COUNT POLTAVO OFFERS HIS SERVICES
The footman who had shown Van Ingen to the door ushered the count
into the morning-room, replenished the fire in the grate which had
burned low, and departed noiselessly.
The newcomer sank wearily into a deep chair, and closed his eyes. He
looked spent and haggard, as if his night had been a sleepless one.
The clear olive of his skin showed slightly sallow, and fine
wire-lines were etched about his eyes. Perhaps he did not hear the
light footfalls which approached.
Doris came nearer, soft-footed, and pausing before the fire, regarded
him with deep attention. She had changed into a dark dress which
accentuated her youth and slenderness.
The count opened his eyes and looked at her. A slight smile touched
his lips. "I was dreaming of you!" he murmured softly. He sprang to
his feet. "Forgive me!" he exclaimed contritely. "I must have
dozed. I had a wakeful night."
She gave him her hand. "And I disturbed you with my message!"
"I was glad to come," he replied simply. "But you--this terrible
news!" He released her hand and fell back a pace, scrutinising her
sharply. "But you do not look sad! And yet your letter--the morning
paper which I bought upon the way--it is not true, then?"
"Something is true--but not--not the ghastly thing I feared when I
wrote you." She seated herself, and the count resumed his chair by
the fire. His face was hidden in the shadows. "You mean that your
father----"
"Is alive and well!" Her voice quivered and broke. Two shining
tears trembled for a moment upon her lashes., and then sped down her
cheeks. Others followed. She smiled through them. "I am so
happy--so thankful!" she murmured.
"How did you learn this--wonderful news?" The count's voice, though
low, rang like steel on stone.
She gave him a startled look, and withdrew the note from its warm
resting place and handed it silently to him.
"May I take it to the light?" Without waiting for permission, he
rose and stepped to the window. He stood with his eyes glued to the
oblong strip of paper. A curious greyish pallor had spread across
his countenance, and his hands shook. A gust of strong rage overtook
him, as he stared down at the familiar handwriting. "Imbecile!" he
muttered. With an effort he collected himself, and turned back to
the girl. "Permit me to ask if your aunt has seen
this--ah--communication?"
She shook her head. "You see, he--he has forbidden me to speak!"
Tears clouded her vision.
The sternness melted out of his face, but he put another question.
"And your estimable young friend whom I met at the door?"
"No."
He took a deep breath and returned to his place at her side.
"I wished to tell him," she continued, "for Cord is so good! He is
as dear to me as a brother."
The count restrained a smile. He bent down and possessed himself of
her hand. "Dear lady," he said, "you must conceal this, even from
your brother. It was a mad thing for your father to do! I think
Baggin would kill him if he knew!" His own face hardened as he
spoke. "But what's done can be undone." He leaned forward and
dropped the paper upon the glowing coals. It smoked, then turned a
deep quivering red, against which the letters were blackly visible.
"Look!" he exclaimed softly. One phrase stood out strong and clear
upon the darkening ashes.
"'Trust Poltavo!'" Doris whispered. She bent a little toward him.
Her eyes were luminous, and her red lips parted. "It is a good
omen!" she breathed.
"And you will trust me in this matter?" he asked.
She nodded gravely.
He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
"And in others, also?"
She flushed warmly. "You must not speak of such things now. I must
not listen. I can think only of my father. He is not dead--for that
I thank Heaven. But he is in danger--great danger, both from Baggin
and the law. He--he loved me more than his millions, and wrote to
reassure me of his safety. Oh!" she exclaimed passionately, "he is
not bad, Count Poltavo--as Baggin is--as I once thought you were--but
only weak, and swayed by his imagination. He sees things big. He
dreams of a financial empire such as the world never knew."
The count looked at her, and smiled queerly. "And you wish me to
find your father?" he questioned.
"Yes, or take me to him!"
"And after that?" he demanded a little eagerly.
"After that," she replied wearily, "you may say what you will."
"Until that hour, then," he said gently, "I shall set a seal upon my
lips."
A silence fell between them. The count brooded, his eyelids
down-dropped, his chin propped in the palm of his hand. A ruby, set
in a curious antique ring, gleamed dully from his finger.
"I think," he observed finally in a low voice, "that Mr. Grayson is,
by this time, safely upon the Continent. Paris--Rome?" He shook his
head. "Too dangerous. Madrid? It is possible. Yes." He nodded,
and then sat erect. "To-night, mademoiselle," he announced, "I shall
start for Madrid to find your father."
She thanked him with her eyes. "And you will stop this terrible
scheme--you will save him from Baggin?"
"I will save him from Baggin!" he promised grimly. "More than that,
dear lady, I cannot undertake."
