nervous fingers. She waited for him to speak. He turned about, and
dropped his hands, palm outward, as he quietly ended it all with the
question: "Now, can you understand why the law would not give me
justice?"
"Is he dead--are you sure?"
"I didn't wait--I came ... to ... visit you. Now are you going to drive
me out?... You don't know what it is to fight single-handed against
fearful odds. That's how I planned to spend my summer. To fight the
endless fight alone...."
She leaned forward eagerly as she answered: "Oh, yes, I do! I know what
it means.... I, too, have been fighting against fearful odds!"
Jarvis looked at her sharply.
"There is no man to fight for you?"
"No man who dares."
"Oh, God! If there had only been a woman left for me to fight for!...
But with my mother gone it was simply a hopeless, desperate
determination to square the score at any cost, and then cry 'Quits!'
and care nothing."
She drew back, studying the outline of his agile body, as he stood
silhouetted against the moonlight.
"And are you alone?"
"Alone."
"And if you're caught," there was a curious eagerness in her low voice,
"it means payment with your life?"
"Yes!"
"Suppose that I decided to help you--to do more than I have done?"
Jarvis discarded his fatalism, as he caught at this loophole.
"What do you mean?"
"You have no fear of death? You are not afraid of ghosts?"
"Ghosts? Don't joke with me. I am an American."
"Yes--ghosts--they are not confined to America, or China, or Africa. I
mean Spanish ghosts."
Jarvis' laugh was almost bitter, as he responded with a tense
earnestness:
"After to-night I am not afraid of the living or the dead. What are you
thinking about?"
After a hesitation, poignant in its baffling anxiety, she rose and
walked toward him, absolutely forgetful of their curious meeting and
their lack of a common ground of interest.
"If you escape from here, it will be because I helped you. We might
say, I saved your life,--if what you tell me is true and if I do it
from a selfish motive entirely, I am justified. I have work for you ...
hard, dangerous work, and as I am frank, it may mean your life in the
end. It's a chance, and you have nothing to lose."
"And if I agree?"
"You will begin by taking the ancient feudal oath of my country."
"Isn't my word enough? I'm a Kentuckian, you know."
"But I insist."
Jarvis smiled indulgently.
"Very well--I'll swear the blackest oath you can utter." His eyes
twinkled. "Let's hear it all now."
The girl drew back her shoulders haughtily. It was apparent that she
took this curious idea more seriously than the prelude would suggest.
"What is your name?"
"Jarvis."
"All of it?"
"Warren Jarvis."
She raised her hands, to the Kentuckian's surprise.
"Kneel then, Warren of Jarvis!... No, not that way,--on one knee only!"
"I beg your pardon." Jarvis began to feel ridiculous, in spite of
himself. But there were reasons for humoring this curious beauty. The
footsteps were still audible in the hall.
"Now repeat this oath: I, Warren of Jarvis" (he followed word for
word), "Senor of all the domains, fiefs, keeps, and marches of Warren
of Kentucky..."
"Whew!" and he stifled a laugh as he echoed the words.
The girl continued: "Do convey to Maria Theresa, of Aragon, all my
worldly titles and possessions..."
"Sounds like I were marrying her--I beg your pardon. 'Do convey to
Maria Theresa, of Aragon, all my worldly titles and possessions!'"
The shade of a smile played over his features.
The girl caught his hand in hers, placed her left in both of his, and
then continued: "And receive them back as vassal and retainer and to
faithfully fight in my lady's cause, according to the feudal laws of
Castile and Aragon!"
[Illustration: --"_and to faithfully fight in my lady's cause_"]
As he finished the repetition, she added: "Arise, vassal!"
With the spirit of the ceremony, he jestingly caught her hand and
kissed it, as he arose. She drew back sharply.
"That is part of the ceremony, but I meant to omit it."
Warren Jarvis laughed provokingly.
"That seemed to me the only sensible part of it--again I beg your
pardon. But who on earth is this Maria Theresa of Aragon person whose
hired man I have become?"
The girl drew herself up with a hauteur which could never have been
imitated upon the stage. Her dark eyes glinted coldly as she replied:
"I--I am her Serene Highness--Maria Theresa--Princess of Aragon!"
Jarvis looked at her, waiting for the cue to the joke. She was serious.
It was all so unreal, so ridiculous--and yet back there on the floor of
the room down the corridor lay Jim Marcum. This mad, sad,
heart-rending, adventure must have driven him to insanity. He rubbed
his brow, looked out of the window, heard the unromantic honk-honk of a
piratical night-owl taxicab on the street so far below. He steadied his
mental equilibrium, and looked again at the self-possessed young woman,
whose regal manner was as convincing as all the other details were
unconvincing. On the table lay a fortune in jewels and rings and a
necklace. He had not noticed them before. He remembered the Spanish
conversation which he had heard through the bathroom door. He realized
from the size and elegance of the rooms that this must indeed be a
regal suite in the great hotel.
And the girl's steady look never wavered.
American humor, in the presence of royalty, came to his aid in this
staggering blow to his credence.
"Good-_night_! You a Princess ... and I've been ordering you around
with a gun! Great Scott ... what _next_?"
