without you a little? It
won't take long. You fellows travel at forty miles an hour."
"Who is to judge of the importance of the information?" Maitland
demanded, "I have to think of that. If you are spoofing me I run the
certainty of court martial. Really I think I must beg you to be
decently careful in asking this of me."
"That's only fair," Trent agreed. "Does the name of William, Prince of
Misselbach, mean anything to you?"
"Only that I went to his funeral when he escaped from that island prison
of his and was drowned. I was on the port guard ship at the time. I
understand the allied powers breathed a sigh of relief that he had
chosen to drown himself."
Anthony Trent pointed to a group of boats at the end of the pier from
which he had taken his leap. They were growing distinct in the light.
"Those fellows," said Anthony Trent, accepting one of the officer's
cigarettes, "are grappling for my body. They believe I'm dead. Drowned
as deep as ever Prince William of Misselbach ever was. You have just as
much right to think the prince dead. I've seen him. I know where he's
been staying since his escape and I know who is behind the plot to put
him on the throne of Hungary. Now, Lieutenant, do we steam back to
England or shall I cable it?"
"I'll take a chance and slip back to Portsmouth. What you need is a hot
bath and some hotter coffee. By the time you've fed and got into some of
my togs we shall be on our way back to fame or court martial."
The lieutenant grinned cheerfully. He was still a boy for all the stern
years he had witnessed disaster by sea and land. Also he liked Trent.
It was rather a lark, he thought.
"By the way," said Trent suddenly, "if they wig-wagged you from shore
that you were harbouring a man supposed to have stolen a Lion automobile
from Count Michæl Temesvar the man who is at the bottom of the plot
would you feel bound to deliver him up to justice? I ask because I think
some sort of police are on the way here now."
"My dear man," said Lieutenant Maitland, "you have the good fortune to
be aboard the fastest destroyer on God's wide waters. Also steam is up
and we shall have started before the harbour authorities can get aboard.
If they can overhaul my old dear you may ask me that question again."
* * * * *
When it was certain that Trent had made good his escape the black rage
that took hold of Count Michæl plunged his household into a distress
that showed itself on every troubled face except that of Pauline.
She was not easily able to conceal her joy in Anthony Trent's good
fortune. The prophecy of the gipsy that he would escape was fulfilled.
She knew that rage must be eating at the count's heart, a rage compared
with which all his other frenzied outbursts were as nothing. As a rule
he made Pauline his _confidante_, desiring only that she approve of his
behaviour. Twice she had tried to get Hentzi aside and learn what news,
if any, had come of the masquerader. Hentzi sullenly turned away from
her. She supposed he had been so upset over his master's temper that he
was nursing a grievance himself.
She was in her room that night, about to take a gorgeous necklace from
her firm white throat, when there was a knock upon the door.
"It is Mr. Hentzi," said her maid.
"Tell him I will not see him," Pauline yawned.
"He has an important message from Count Michæl," said the girl.
"Which will wait until tomorrow," Pauline said lazily.
Hentzi's voice made itself heard through the partly opened door.
"I must beg you madame, to come at once. It is imperative. The count
must have your advice on matters of importance."
Pauline decided to go. After the silence of the day the count would tell
her everything, and she was anxious to be reassured of Anthony Trent's
safety.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded as Hentzi guided her past the
big room where Trent had been arraigned, the room from which he had made
his escape.
"His Excellency cannot remain in a room with an entire window torn out.
It would but be to invite a flock of bats to enter."
Pauline climbed two little flights of steps which led to the topmost
floor of the castle.
"I have never been here before," she commented.
"Few strangers have," he said, locking it behind her.
"Strangers!" she repeated, "since when have I been a stranger?"
She found nothing strange in his silence. Hentzi was constantly a prey
to the fear he might by some over zealous action provoke the wrath of
the man he served. Probably he had not heard her question.
She found Count Michæl in a big bare room, octagonal in shape and knew
it must be the tower which stood out boldly on the western corner of the
castle.
"Why bring me here?" she said petulantly.
She had no fear of the man who ruled his people as an autocrat. It is
not in the nature of such women as Pauline to eliminate a certain
feeling of contempt for the power of men whom they can sway by whim and
artifice. Michæl, Count Temesvar, was terrible to such as he hated, and
a political force of sinister strength, but to the green eyed woman who
looked at him mockingly he was one of the weak and pliable pawns on
life's board.
