ABOUNDS IN SENSATION
Astonished as I was by the coming of such a visitor, the appearance and
the manner of that much-discussed personage did nothing to lessen my
interest.
I found him pacing the room in a state of agitation. His face was
haggard, his eyes were bloodshot, he was unkempt and almost piteous to
look upon. And yet more strangely his open overcoat, which his
distress could not suffer to keep buttoned, disclosed a rumpled shirt
front, a tie askew and a dinner jacket which evidently had been donned
the evening before.
"Hallo, Fitz," said I, as unconcernedly as I could.
He did not answer me, but immediately closed the door of the room.
Somehow, the action gave me a thrill.
"There is no possibility of our being overheard?" he said in a hoarse
whisper.
"None whatever. Let me help you off with your coat. Then sit down in
that chair next the fire and have a drink."
Fitz submitted, doubtless under a sense of compulsion. My four years'
seniority at school had generally enabled me to get my way with him.
It was rather painful to witness the effort the unfortunate fellow put
forth to pull himself together; and when I measured out a pretty stiff
brandy-and-soda his refusal of it was distinctly poignant.
"I oughtn't to have it, old chap," he said, with his wild eyes looking
into mine like those of a dumb animal. "It doesn't do, you know."
"Drink it straight off at once," said I, "and do as you are told."
Fitz did so with reluctance. The effect upon him was what I had not
foreseen. His haggard wildness yielded quite suddenly to an outburst
of tears. He covered his face with his hands and wept in a painfully
overwrought manner.
I waited in silence for this outburst to pass.
"I've been scouring the country since nine o'clock last night," he
said, "and I feel like going out of my mind."
"What's the trouble, old son?" said I, taking a chair beside him.
"They've got my wife."
"Whom do you mean by 'they'?"
"I can't, I mustn't tell you," said Fitz, excitedly, "but they have got
her, and--and I expect she is dead by now."
Words as wild as these to the accompaniment of that overwrought
demeanour suggested an acute form of mental disturbance only too
clearly.
"You had better tell me everything," said I, persuasively. "Perhaps I
might be able to help a little. Two heads are better than one, you
know."
I must confess that I had no great hope of being able to help the
unlucky fellow very materially, but somewhat to my surprise he answered
in a perfectly rational manner.
"I have come here with the intention of telling you everything. I must
have help, and you are the only friend I've got."
"One of many," said I, lying cordially.
"It's true," said Fitz. "The only one. Like that chap in the Bible,
the hand of every man is against me. I deserve it; I know I've not
played the game; but now I must have somebody to stand by me, and I've
come to you."
"Well," said I, "that is no more than you would do by me in similar
circumstances."
"You don't mean that," said Fitz, with an expression of keen misery.
"But you are a genuine chap, all the same."
"Let's hear the trouble."
"The trouble is this," said Fitz, and as he spoke the look of wildness
returned to his eyes. "My wife went in the car to do some shopping at
Middleham at three o'clock yesterday afternoon expecting to be back at
five, and neither she nor the car has returned.
"And nothing has been heard of her?"
"Not a word."
"Had she a chauffeur?"
"Yes, a Frenchman of the name of Moins whom we picked up in Paris."
"I suppose you have communicated with the police?"
"No; you see, the whole affair must be kept as dark as possible."
"They are certainly the people to help you, particularly if you have
reason to suspect foul play."
"There is every reason to suspect it. I am afraid she is already
beyond the help of the police."
"Why should you think that?"
Fitz hesitated. His distraught air was very painful.
"Arbuthnot," said he, slowly and reluctantly, "before I tell you
everything I must pledge you to absolute secrecy. Other lives, other
interests, more important than yours and mine, are involved in this."
I gave the pledge, and in so doing was impressed by a depth of
responsibility in the manner of my visitor, of which I should hardly
have expected it to be capable.
"Did you see in the papers last evening that there had been an attempt
on the life of the King of Illyria?"
"I read it in this morning's paper."
"It will surprise you to learn," said Fitz, striving for a calmness he
could not achieve, "that my wife is the only child of Ferdinand XII,
King of Illyria. She is, therefore, Crown Princess and Heiress
Apparent to the oldest monarchy in Europe."
"It certainly _does_ surprise me," was the only rejoinder that for the
moment I could make.
"I want help and I want advice; I feel that I hardly dare do anything
on my own initiative. You see, it is most important that the world at
large should know nothing of this."
