While the Englishman was ski-running and saving the King's life, the
American had spent an uneventful morning seeing the sights of the
capital. Acting on his friend's advice he had visited the Reichs
Museum, wherein were housed some extremely old Masters, some
indifferent modern sculpture, and a wholly admirable collection of
engravings by Albrecht Dürer. But Trafford's mind had wandered from
pre-Raphaelite anatomy and marble modernities to a pair of dark eyes,
a finely chiselled little nose, and a diminutive mouth, that were
utterly unlike anything depicted by Botticelli, Fra Angelo, or the
great Bavarian engraver.
Art had never held an important place in his mind, and on this fine
January morning it competed feebly with a certain restless longing
that had stolen over his ill-balanced nervous system, to the
domination of his thoughts and the destruction of his critical
faculties. He desired to be out in the open air, and he desired to
see, and touch, and speak with a certain young woman who had passed
herself off as his sister at his hotel, but who had disappeared into
thin air long before he had tasted his _petit déjeuner_ of coffee and
rolls. It was not, he told himself, that he was in love. Love,--as
he conceived it,--was something akin to worship, a regard pure as the
snows, passionless almost in its humility and reverence. For one
woman he had felt that marvellous adoration; he would never feel it
again for any woman in the world. But beauty appeals even to those
who have suffered at beauty's hands, and the Princess Gloria was a
maiden of such bewildering moods, so compounded of laughter and
fierceness, of such human pathos and relentless purpose, that she was
bound to have a disturbing effect on so responsive and sensitive a
soul as his. He acknowledged the obsession, for it was patent and
paramount. But he told himself that in his regard there were no
deeps, certainly no worship; merely a desire to cultivate an
attractive young woman whose habitual behaviour was as heedless of
the conventions as his own.
But this desire took him out of the long galleries of the Reichs
Museum into the slums of Weidenbruck, into the purlieus of the
Goose-market and the Grassmarket, and into the network of narrow
alleys round about the Schugasse. But the face and figure that were
in his mind's eye refused to grace his bodily sight, and so,--having
lost himself half a dozen times and gained a magnificent
appetite,--he took a sleigh and drove back to the Hôtel Concordia.
In the middle of his meal Saunders arrived, and told him at full
length of his morning's adventures. And, as Saunders had expected,
Trafford's disappointment at having missed the exhilarating rencontre
with Father Bernhardt was palpable and forcibly expressed.
"Confound your beastly luck!" he said. "And, I suppose,--thanks to
your brilliant shooting, and tactful diplomacy,--the King got away."
"He got home safely with my wife and General Meyer three-quarters of
an hour before I did," replied Saunders, ignoring the sarcasm. "They
held up a train on the big stone viaduct, and I and Von Hügelweiler
tapped one at a small station called Henduck. It is a pity you were
not with us, Nervy."
Trafford ground his teeth. His companion was very irritating.
"What about this afternoon?" he asked despairingly.
"I'm afraid there won't be any excitements this afternoon," replied
Saunders blandly. "I've got to accompany Karl to a bazaar in aid of
distressed gentle-women. As you are dining to-night at the palace,
we shall, of course, meet. Au revoir till then. You might well have
another look at those Dürers."
"D---- the Dürers!" said Trafford angrily, as his friend left the
dining-room. "And hang Saunders for a selfish brute!" he added to
himself. "He lures me out to this infernal country, and then sends
me to picture galleries and museums while he shoots people
ski-jumping over his head." And with the air of an aggrieved man
Trafford kindled an enormous cigar and sauntered forth into the hall.
As he did so, he was approached by the concierge.
"A letter, mein Herr," said the official: "a messenger left it a
moment ago."
Trafford took it, and as he read his eyes opened in astonishment, and
his mouth in satisfaction.
"_Dear Herr Trafford_," it ran. "_This is to thank you for what you
did for me last night. You fight as well as you skate--and that is
saying much. If you will meet me at the Collection of Instruments of
Torture in the Strafeburg at three o'clock this afternoon, I shall
try to be as fascinating as you could wish me--and take back any
unkind word I may have spoken._"
_G.V.S._"
Trafford chuckled to himself. After all, he reflected, Saunders was
not having all the fun. He had not mentioned his adventures of the
previous evening to his friend, because he knew that Saunders would
disapprove of his action in abetting Karl's enemies. He, however,
was a free lance, and if he was not permitted to save the King's
life, he might as well devote his energies to the equally romantic
task of protecting the rebel Princess. And in his rapture at the
unfolding prospect of unlimited fracas, he chuckled audibly.
Then, turning somewhat abruptly, he bumped into a gentleman, who must
have been standing extremely close behind him. Instinctively he
thrust his letter into his pocket, realising that the missive was not
merely a private but a secret one. He half-feared that the person
into whom he had cannoned,--and whose approach he ought to have heard
on the marble-paved hall,--might have been covertly reading his
letter over his shoulder; nor was he particularly reassured at
finding that the individual in question was none other than General
Meyer.