"Sit down," he said suavely. There was no sudden look of affection as he
gazed at her. He spoke, she reflected, very much as he had done to
Anthony Trent. But the ex-chauffeur had been a prisoner. She looked
about her and saw that this was almost a prison.
"About this Alfred Anthony," he began. "I am told, although I do not
believe it, that you were much concerned for his safety."
"Who told you that?" she demanded.
"What matters that? It is untrue?"
"Naturally," she answered, trying to fathom what lay behind his smiling
face.
"Tell me this Pauline," he said leaning forward, "when the Sissek woman
informed us that he had escaped I thought I heard you say 'Thank God.'
Why did you thank God when my enemy escaped?"
Pauline was not so easily to be trapped. She remembered breathing her
prayer almost at his ear but she hoped in the excitement he had not
heard.
"You are dreaming Michæl," she exclaimed. "Why should I say that?"
"Another thing," the count went on. "This man would hardly have escaped
if the electric lights had not gone out." Abruptly the count turned to
Hentzi. "Tell me, did you see the engineer about this?"
"Yes, Excellency," Hentzi assured him, "He tells me in technical terms
which I do not comprehend that sometimes the light goes off for a few
moments. It was the thunder storm or some atmospherical condition. I do
not remember."
"Heaven seems to fight for him," Count Michæl commented. "First the
lights extinguished and then someone in this house of mine who gives him
keys and aids his escape. The garage door opens itself to him and lo, he
disappears."
"He has an accomplice you think, Excellency?" Hentzi stammered. He was
fearful that his master had learned of his carrying the book to the
prisoner. Out of this slender fact the wrathful count might be weaving
plot enough to engulf his faithful secretary. "I assure your
Excellency," Hentzi cried, "that I am entirely loyal."
Pauline was still not to be frightened by this changed mood of the count
and the agitation expressed on his secretary's face. She had been victor
over him in a hundred violent scenes and Pauline loved violence and the
raising of voices.
"A curious thing," said the count meditatively, "is that the lights went
out only in my room. A well trained thunder storm Hentzi, eh?"
"Your excellence means that someone turned them off. I was on guard at
the window as you remember."
"I know that you were. Ferencz was at the north door, Peter at the
other. The thief could not be suspected and I was a dozen feet distant
sitting in my chair. And yet, Hentzi, when I pressed the button light
again flooded the room."
"I suppose you are hinting that I did it?" Pauline said calmly.
When the count smiled, it was another man looking at her, a man to whom
she was a stranger. For the first time a thrill of uneasiness took hold
of her.
"Is hinting the right word?" Count Michæl retorted.
"I might have done it," Pauline admitted, "I remember when I heard the
crash of the broken glass jumping up. I probably put my hand out to
steady myself and touched the knob without noticing it. How
unfortunate!"
"Again," said the count, "I must question your right use of words. You
said 'unfortunate,' did you not?"
"There is one other thing which has puzzled me," Count Michæl went on.
"Peter Sissek's wife thinks she saw you come back to the garage two
mornings back soon after sunrise. She was wrong?"
"She was right," Pauline replied, "I could not sleep so I went out to
try and find the missing coat."
"What loyal helpers surround me," the count murmured. "Before you retire
to your well earned night's rest one other question."
"As many as you please," said Pauline, some of her burden of anxiety
lifted. "What is it?"
"This thief knew of the presence here of certain exalted personages. He
had never been anywhere but in the kitchen quarters and his own room. No
servant of mine would have told him anything. There were many hours when
I was busy and you played golf that you could have told him. I want your
word that the information did not come from you."
"You have it," she said lightly. "Now as that is all I shall go to my
room. This hideous place chills me."
"Pauline," Count Michæl said sternly, "I have given you every chance to
tell the truth. You have lied. It is in your nature to lie but I thought
that one of your training would know when the time came to speak the
truth. Such an hour is at hand. The man was your lover. You helped him
to escape. That I am certain of. You have betrayed me and my cause--and
your cause too--because you are a light of love, a thing who will accept
a purchase price and then play false."
