THE COUP
Mr. Heatherbloom, with fingers deft as a sailor's, secured the prince.
The single silken band did not suffice; other cords, diverted from the
ornamental to a like practical purpose, were wound around and around his
excellency's legs and arms, holding him so tightly to the chair he could
scarcely move. Having completed this task, Mr. Heatherbloom next, with
vandal hands, whipped from the wall a bit of priceless embroidery, threw
it over the nobleman's head and, in spite of sundry frenzied objections,
effectually gagged him. Then drawing the heavy curtains so that they
almost concealed the bound figure in the dim recess, the young man
stepped once more out into the salon.
How still it suddenly seemed! His glance swept toward the door through
which the young girl had vanished. Why had he heard no sound from her?
Why did she not appear now? She must have caught something of what had
been going on. He went swiftly to the door.
"Miss Dalrymple!"
No answer. He rapped again--louder--then tried the door. It resisted; he
shook it.
"Betty!" Yes; he called her that in the alarm and excitement of the
moment. "It's--it's all right. Open the door."
Again that hush--nothing more. Mr. Heatherbloom pulled rather wildly at
the lock of hair over his brow; then a sudden frenzy seemed to seize
him. He launched himself forward and struck fairly with his
shoulder--once--twice. The door, at length, yielded with a crash. He
rushed in--fell to his knees.
"Betty! Oh, Betty!" For the moment he stared helplessly at the
motionless form on the floor, then, lifting the girl in his arms, he
laid her on a couch. One little white hand swung limp; he seized it with
grimy fingers. It was oddly cold, and a shiver went over him. He felt
for her pulse--her heart--at first caught no answering throb, for his
own heart was beating so wildly. The world seemed to swim--then he
straightened. The filmy dress, not so white now in spots, had fluttered
beneath her throat. He gazed rapturously.
"It'll be all right," he said again. "Darling!"
He could say it now, when she couldn't hear. "Darling! Darling!" he
repeated. It constituted his vocabulary of terms of endearment. He felt
the need of no other. She lay like a lily. He saw nothing anomalous in
certain stains of soot, even on the wonderful face where his had
unconsciously touched it when he had raised her and strained her to him
one mad instant in his arms. In fact, he did not see those stains; his
eyes were closed to such details--and the crimson marks, too, on her
gown! His knuckles were bleeding; he was unaware of it. He was not,
outwardly, a very presentable adorer but he became suddenly a most
daring one. His grimy hand touched the shining hair, half-unbound; he
raised one of the marvelous tresses--his hungry lips swept it
lightly--or did he but breathe a divine fragrance? By some inner process
his spirit seemed to have come that instant very near to hers. He forgot
where he was; time and space were annihilated.
He was brought abruptly back to the living present by a sudden knock at
the door without, which he had locked after entering that way from the
deck. Mr. Heatherbloom listened; the person, whoever he was, on
receiving no response, soon went away. Had they discovered what had
happened to the foreman of the stokers whom Heatherbloom had struck down
with a heavy iron belaying-pin? The man had attacked him with murderous
intent. In defending himself, Heatherbloom believed he had killed the
fellow. The chance blow he had delivered with the formidable weapon had
been one of desperation and despair. It had been more than a question of
his life or the other's. Her fate had been involved in that critical
moment. He had dragged the unconscious figure to the shadows behind a
life-boat. They would not be likely to stumble across the incriminating
evidence while it was dark. Nor was it likely that the foreman's absence
below would cause the men to look for him. The overworked stokers would
be but too pleased to escape, for a spell, their tyrannous master.
Mr. Heatherbloom, standing near the threshold of the dressing-room,
glanced now toward the little French clock without. Over four hours yet
to port! How slowly time went. He turned out all the lights, save one
shaded lamp of low candle-power in the cabin; then he did the same in
the room where the girl was. No one must peer in on him from unexpected
places. He looked up, and saw that the skylights were covered with
canvas. Mr. Heatherbloom remained in the salon; he needed to continue
master of his thoughts. In the dressing-room he had just now forgotten
himself. That would not do; he must concentrate all his faculties, every
energy, to bringing this coup, born on the inspiration of the moment,
to a successful conclusion. Desperate as his plan was, he believed now
he would win out. By the vibrations he knew the boat was still steaming
full speed on her new course. The conditions were all favorable. They
would reach port before dawn; at break of day the health officers would
come aboard. And after that--
The telephone suddenly rang. Should he answer that imperious summons?
Perhaps the man who had just knocked at the door had been one of the
officers, or the captain himself, come in person to speak with his
excellency about the unexpected change in the boat's course, or some
technical question or difficulty that might have arisen in consequence
thereof.
He looked toward the recess; between the curtains he caught sight of the
prince's eyes and in the dim light he fancied they shone with sudden
hope--expectancy. The nobleman must have heard the crashing of the door
to the dressing-room. What he had thought was of no moment. A viperish
fervor replaced that other brief expression in his excellency's gaze.
Once more that metallic call--harsh, loud, as not to be denied! Mr.