"Why, may I ask?"
"There are two parties at war in Illyria. There is the King's party,
the supporters of the monarchy, and there is the Republican party,
which has made three attempts on the life of Ferdinand XII and two on
that of his daughter."
"But I assume, my dear fellow, that the whereabouts in England of the
Crown Princess are known to her father the King?"
"No; and it is essential that he should remain in ignorance. Our
elopement from Illyria was touch and go. Ferdinand has moved heaven
and earth to find out where she is, because she has been formally
betrothed to a Russian Grand Duke, and if she does not return to
Blaenau he will not be able to secure the succession."
"Depend upon it," said I, "the Crown Princess is on the way to Blaenau.
Not of her own free will, of course. But his Majesty's agents have
managed to play the trick."
"You may be right, Arbuthnot. But one thing is certain; my poor brave
Sonia will never return to Blaenau alive."
Fitz buried his face in his hands tragically.
"She promised that, you know, in case anything of this kind happened,
and I consented to it." The simplicity of his utterance had in it a
certain grandeur which few would have expected to find in a man with
the reputation of Nevil Fitzwaren. "Everybody doesn't believe in this
sort of thing, Arbuthnot, but I and my princess do. She will never lie
in the arms of another. God help her, brave and noble and unluckly
soul!"
This was not the Fitz the world had always known. I suddenly recalled
the flaxen-haired, odd, intense, somewhat twisted, wholly unhappy
creature who had rendered me willing service in our boyhood. I had
always enjoyed the reputation in our house at school that I alone, and
none other, could manage Fitz. I recalled his passion for the "Morte
d'Arthur," his angular vehemence, his sombre docility. In those
distant days I had felt there was something in him; and now in what
seemed curiously poignant circumstances there came the fulfilment of
the prophecy.
"Let us assume, my dear fellow," said I, making an attempt to be of
practical use in a situation of almost ludicrous difficulty, "that it
is not her father who has abducted the Princess Sonia. Let us take it
to be the other side, the Republican party.
"It would still mean death; not by her own hand, but by theirs. They
twice attempted her life in Blaenau."
"In any case, it is reasonably clear that not a moment is to be lost if
we are to help her."
"I don't know what to do," said Fitz, "and that's the truth."
I confessed that I too had no very clear idea of the course of action.
It occurred to me that the wisest thing to be done was to take a third
person into our counsels.
"You ask my advice," said I; "it seems to me that the best thing to do
is to see if Coverdale will help us."
"That will mean publicity. At all costs I feel that that must be
avoided."
"Coverdale is a shrewd fellow. He will know what to do; he is a man
you can trust; and he will be able to set the proper machinery in
motion."
My insistence on the point, and Fitz's unwilling recognition of the
need for a desperate remedy, goaded him into a half-hearted consent.
In my own mind I was persuaded of the value of Coverdale's advice, in
whatever it might consist. He was the head of the police in our shire,
and apart from a little external pomposity, without which one is given
to understand it is hardly possible for a Chief Constable to play the
part, he was a shrewd and kind-hearted fellow, who knew a good deal
about things in general.
Poor Fitz would listen to no suggestion of food. Therefore I ordered
the car round at once, and incidentally informed the ruler of the
household, and the expectant assembly by whom she was surrounded, that
Fitz and I had some private business to transact which required our
immediate presence in the city of Middleham.
"Odo," said she whose word is law, with a mien of dark suspicion, "if
Nevil Fitzwaren is persuading you to lend him money, I forbid you to
entertain the idea. You are really so weak in such matters. You have
really no idea of the value of money."
"It will do you no good with your constituents either," said Mary
Catesby, "to be seen in Middleham with Nevil Fitzwaren."
To these warning voices I turned deaf ears, and fled from the room in a
fashion so precipitate that it suggested guilt.
No time was lost in setting forth. As we glided past the front of the
house, I at least was uncomfortably conscious of a battery of hostile
eyes in ambush behind the window panes. There could be no doubt that
every detail of our going was duly marked. Heaven knew what theories
were being propounded! Yet whatever shape they assumed I was sure that
all the ingenuity in the world would not hit the truth. No feat of
pure imagination was likely to disclose what the business really was
that had caused me to be identified in this open and flagrant manner
with the husband of the luckless circus rider from Vienna.