"I beg your pardon," began the Commander-in-Chief, "but I was not
quite sure that it was you, as I could not see your face while you
were reading your letter."
"My fault entirely," said Trafford genially. "Were you looking for
me?"
"I was. I came to say that the command which his Majesty graciously
issued to you to dine with him to-night is also extended to your
sister."
"My sister!" repeated Trafford, in dazed accents.
Meyer smiled at the other's mystification. "I was informed at the
bureau that your sister was staying at the hotel with you," he said
blandly.
Instantly the fraud of the previous evening returned to Trafford's
memory.
"She spent last night at the hotel," he said, "but she left early
this morning."
"A brief visit!" was the General's comment.
"Extremely! She is on her way to Vienna. She--she took the
opportunity of paying me a flying visit to see me compete for the
King's Cup on the Rundsee. She went on by the 8:35 this morning."
Meyer nodded, as if appreciating the other's glibness.
"Would you think me very inquisitive," he went on, "if I asked at
what hotel she will be staying in Vienna?"
"She is not going to a hotel," replied Trafford. "She is going to
stay with my aunt,--my dear Aunt Martha,--whose address I cannot for
a moment recall. I shall doubtless hear from her in a day or so,
when I will communicate her whereabouts to you--if you particularly
desire it."
"Please do not trouble," said the General, scrutinising his companion
closely through his eye-glass. "But there is one further question I
would put to you. How is it that Saunders does not even know that
you have a sister?" Meyer's tones were of the blandest, but there
was something in his look and bearing that bespoke suspicions that
had become certainties. Trafford read danger in the mocking voice
and smiling lips, and he grew wonderfully cool.
"That's dead easy!--she's only my half-sister," he replied. "We see
little of each other. Saunders may well have never chanced to meet
her or even hear of her. My half-sister, you know, detests men. In
fact, my only fear of her going to Vienna is lest she should at once
enter a nunnery and never be seen again."
Meyer dropped his eye-glass in a facial convulsion of admiration.
"Au revoir, Herr Trafford!" he said, with a gracious bow. "We meet
at eight o'clock at the Palace to-night. But I am desolated at the
idea of not seeing--your half-sister."
Shortly after the Commander-in-Chief's departure, Trafford donned his
overcoat and sallied forth on foot to the Strafeburg. The beauty of
the day was gone. The mist that had been dispelled by the noonday
sun had settled down again on the city. The penetrating cold, born
of a low temperature and a moisture-laden atmosphere, nipped and
pinched the extremities, and ate its way behind muscles and joints
till Trafford,--despite his warm coat,--was glad enough to reach the
friendly shelter of the ancient prison-house. A half-krone procured
him admission to the show-rooms of the famous building, and a young
woman, angular of build and exceptionally tall, took him under her
bony wing, and commenced to show him the objects of interest.
Trafford had come to see something less forbidding than racks and
thumb-screws, but for the moment the object of his visit being
nowhere to be seen, he devoted a temporary interest to the quaint and
sinister-looking objects displayed on all sides of him. These,--as
has already been made clear,--were mainly the ingenious contrivements
of filthy minds for the infliction of the utmost possible suffering
on human beings. A judiciously-displayed assortment of racks,
wheels, water-funnels, and other abominations, soon had the effect of
making Trafford feel physically sick. Nor was his horror lessened by
the custodian's monotonous and unemotional recital of the various
uses to which the different pieces of mechanism could be put. And as
his thoughts travelled back across the centuries to the time when men
did devil's work of maiming and mutilating what was made in God's own
image, a fearful fascination absorbed the American's mind, so that he
quite forgot the Princess in a sort of frenzy of horror and wrathful
mystification.
In the third room they visited,--a gaunt department of
deeply-recessed windows and heavy cross-beams,--was an assortment of
especially ferocious contrivements.
"This was used for those who made bad money," went on the long-limbed
maiden, in her droning monotone, indicating a gigantic press which
was capable of converting the human frame into the semblance of a
pancake. "The coiner lay down here, and the weights were put on his
chest----"
"Stop! for heaven's sake," ejaculated Trafford, white with emotion.
"If I could get hold of one of those mediæval torturers I'd give him
a good Yankee kick to help him realise what pain meant."
"I'm sure your kick would be a most enthusiastic one," said a voice
at his elbow. A lady in handsome furs and a blue veil--a common
protection, in Grimland, against snow-glare--was addressing him.
Despite this concealment, however, Trafford did not need to look
twice before recognising the Princess Gloria.
