At the door a closed vehicle was standing. To Hindwood it seemed the
one that had flashed by him on the previous evening. He glanced between
the wheels; there was no Russian wolf-hound. Even before he was seated,
the lash had been laid across the horses' backs. The next moment they
were galloping down the gloomy street. Leaning from the window, the
Captain was urging the coachman to drive faster.
When the pace had settled to a rapid trot, Hind-wood broke the silence.
“You're an Hungarian officer; Prince Rogovich is a Polish statesman.
You tell me you're his secretary. What's a Polish statesman doing in the
Royal Palace, directing Hungary's affairs?”
“It isn't Hungary's affairs that he's directing; it's the campaign
against Democracy. The present crisis has made Budapest the jumping-off
point for the offensive which the Monarchists have been waiting to
launch. The Monarchists are men of every country, who have sunk their
nationalities and made a common cause.”
“And you--are you a Monarchist?”
His reply came muffled. “I was. To-night I'm a traitor.”
The horses, thrown sharply back on their haunches, swerved toward the
pavement; the carriage jerked to a halt. Almost brushing the wheels in
the narrow street, a column of soldiers shuffled past. Their rifles
were slung at all angles. Their shoulders were bowed beneath their
heavy packs. They crawled weakly, more like stragglers retreating than
storm-troops advancing. Even in the darkness their bones showed pointed
and their faces lean with famine.
“Reservists,” the Captain explained shortly. “Mobilization has begun.”
Hindwood strained through the gloom, touching his arm excitedly.
“Starving men being sent to kill men who are more starving. You've
spoken of a woman you adored--a woman who was shot for hideous
treacheries. Her treacheries were committed to prevent just such crimes
as that. Don't interrupt me--not yet. You've expected me to believe an
impossible story: that a man can return from the dead. If I were to tell
you an equally improbable story, what difference would it make to your
love? If I were to tell you that the resemblance was not mistaken
and that the woman at the Palace is the same as she who was reported
executed in the woods of Vincennes?”
The last of the column had slouched into the blackness. The horses leapt
forward impatiently.
The question was repeated. “What difference?”
The Captain's voice burst from him. “God forgive me--none.”
Neither of them dared to trust the other. Their respite was growing
shorter. They had crossed the bridge above the Danube. In a moment the
ascent to the Palace would commence. It was Hindwood who decided on
boldness. If he were walking into an ambush, he could not make matters
worse.
He said, “Weapons will be useless. Only to kill the Prince won't save
her. If we manage to escape from the Palace, the streets are full of
armed men. We should only rescue her to die with her. I have a plan.
Do you know the barracks of the Russian refugees? If I were to write a
note, would you guarantee to have it delivered?”
By the light of matches held by the Captain, he scrawled rapidly. The
last sentence read, “If you have not heard from me again by 2 A. M.,
consider that the worst has happened and carry out these instructions.”
He addressed the note to, “_The Husband of Anna_.”
“Have it entrusted to a man who cannot read English.” The Captain
extinguished the final match.
“I shall send it by the driver of this carriage.”