Heatherbloom made up his mind; perhaps all depended on his decision; he
would answer. Stepping across the salon, he took down the receivers. The
singing on the wires had been pronounced; he could imitate the prince's
autocratic tones, and the person at the other end would not discover, in
all likelihood, the deception.
"Well?" said Mr. Heatherbloom loudly, in French. "What do you want?
Haven't I given orders not to be--"
His voice died away; he nearly dropped the receivers. A woman answered.
Moreover, the wires did not seem to "sing" so much now. Sonia
Turgeinov's tones were transmitted in all their intrinsic, flute-like
lucidity.
"What has happened, your Excellency?" she asked anxiously.
"Happened?" the young man managed to say. "Nothing."
"Then why has the yacht's course been changed? I can tell by the stars
from my cabin window that we are not headed at all in the same direction
we were going--"
He tried to speak unconcernedly: "Just changed for a short time on
account of some reefs and the currents! Go to sleep," he commanded, "and
leave the problems of navigation to others."
"Sleep? _Mon Dieu_! If I only could--"
Mr. Heatherbloom dared talk no more, so rang off. The prince might have
been capable of such bruskness. Sonia Turgeinov had not seemed to
suspect anything wrong; she had merely been inquisitive, and had taken
it for granted the nobleman was at the other end of the wire. Mr.
Heatherbloom strode restlessly to and fro. Seconds went by--minutes. He
counted the tickings of the clock--suddenly wheeled sharply.
* * * * *
The young girl stood in the doorway--he had heard and now saw her. She
came forward quickly, though uncertainly; in the dim light she looked
like a shadow. He drew in his breath.
"Miss--" he began, then stopped.
Her gaze rested on him, almost indistinguishable on the other side of
the salon.
"What does it mean? Who are you?" She spoke intrepidly enough but he saw
her slender form sway.
Who was he? About to explain in a rush of words, Mr. Heatherbloom
hesitated. To her he had been, of course, but a conspirator of the
Russian woman in the affair. Miss Van Rolsen had deemed him culpable;
the detective had been sure of it. Would Miss Dalrymple think more
leniently of him than mere unprejudiced people, those who knew less of
him than she? His very presence on the yacht, although somewhat
inexplicably complicated in recent occurrences, was _per se_ a primal
damning circumstance. But she spared him the necessity of answering. She
divined now from his blackened features what his position on the yacht
must be. He was only a poor stoker, but--
"You are a brave fellow," cried Betty Dalrymple, "and I'll not forget
it. You interfered--I remember--"
"A brave fellow!" It was well he had not betrayed himself. Let her think
that of him, for the moment. A poignant mockery lent pain to the thrill
of her words.
"You rushed in, struck him. What then?"
"He won't play the bully and scoundrel again for some time!" burst from
Mr. Heatherbloom. His tones were impetuous; once more he seemed to see
what he had seen during those last moments on the deck--when he had been
unable to restrain himself longer--and had yielded to a single
hot-blooded impulse. "The big brute!" he muttered.
She seemed to regard him in slight surprise. "Where is he? What has
become of him?"
"He is safe--"
"You mean you conquered him, beat him--you?" Her voice thrilled.
"You bet I did," said Mr. Heatherbloom with the least evidence of
incoherency. Her words had been verbal champagne to him. "I gave him
the dandiest best licking--" He stopped. Perhaps he realized that his
explanation was beginning to seem slightly tinged with too great
evidence of personal satisfaction if not boastfulness. "You see I had a
gun," he murmured rather apologetically.
"But," said the girl, coming nearer, "I don't understand."
He started to meet that advance, then backed away a little. "I've got
him safe, where he can't move, or bother you any more." Mr. Heatherbloom
glanced over his shoulder; but he did not tell her where he "had him".
"And the yacht's going back to the nearest American port," he couldn't
help adding, impetuously, to reassure her.
"Going back? Impossible!" Wonder, incredulity were in her voice.
"It's true as shooting, Bet--"
She was too bewildered to notice that slight slip of the tongue. "It's a
fact, miss," he added more gruffly.
"But how?" Her tones betrayed reticence in crediting the miracle. Yet
this blackened figure must have prevailed over the prince or the latter
would not have so mysteriously disappeared. "How did it happen?"
"Well, you see I just happened around."
"You, a stoker?"
Stokers, he was reminded by her tone, did not usually "happen around" on
decks of palatial private yachts. He must seek a different, more
definite explanation. He thought he saw a way; he could let her know
part of the truth. "The fact is, I was looking for this boat at the last
port she stopped at. I had cause to think you would be on her. Couldn't
stop the yacht from going to sea, for reasons too numerous to mention,
so I just slipped out and came aboard in a kind of disguise--"
"A disguise? Then you are a detective?"
"I think I may truthfully say I am, but in a sort of private capacity.
When a really important case occurs, it interests me. Now this was an
important case, and--and it interested me." He hardly knew what he was
saying, her eyes were so insistent. Betty Dalrymple had always had the
most disconcerting eyes. "Because, you see, your--your aunt was so
anxious--and"--with a flash of inspiration--"the reward was a big one."