"My poor Michæl," she said commiseratingly, "you drink too much of your
own plum brandy. Tonight you are crazy. Tomorrow I shall have you
begging for a smile from me. As it is I find you tedious. Hentzi, open
the door."
The secretary made no move to obey her.
She shrugged her shoulders. Neither of the men judged from her manner
the fear that began to enwrap her.
"Yours will be a cold smile tomorrow," Count Michæl said, "and I, for
one, shall not envy it. You have betrayed me but in the end I have
triumphed. They have caught him Pauline. They are bringing him back to
you. Do you think you will be there to aid him when he is my prisoner
again?"
If Count Michæl wished for tribute to his victory it was his now.
The confidence left her face. She was white and smileless. The courage
and bold carriage of her splendid body seemed taken from her. She leaned
heavily on the bare table. Hentzi, a prey always to emotion, could have
wept for her forgetting she was his master's enemy.
To Count Michæl her attitude had the effect of whipping into white heat
his repressed and savage rage. He had tried to believe that he still
stood first in her affection. It was the vanity of the successful man
whose desire has outlived his fascination.
No woman could be stricken to the earth by news of the capture of a man
unless he were unutterably dear to her. It was clear confession of the
victory of Lord Rosecarrel's agent. What desire for mercy had been in
the count's heart died down. There came in its place the craving for
instant and brutal revenge.
"So you did help him?" he said in a low harsh voice.
"Yes," she answered. "I thought I had helped him to succeed."
"And you admit you told him of the presence here of the prince?"
"If you like," she said wearily, "If I denied it you would not believe
me."
"Take note of that, Hentzi," the count commanded him. "It is important,
this admission of guilt."
Pauline hardly heard him. The shock of learning that the man she adored
had been recaptured overwhelmed her. She tried to shut out the thought
of what punishment would be meted to him now.
"I will talk more tomorrow," she said brokenly.
"Do you not understand that for you there will be no tomorrow?" She
could see now that the count hated her. Jealousy had swept from him all
memory of past affection. He could only think of himself as one betrayed
by the man he hated. In vain she might look for mercy here.
"I am to be murdered?" she said looking from one to the other of the
two.
"You are to be executed," he said. "You took your oath to support this
movement and you have betrayed it. I have given you your chance to
confess and instead you perjured yourself." He raised a service revolver
from his table.
It was Hentzi who in this last black scene rose above his fears to plead
for her. The count waved his protests aside. The woman did not move.
"Madame," Hentzi cried almost hysterically. "You must not believe what
his excellency tells you."
"Silence," the count cried angrily.
But Hentzi would not be stayed. At heart he was generous and in a dumb,
hopeless fashion he had long cherished an affection for Pauline.
"He escaped," Hentzi continued, "We have just learned that they did not
capture him. Already he is on a fast war ship of his country far from
fear of pursuit."
It was as though a miracle had happened.
The color came again into Pauline's cheeks and the drooping, broken
figure grew tall, erect and commanding.
"So you lied to me, Michæl," she said slowly. "You were ashamed to admit
that he had beaten you. But I should not have lost my faith in him so
easily." She turned to Hentzi. "Thank you my friend. You have made me
happy."
"Silence," the count cried. "Prepare yourself."
"You cannot hurt me now, Michæl," she laughed. Hentzi thought she looked
like a young girl, splendid and triumphant with the wine of youth. "At
most you can take my life. As I can never have him whom I love I do not
mind. Perhaps I am a little grateful to you. Why does your hand tremble,
Michæl?"
She held herself at this last moment with a brave insolence. Her head
was carried high and the count knew she was laughing at him for having
failed. He knew that her words were not idly spoken when she said she
would die happy because her lover had escaped.
She stood there flouting him, jeering at him, this woman through whose
actions his own safety was imperilled, the woman whose fascination had
so long enthralled him. And he realized that although it would be his
hands which would strike her to the dust yet she would be the victor.
Untrembling she looked into the black mouth of the revolver.
"Why do your hands shake?" she repeated. "Are you afraid he will come
back and rescue me?"
Hentzi covered his eyes as the spurt of flame jumped at her. It was his
shriek which rang out. Pauline met her death, triumphant, smiling,
unafraid.