V
EXIT JARVIS, LAUGHING
The Princess turned toward the door, for a step could be heard in the
corridor.
"Before that official returns we must have a plan. I thought it out
while you were behind the door. But, perhaps, it will be too hard a
task for you."
"I'll try it. Anything to get out of here! And I would like to know
what it is you want me to do for you--what about the ghost?"
"I will tell you in good time. Just now for your escape. It is getting
late, and the hours are speeding past. You are in a hopeless trap here.
Now, my trunk..."
"What about it?"
"I am sending it on board the _Mauretania_ at six o'clock, and no one
could possibly suspect."
Jarvis turned to study this curious vehicle of transportation. It was a
strong, well-built piece of baggage, indeed; but to be cooped up in it,
at the mercy of baggageman and truckman, hoisters and stewards--the
thought was staggering.
"You're joking," he began, but she resolutely shook her wealth of hair.
"It's the only chance, and a daring one at that. I am jeopardizing my
own safety by assisting you. Surely, if life is so uncertain for you at
best, you cannot lose by a trial."
Jarvis stooped over it, and began lifting out the trays, to study the
questionable roominess of the interior.
"What about these?" he asked, and as he spoke a locket dropped to the
floor. The girl darted forward to pick it up, and Jarvis observed it
for the first time. Her solicitude seemed unusual to the Kentuckian.
"Did I break something?"
"No. It's nothing. I mean, it's all right. It's just a locket. I broke
it myself yesterday, on purpose. It means a great deal to me, and
perhaps to you. Some day you may know the reason why ... Shall we send
the trays to the steamer by messenger?"
Jarvis thought for an instant. Here was such an utterly improbable
method of escape, such a strange new twirl in his whirlpool of
adventure, that he had to find his bearings.
"I have it now," he explained. "You had better telephone--we must have
someone we can trust implicitly."
The Princess crossed toward the desk telephone on the small table by
her bed, and looked at him inquiringly.
"Ask the operator to connect you with the Hotel Belmont. That's just
across the street. My room is 417. Rusty, my servant, is there. He is
waiting for some word from me, as he knew the possibilities when I met
Jim Marcum. He can be counted on till Judgment Day and then a few hours
afterwards! Tell him to come here at once--mention my first name only,
with no other explanation--that will bring him and give no other clew
to an outsider. You never can tell about a telephone. But fortunately,
I registered there under a different name. Try it now."
The girl had the receiver off the hook. After a short delay she was
talking directly with the faithful servitor, whose trembling voice
betokened his anxiety. But Rusty was too sage to ask too many
questions--he had served in affairs of delicacy before this.
"Hello--is this Mr. Rusty?... Yes? Well, listen carefully. You are to
come right over to the Manhattan Hotel across the street and a bellboy
will be waiting for you at the desk. He is to bring you up to room
1121."
Jarvis interrupted: "Tell him to keep his mouth shut!"
The Princess balked at the colloquialism.
"And--and--don't talk to anyone ... What's that?... Oh, yes.
'_Warren._'... There, he'll be coming over immediately."
Jarvis, the executive, was now in action.
He had emptied the trunk as she was talking, tossing out fascinating
feminine mysteries of lace and silks, with a nonchalance which brought
a twinkle into the dark eyes. He turned again.
"Hurry, now--call up the clerk downstairs. Tell them to look out for
Rusty and send him up here."
More delicate symphonies of Parisian architecture were thrown on the
floor, and Warren had taken out his pocket-knife.
"Hello, hello," called the Princess. "I'm expecting a man."
"A colored man," was Warren's parenthesis.
"Yes,... a colored man ... to get some bundles. He will come right to
the desk ... please send him up at once ... It is very important."
The Princess observed Jarvis' attempt to bore a hole in the side of the
trunk. He was laboring diligently, until the blade snapped.
"Confound it!"
"Why are you doing that?"
"I must breathe, you know ... Now, how can I cut a hole in the blessed
thing?" He scratched his forehead in a quandary.
The Princess brought him her shears from the dresser. In a few minutes
he had made two openings which seemed to satisfy him, but it had been
no easy task.
"What time does the boat sail?"
"Nine o'clock."
"Good. That will give Rusty time to get aboard with these trays and my
baggage. Let me see, it is a quarter of six now--how quickly the dawn
has slipped in!"
There was a knock on the outer door, and Jarvis again disappeared
behind the bathroom portal, with instinctive caution.
At a call from the Princess, the door opened after she had slid back
the upper bolt. The girl stepped back abashed at the appearance of the
excited negro. Rusty rolled his eyes, suspiciously taking in the
contents of the room.
"Whar's Marse Warren?" and his voice was hoarse. Jarvis stepped into
view. "Lawd bless you, Marse Warren. I done thought dat Marcum got you
dis time."
"Never mind what you thought. Help me wrap up these trays. We sail for
Europe in two hours."
Rusty gasped, shot another big-eyed look at the beautiful girl and then
at his master.
"Two hours--good Lawd!--you mean WE?"
The Princess was holding out a steamer rug in silence.