"The reward? Of course." Her voice died away. "You hoped to get it. That
is the reason--"
He let his silence answer in the affirmative; he felt relieved now. She
had not recognized him--yet. In the recess behind the draperies the
chair in which his excellency was bound, creaked. Was he struggling to
release himself? Mr. Heatherbloom had faith in the knots and the silken
cords. The girl turned her head.
"Don't you think it would be better"--he spoke quickly--"for you to
return to your cabin? I'll let you know when I want you and--"
"But if I prefer to stay here? May I not turn on the lights?"
"Not for worlds!" Hastily. "It is necessary they should not see me. If
they did--"
He was obliged to explain a little of the real situation to her; of the
stratagem he had employed. This he did in few words. She listened
eagerly. The mantle of the commonplace, which to her eyes had fallen a
few moments before on his shoulders, became at least partly withdrawn.
She divined the great hazard, the danger he had faced--was facing now.
Detective or not, it had been daringly done. Her voice, with a warm
thrill in it, said as much. Her eyes shone like stars. She came of a
live virile stock, from men and women who had done things themselves.
"If only I, too, had a weapon!" she said, leaning toward him. "In case
they should discover--"
"No, no. It wouldn't do at all."
"Why not?" the warm lips breathed. "I can shoot. Some one once taught
me--"
She stopped short. A chill seemed descending. "You were saying--" he
prompted eagerly.
But she did not answer. The sweep of her hair made a shadowy veil around
her; his mind harked swiftly back. She had always had wondrous hair. It
had taken two big braids to hold it; most girls could get their hair in
one braid. He had been very proud, for her, of those two
braids--once--with their blue or pink ribbons that had popped below the
edge of her skirts. He continued to see blue and pink ribbons now.
Both were for some time silent. At length she stirred--seated herself.
Mr. Heatherbloom mechanically did likewise, but at a distance from her.
He tried not to see her, to become mentally oblivious of her presence,
to concentrate again solely on the matter in hand. A long, long interval
passed. Chug! chug! the engines continued to grind. How far away they
sounded. Another sound, too, at length broke the stillness--a stealthy
footfall on the deck. It sent him at once softly to the window; he gazed
out. She followed.
"Are--are we getting anywhere near port?"
He did not tell her that it was not port he was looking for so soon as
he gazed out searchingly into the night.
"What is it?" She had drawn the curtain a little. Her shoulder touched
him.
Suddenly his arm swept her back. "What do you mean"--he turned on her
sternly--"by drawing that curtain?"
"Was any one there?"
"Any one--" he began almost fiercely; then paused. The figure he had
seen in that flash looked like that of the foreman of the stokers. In
that case, then, the fellow was not dead; he had recovered. Through a
mistaken sense of mercy Mr. Heatherbloom had not slipped the seemingly
lifeless body over the side. Now he, and she, too, were likely to pay
dearly for that clemency. Bitterly he clenched his hands. Had the man
caught a glimpse of him at the window? A flicker of electric light,
without, shone on it.
The girl started again to speak. "Hush!" He drew her back yet farther.
Above, some one had raised the corner of the canvas covering the
skylight. It was too dark, however, for the person, whoever it might be,
to discern very much below. Neither Mr. Heatherbloom nor his companion
now moved. The tenseness and excitement of the moment held them. The
girl breathed quickly; her hand was at his sleeve. Even in that moment
of suspense and peril he was conscious of the nearness of her--the lithe
young form so close!
The creaking of the chair in the recess was again heard. Had his
excellency caught sight of the person above? Was he endeavoring to
attract attention? And could the observer at the skylight discern the
nobleman? It seemed unlikely. The glass above did not appear to extend
quite over the recess. Through a slight opening of the draperies Mr.
Heatherbloom, however, could see his captive and noticed he seemed to be
trying to tip back farther in his chair, to reach out behind with his
bound hands--toward what? The young man abruptly realized, and half
started to his feet--but not in time! The chair went over backward and
came down with a crash, but not before his excellency's fingers had
succeeded in touching an electric button near the desk. A flood of light
filled the place.
It was answered by a shout--a signal for other voices. Fragments of
glass fell around; a figure dropped into the salon; others followed. The
door to the deck yielded to force from without. Mr. Heatherbloom, though
surprised and outnumbered, struggled as best he might; his weapon rang
out; then, as they pressed closer, he defended himself with the butt of
his revolver and his fist.
There could be but one end to the unequal contest. The girl--a helpless
spectator--realized that, though she could with difficulty perceive what
took place, it was all so chaotic. She tried to draw nearer, but bearded
faces intervened; rough hands thrust her back. She would have called out
but the words would not come. It was like an evil dream. As through a
mist she saw one among many who had entered from the deck--a giant in
size. He carried an oaken bar in his hand and now stole sidewise with
murderous intent toward the single figure striving so gallantly.
"No, no!" Betty Dalrymple's voice came back to her suddenly; she
exclaimed wildly, incoherently.
But the foreman of the stokers raised the bar, waited. He found his
opportunity; his arm descended.