"You can leave us, Martha," commanded the Princess to the angular
attendant. "I am quite capable of describing these horrors to this
gentleman. I am sufficiently familiar with the Strafeburg, and shall
quite possibly become more so." Then, as the obedient Martha
withdrew her many inches from the room:
"I want to thank you for last night's work," she said to Trafford;
"and if I may, to ask----"
"Charmed to have been of service," interrupted the American, and
taking the Princess's hand, he bent low and kissed it. As he raised
his head again there was a flush in his cheek and a fire in his eye
that seemed portents of something warmer than the Platonism of a dead
soul. "But don't resume the hospitality of the Concordia," he added.
"Meyer suspects, and my lying capacities have been well-nigh
exhausted."
"He has been cross-questioning you?"
"Most pertinaciously; but I lied with fluency and fervour."
The Princess laughed gaily.
"You are splendid!" she cried, clapping her hands with girlish
excitement. "Do you know," she went on presently, "that the
authorities, acting under Herr Saunders' advice, are going to adopt
strenuous measures against us?"
"Is that anything new?"
"Not exactly. But they have decided to leave off trying to murder
us, and are going to try and take us openly. The ex-Queen,--whose
nerves are not very good,--has already crossed the frontier into
Austria. Father Bernhardt has found several new hiding-places, and a
brace of new revolvers."
"And you?" asked Trafford.
"Have found you," she answered with a frank smile.
"Admirable!" laughed the American. "But tell me, pray, how I can
serve you."
"You will be dining at the Palace to-night. Find out all you can and
report to me."
Trafford was silent. He was about to dine with the King, and he had
certain scruples about the sacredness of hospitality. Quick as a
flash the Princess read his silence, and bit her lip.
"Now then," she said, as if to change the subject, "let me play the
part of showman. Here we have the famous 'Iron Maiden.'"
Trafford beheld a weird sarcophagus set upright against the wall, and
rudely shaped like a human form. On the head were painted the
lineaments of a woman's face, and the mediæval craftsman had
contrived to portray a countenance of abominable cruelty, not devoid
of a certain sullen, archaic beauty. A vertical joint ran from the
crown of the head to the base, and the thing opened in the middle
with twin doors. The Princess inserted a heavy key,--which was
hanging from a convenient nail,--and displayed the interior.
"Now you see the charm of the thing," she went on, as the inside of
the iron doors revealed a number of ferocious spikes. "The poor
wretch was put inside, and the doors were slowly shut on him. See,
there is a spike for each eye, one for each breast, and several for
the legs. The embrace of the Iron Maiden was not a thing to be
lightly undertaken."
"Of all the fiendish, hellish----"
"It was made by one Otto the Hunchback," pursued the Princess, "and
it was so admired in its day, that the reigning monarch of Bavaria
had a duplicate made, and it stands in the castle of Nuremberg to
this day."
"When was this thing last used?" inquired Trafford in hoarse tones.
"It is said that the late Archbishop of Weidenbruck was killed in
this way, three years ago," replied the Princess calmly.
Trafford was white with indignation.
"Who says so?" he demanded fiercely.
"Everybody. The King hated him, and he died of cancer--officially.
I was told--and I honestly believe--that he was killed by torture,
because when the troubles of 1904 were at an end, he openly incited
the people to revolt."
"If that's true," said Trafford, "I shan't make much bones about
siding with you against Karl XXII. And it won't worry my conscience
reporting to you anything I may accidentally overhear at the dinner
to-night."
"We can't fight in kid gloves," said the Princess with a sigh.
A sudden noise in the street without attracted his attention. Light
as a bird, the Princess leaped into the embrasure of the window.
Trafford followed suit. A company of soldiers was drawn up outside
the building, and facing them was a fair-sized mob jeering and
cheering ironically. A number of units were detached under an
officer to either side of the building, and it was plain that the
Strafeburg was being surrounded by the military. A second later
there was the dull sound of hoofs on snow, and a squadron of cavalry
entered the platz from another direction. Lined up at right angles
to the Strafeburg, carbine on knee, they held the threatening mob in
hand with the silent menace of ball and gunpowder.
Trafford and the Princess looked at each other in blank and silent
amazement.
"This means business," said the latter, pale but composed. "The
Guides and the King's Dragoons are not being paraded for nothing.
Royalty is going to be arrested with the pomp and circumstance due to
the occasion."
"They have discovered your presence here?"
"Obviously. I am caught like a rat in a trap."
Trafford scanned the bloodless but firm countenance, and admired
intensely. Here was no hysterical school-girl playing at high
treason for sheer love of excitement, but a young woman who was very
much in earnest, very much distressed, and at the same time
splendidly self-controlled. He stood a moment thinking furiously
with knitted brows, hoping that his racing thoughts might devise some
scheme for averting the impending tragedy. The room they were in was
the last of a series, and possessed of but one door. To return that
way was to come back inevitably to the entrance hall,--a proceeding
which would merely expedite the intentions of their enemies. He
looked hopelessly round the chamber, and he dashed across to the
great stone fireplace. It would have formed an admirable place of
concealment had not its smoke aperture been barred with a substantial
iron grille.