She gave him a shining look. "Ah, you are good," she whispered. She
laid a hand on his arm. "Good and--and faithful!"
The count seemed deeply moved. He looked down at the hand, but made
no motion to touch it. "Mademoiselle," he said in a strange, choked
voice, "it is you who are good! You conquer me with your divine
tenderness!" A spasm as of pain crossed his countenance. "I--I am
not good, as the world knows that word. I am hard, ambitious,
cruel." He continued, his face white and stern: "Power is to me the
greatest thing in the world, greater than love--even my love for
you--greater than life. For what is human life? It is cheaper than
the dirt in the street. Why should we value it? For myself, it
signifies nothing. When it obstructs my path, I set it aside--or
crush it."
She drew back from him half fearfully. A lock of dark hair had
escaped, and fallen across her brow. It made her look singularly
young and troubled. "Why do you say those wild things?" she faltered.
He smiled, master of himself again, and took her hand.
"You are afraid of me--Doris?" he whispered softly.
She trembled at the word. Her white eyelids fluttered, and her
colour came and went under his persistent gaze.
"A--a little!" she confessed. It seemed to her that she could almost
hear her heart beat. His personality was round about her like a
spell.
"Only a little!" the count laughed gaily. "I admit I am very much
afraid of you!"
The hand was still closely imprisoned. She disengaged it, and lifted
her eyes bravely to him.
"I believe that you are the most truthful man in the world," she said
simply. "But I--I fear your truth. It terrifies me."
"Yesterday," he replied, with a whimsical smile, "you hated me. I
was all evil. To-day I am the most truthful man in the world. What
shall I be to-morrow?"
She held her head down and refused to meet his look.
"I--I cannot tell," she whispered.
"Nor shall I urge you," he replied gently. "Later, perhaps, when
your father is safe---- But until then, may I ask a very great
favour?"
She nodded mutely.
He drew off the ring. "Will you wear this? I have a fancy that upon
your hand it will bring me good luck and ward off danger." He tried
it upon one after another of her fingers. "Too large!" he murmured
disappointedly.
Doris smiled faintly. From about her throat, hidden in the lace of
her gown, she pulled out a slender gold chain, from which a locket
depended. "I will wear it here," she promised, "together with the
picture of my father." She took the jewel from his hand, and undoing
the clasp, threaded the ring upon the chain and restored all to their
place.
"That is better than I dared hope!" he said. He bent toward her.
"And you will think of me sometimes?"
"Every instant of the day," she responded fervently, "until I shall
see my father."
He laughed a little ruefully, and rose. "I suppose that must content
me! And now I must be off. I will find your father. 'Trust
Poltavo.'"
"I do--completely." She gave him her hand. Her face was composed,
almost cheerful. "Do you leave any commands?"
He looked significantly at the fire, where the only trace of the note
was a faint black film. "You have already received them," he said
gravely. "Everything is as it was this morning. Your father is
dead. For you nothing is left but silence--and courage."
She shuddered a little. "Cord told me that the--the affair was in
the hands of Scotland Yard, and that a Mr. Smith had been appointed
to the case."
The count started at the name. He opened his lips to speak, but
closed them again.
"Will he come and question me?" she continued. "Oh," she declared
half wildly, "I could not bear that!"
"I regret that Mr. Smith has been given the case," observed the count
thoughtfully. "I know the gentleman, slightly. He is a difficult
man to deceive. You may be sure, dear lady, that he will come--and
come again, if he suspects anything. You must be on your guard. Aid
him openly with all the information at your disposal. Make
engagements with him. Write notes. Send him fresh clues--one a day!
And now--how you say--good-bye!" He looked down into her eyes,
smiling.
Doris appeared to cling to him. "Oh, if you could be here to advise
me!" she murmured. "I am afraid. It is all so secret--and terrible!"
"I will return," he assured her. "In three days I will return, or
wire instructions. Courage!" he whispered. He touched his lips to
her hand, pressed it, gave her a long look, and turned abruptly upon
his heel.
Doris sank upon the divan, and stared drearily into the fire.
Half-an-hour later, Lady Dinsmore, drawing the curtains softly, found
her in the same position. The older woman's face was flushed, and
showed traces of recent tears. She sat down beside the girl and drew
her close into her arms.
"Dear," she said in a choked voice, "you must be very brave."
Doris shuddered inside the protecting circle. Lady Dinsmore held her
tightly.
"Your poor father has been found. Mr. Smith is below. He wishes us
to go with him, to identify the--the body." She bent down tenderly
to the girl, who lay quite still in her arms, and then gave a little
cry. Doris had fainted.