NEWS FROM ILLYRIA
The man was Fitz.
"A thousand apologies," he said. "So sorry to disturb you. But
there's news from Illyria."
Such a very remarkable obtrusion enchained the attention of us all.
And this was not rendered less by the self-possession of the speaker's
manner.
"Ferdinand has been assassinated." Fitz's tone was slow and contained.
"The Monarchy has been overthrown; Sonia is a close prisoner in the
Castle at Blaenau, and her fate hangs in the balance."
"What is your authority?" said Coverdale.
"Reuter," said Fitz. "A telegram is printed in the evening papers. I
happened to buy one at the book-stall as I left town."
He produced the _Westminster Gazette_ from the pocket of his overcoat
and handed it to the Chief Constable.
"You don't suppose," said Coverdale, frowning heavily, "that they are
capable of personal violence towards the Princess?"
"At bottom they are only half civilised," said Fitz, "and when their
passions are aroused they are capable of anything. You will see the
telegram says the government is in the hands of a committee of the
people. And no wise man ever trusts the people and never will."
This feudal sentiment was uttered in a tone of the oddest conviction.
"By Jove!" said the scion of the ducal house. "Here is the chap we are
looking for."
But the intrusion of Fitz was too deadly serious for any side issue to
be allowed to distract our attention.
"I apologise to you, Mrs. Catesby, for spoiling your dinner party like
this," he said, "but it is my firm conviction that if the Princess is
to be saved there is not a moment to lose."
"One is inclined to agree with you," said Coverdale, slowly and
thoughtfully. "Has it occurred to you that anything can be done?"
Fitz's reply, given quietly enough, was characteristic of the man.
"To-day is Monday," he said. "By midnight on Thursday we shall have
her out of Blaenau."
"Impossible, my dear fellow, impossible," said the Chief Constable, "if
this account is correct."
"Nothing is impossible," said the Man of Destiny. "There is just time
now to catch the ten o'clock to-night from Middleham. First thing
to-morrow morning we will get our papers if we can, and if we can't
we'll go without them. We shall be in Paris some time in the
afternoon; and if all goes well by Wednesday evening we shall be in
Vienna. By five o'clock on Thursday we ought to be at Orgov on the
Milesian frontier, and six hours' easy riding over the mountains with a
couple of baits will land us at Blaenau."
We who knew Fitz and had followed him in high affairs knew better than
to venture upon criticism of this bald and unconvincing scheme. Those
who did not know him could only smile incredulously.
"Sounds easy," said Lord Frederick, "but assuming, Fitzwaren, that you
get to Blaenau like that, what can it profit you if the Princess is in
the Castle under lock and key?"
"Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage," quoted the Man
of Destiny. "Once we get to Blaenau we shall have her out of the
Castle, never fear about that. But there is no time to discuss the
matter now. If we go at once and collect our gear--so sorry, Mrs.
Catesby, but absolutely unavoidable--we can be in town by
twelve-fifteen, arrange about our papers and keep well in front of the
clock."
The man's calm assumption that we should all unhesitatingly follow his
lead and commit ourselves to this rather mad and certainly most
uncomfortable enterprise was remarkable.
"There is not a minute to lose," he said. "By the way, Arbuthnot, I've
told Peters to pack a kit-bag for you. And this time, old son, you had
better see that you don't forget your revolver."
Under the goad of the Chief Constable's uneasy eye I was fain to gaze
at the black silk handkerchief, which still bore my wrist.
"I'm afraid I'm a lame duck anyway," I said.
"You will do to hold the horses at the foot of the Castle rock.
Climbing up the face of that cliff will be out of the question as far
as you are concerned. Now then, you fellows," the Man of Destiny took
out his watch, "you have just two minutes to finish your port and get
your cigars alight and then it's boot and saddle."
"Nevil," said the imperious voice of the Great Lady, "I am really
afraid you are mad."
The Man of Destiny did not deign to heed this irrelevant suggestion.
The exigencies of historical truth render it necessary to record the
fact that Joseph Jocelyn de Vere Vane-Anstruther was undoubtedly the
first respondent to the call. My relation by marriage drank his port
wine and rose in his place at Mrs. Catesby's board. There was a fire
in his eye and the suspicion of a hectic flush upon his countenance
which seemed to contrast strangely with the habitual languor of his
bearing.
"First thing we must do is to send a wire to old Alec," he said;
"although he is certain not to be in if we send it. If we get to town
by twelve-fifteen I will trot round to the Continental. The beggar is
sure to be there until they kick him out, as there is a ball to-night
at Covent Garden."
This reasoning may have been lucid and it may have been pregnant; at
least it recommended itself to the comprehensive intellect of the Man
of Destiny.
"Quite right, Vane-Anstruther. I shall hold you responsible for
O'Mulligan."
"Joseph," said the Great Lady upon a stentorian note, "are you mad
also?"