"It's no use," sighed the Princess wearily. "I must face my fate.
Perhaps the good burghers will effect a rescue."
"Not if the King's Dragoons do their duty," retorted Trafford grimly.
"Mob-heroism is not much use against ball-cartridges."
"Then I must yield to the inevitable."
Trafford shook his head fiercely.
"That is just what you must not do!" he cried. For a moment he
stood irresolute, running his hand through his stiff, up-standing
hair.
"I've got some sort of an idea," he said at length.
Approaching a table whereon were displayed a number of torture
implements, he selected a pair of gigantic pinchers that had been
specially designed for tampering with human anatomy, and applied them
vigorusly to the nuts which fixed the spikes of the Iron Maiden.
"Otto the Hunchback little knew that his _chef d'œuvre_ would be
put to such a benevolent purpose as a refuge," he said, as he
loosened and withdrew the spikes one by one from their rusty
environment. "Given ten minutes' respite, and I'll guarantee a
hiding-place no one in his senses will dream of searching."
"Quick, quick, quick!" cried the Princess in a crescendo of
excitement, transformed again from a pale, hunted creature to a
gleeful schoolgirl playing a particularly exciting game of
hide-and-seek. "I hear them searching the other rooms. Quick!"
Trafford deposited the last spike in the pocket of his overcoat, and
motioned to his companion to enter. When she had done so, he closed
the doors, locked them, and put the key into his pocket with the
spikes.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Quite comfy, thanks," answered a muffled voice.
Trafford contemplated the exterior of the Iron Maiden, and was
pleased to note air-holes in the Maiden's ears. It had not been the
intention of the mediæval tormentor that his victims should die of
suffocation.
A few moments later there was the tread of martial steps along the
passage, and the door was thrown open. Trafford buried himself in
the contemplation of a water-funnel that had served to inconvenience
human stomachs with an intolerable amount of fluid.
"Herr Trafford once again!"
The gentleman addressed looked up and beheld the grey-coated figure
of General Meyer. Behind him with drawn swords were two officers of
the Guides.
"Fancy meeting you again," went on the Commander-in-Chief, putting
his eye-glass to his eye, and smiling his most innocent smile.
"Your presence is really more remarkable than mine," returned
Trafford. "I am a stranger seeing the sights of Weidenbruck. You
apparently are here on sterner business."
"I am here to effect an important arrest," drawled the General. "But
perhaps you can aid us in our purpose," he went on in his blandest
tones. "Have you by any possible chance seen a young woman
hereabouts?"
"I saw one here only a few minutes back."
The General produced a note-book--the same in which he had jotted
down the marks of the skating competition.
"This is most interesting," he said. "I need hardly ask you to be
precise in your information, as your remarks will be taken down
verbatim."
"I will be accuracy itself," said Trafford with mock seriousness.
"Good! When did you see this woman?"
"About a quarter of an hour ago."
"Her name?"
"I am ignorant of it."
"Her age?"
"I am bad at guessing ladies' ages; but I should say between twenty
and thirty."
"Dark or fair?"
"Dark."
"I thought so. Her height--approximately?"
"Six foot two."
Meyer stiffened himself indignantly, and the eye-glass dropped from
his eye.
"You are trifling, sir," he said angrily.
"Perhaps I have exaggerated," said Trafford calmly, "put down six
foot one-and-a-half."
Meyer darted a sidelong glance at the American, and scribbled
something in his book.
"Remember," he said, "that you may be called upon to substantiate
that statement, and that false information----"
"He must be referring to Martha," broke in one of the attendant
officers.
"Martha!" cried Trafford delightedly. "Yes, I believe that was her
name. In return for half a krone she told me more in five minutes
about instruments of torture than my wildest imagination had
conceived possible."
"You have seen no one else?" rapped out the General.
"Till you arrived I have not seen a soul."
Meyer glanced round the room carefully. He looked under the several
tables whereon the exhibits were displayed; he put his head up the
great stone fireplace; his glance swept past the Iron Maiden, but it
rested on it for a fraction of a second only.
"She is not here," he announced decisively, "this gentleman has been
speaking the truth."
"A foolish habit of mine, but ineradicable," murmured Trafford
ironically.
Meyer readjusted his eye-glass and turned, smiling, to the American.
"You behold in me," he said, "a disappointed man. For the second
time in two days I have blundered. It is a coincidence, a strange
coincidence. Also it is regrettable, for I am rapidly dissipating a
hard-earned reputation for astuteness. Once again, au revoir, my
dear Herr Trafford! We shall meet at dinner to-night, and I hope
often. Gentlemen of the Guides, _vorwarts_!"