Hardly had this pertinent inquiry been advanced when the noble Master
was on his legs.
"So awfully sorry, Mrs. Catesby," he said with a long-drawn sweetness
of apology, "but it can't be helped in the circumstances, can it? I
leave hounds in the care of George and Frederick. Keep Potts up to his
work, George, and see that he pays proper attention to their feet. And
Frederick, I charge you to make it your business to see that Madrigal
has a ball every Friday."
"Reginald," said his hostess with great energy, "in the unavoidable
absence of your widowed and unfortunate mother I absolutely forbid you
to bear a part in this hare-brained enterprise. I really don't know
what Nevil can be thinking of."
In Ascalon whisper it not, but this was the precise moment in which I
found the cynical eye of the Chief Constable upon me for the second
time. The eye was also wary and a little pensive, but the great man
rose in his place with an air of profound rumination. He slowly
cracked a walnut and then turned to the butler, with a coolness which
to my mind had a suspicion of the uncanny.
"Just tell my chap to have my car round at once," he said; and then
with great deference to his hostess, "a thousand apologies, Mrs.
Catesby, but you do see, don't you, that it can't be helped?"
Whether I rose to my feet by an act of private volition or at the
subconscious beck of another's compelling power, there is no need to
attempt to determine. But somehow I found myself upon my legs and
adding my own imperfect apologies to the equally imperfect ones of the
Chief Constable.
"Odo Arbuthnot," said my hostess, "sit down at once. A married man, a
father of a family, and a county member! Sit down at once and get on
with your fruit. Colonel Coverdale! I am surprised at you."
"Finished your port, Arbuthnot?" said Fitz, calmly. "Time's about up.
But I've told your chap about the car."
Consternation mingled now with the lively feminine bewilderment, but
Mrs. Arbuthnot, whom Fitz's news had excited and distressed, issued no
personal edict. If the life of Sonia was really at stake it was right
to take a risk. Nevertheless it showed a right feeling about things to
betray a little public perturbation at the prospect of being made a
widow.
"Jodey and Reggie and Colonel Coverdale must go," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"They haven't wives and families dependent upon them. But you, Odo,
are different. And then, too, your wrist. You would be of no use if
you went."
"I shall do to hold the horses at the foot of the Castle rock," said I,
saluting a white cheek.
Fitz was already withdrawing from the room with his volunteers when
Lord Frederick rose in his place at the board.
"Look here, Fitzwaren," he said. "If you have a vacancy in your
irregulars I rather think I'll make one."
"By all means," said Fitz. "The more the merrier."
Bewilderment and consternation mounted ever higher around Mrs.
Catesby's mahogany.
"Freddie! Freddie!" There arose a tearful wail from across the table.
"You ought to be bled for the simples, Frederick," said his hostess.
However, even as the Great Lady spoke, honest George, most
conscientious of husbands, and notwithstanding his rank in the
Middleshire Yeomanry, the most peace-loving of men, was understood to
make an offer of active service.
"Well done, George," said his friend the Vicar. "I shouldn't mind
coming as the chaplain to the force myself."
"George," said an imperious voice from the table head, "George!"
The Man of Destiny halted a moment on the threshold of the banquet hall
with the frank eye of cynicism fixed midway between the Great Lady and
the warlike George.
"George! Sit down!"
Finally George sat down with a covert glance at his friend the Vicar.
By the time we had got into our overcoats and mufflers and the means of
travel had been provided for us, a scene with some pretensions to
pathos had been enacted in the hall.
"Odo, you really ought not, but if dear Sonia really is in danger----!"
"We shall all be back a week to-night," the Man of Destiny informed my
somewhat tearful monitor with a note of assurance in his voice.
Moving objurgations of "Freddie! Freddie!" were mingled with the
clarion note of Mrs. Catesby's indignation.
"It is a mad scheme, and if you get your deserts you will all be shot
by the Illyrians."
But Fitz and I were already seated side by side in the car. We waved a
farewell to the bewildered company upon the hall steps, and then the
fact seemed slowly to be borne in upon my numbed intelligence that yet
again I was irrevocably committed to this latest and maddest call of my
evil genius. There he sat by my side, his cigar a small red disc of
fire, and he self-possessed, insouciant, dæmonic, almost gay.
The flaccid, rudderless creature of the past ten days was gone as
though he had never been. It was hard to realise that this born leader
of others, who courted war like a mistress, the magic of whose
initiative the coolest and sanest could not resist, was the self-same
broken fragment of human wreckage who twenty-four hours ago had not the
motive power to perform the simplest action. But there could be no
question of the magic he knew how to exert over the most diverse
natures; and as we sat side by side in the semi-darkness of the car
while it flew along the muddy, winding and narrow roads to Dympsfield
House, I yielded almost with a thrill of exultation to the director of
my fate.