"Yes, Rusty, you and I. Here, give me a hand with this rug," and with
the aid of his servant he made a quick job of the bundling. "Now, take
these--with our baggage from the Belmont--to the steamship _Mauretania_
of the Cunard line. Buy accommodations.... Mind, you won't see me until
after we get out to sea. You stay in your stateroom and sit tight until
you hear from me."
He took out his wallet.
"You understand now? Cunard line. You can find it some way--just take a
taxi, and get there as fast as you can. The clerk at the hotel will get
the tickets over the telephone, and you can pay him when you settle for
the whole bill, with that other money I gave you. Now, get hold of this
money, and keep hold of it. No gin now, Rusty!"
He turned around, and observed the amused surprise on the face of his
fair companion.
"I beg your pardon.... This is Rusty;--Rusty, this is the Princess of
Aragon...."
Rusty bowed.
"Howdy do, Mrs. Princess!"
"There, that will do. Is it all clear for you now?"
"Yassir. I takes everything to the steamboat--gets
accommo--accommo--wall, I knows what you means, Marse Warren, if I
cain't spell it. I gets them things for us and Mrs. Princess."
The girl reddened under the beaming smile, but Jarvis quickly
interceded.
"Not for the Princess; just for us two. What's the name of the boat?"
"The _Mary Tania_!"
"That'll do. Now be off, and don't get left behind."
As Rusty made his exit with the bulky bundle, the Princess smiled:
"Good-by, Rusty," and he bobbed his head with a broader grin than ever
as he disappeared down the corridor toward the elevator.
"Time nearly up," muttered Warren, as he took off his coat. "Pardon the
disrobing--but I'll be more at ease in my shirt-sleeves. It's a stingy
little room to spend three hours in. I'll lie this way, with my head
toward this corner. Remember, this trunk must not go into the hold of
the ship--have it marked 'Wanted' and 'This End Up.' I'll take the
shears along and cut another hole from the inside if it gets too
suffocating."
The girl walked to the table and picked up the revolver, which she held
out.
"You'd better take this, too."
"How do you know you can trust me now?"
There was a veiled irony in her retort, although it was accompanied by
a smile: "I don't. I have to take that chance. I have no other choice
at this late hour."
"You must have a pretty good reason for it in the back of your head.
But what about this ghost? I may never hear the sequel. At least give
me some food for thought during my travels in the dark."
"Are you afraid?"
"Lord, no! I merely wanted to know. Well, I'll wait. But, now, honest
Injun, as we say down in Kentucky, are you a really, sure-enough
princess?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"Oh, I don't know. Somehow you are not quite like what I thought a
princess would be.... I mean, you're different from the popular
conception of a royal person. Your English is so perfect."
"I learned it in an English boarding-school."
"Your informality--for it has been put to a severe test these last few
hours,--your adaptability,--you have more understanding, more sympathy,
more heart."
She turned away and tilted a haughty chin.
"In that last respect, sir, you will find me quite like the popular
conception."
A knocking on the door interrupted further interchanges on the
peculiarities of royalty. Jarvis clambered inside the vehicle of his
escape, and drew down the lid, with a farewell smile.
"Trunks, lady, for the steamer!" came the voice of the porter, as he
resumed his thumping on the door panel.
"Just a minute." The Princess hurriedly bundled up the scattered
garments, jumbling them upon the bed. She turned the key in the trunk
and, with a quick feminine survey of the field for damaging, overlooked
evidence, called to her maid.
"Nita, admit the porter."
The servant appeared with surprising promptness. The man pushed in his
truck, with the obsequious manner which is a prelude to the smirking
appreciation of a handsome gratuity.
"Have the other trunks gone, my good man?" queried her Serene Highness.
"Yes'm. Last night, mum."
"This trunk goes on a special wagon."
"Yes'm."
At this juncture the house detective appeared at the doorway. He
stopped and looked questioningly at the broken lock. He was alert as a
weasel despite his ponderous physique: he fingered it, and studied the
evidence of fresh splinters. The Princess continued calmly.
"Have it marked 'Wanted'" (and as she indicated with a jeweled finger),
"'This End up with Care.'"
The porter nodded.
"I'll put special stickers on it, mum. You'll find it in your stateroom
when you get to the steamer. Is that all, mum?"
"Handle it gently, porter."
"Shure, lady and I never smashed one in me life! I'll handle it as
rivirintly as if it held the relics of a saint, mum. I'm that careful
in me worruk. So don't worry one little bit, mum."
As he started out with the heavy piece of luggage on his truck, the
detective stopped him sternly.
"Just a minute. How did that lock get broken?"
[Illustration: "_Just a minute. How did that lock get broken?_"]
The Princess felt herself changing color, yet she shrugged her
shoulders as she turned away.
Nita suddenly chattered in Spanish to her, and the detective shot a
sharp glance at the girl.
"What does she say?" he cried. "She knows something about it."
"She says the other porter banged the door before we came in, for it
was that way when she entered to arrange my clothes. I have had my
sleep interrupted all night long, and I do not care for any insolence
now."
The detective looked a bit sheepish, but stuck to his inquest.
"When did you come?"
"Yesterday."
"And when do you go away?"
"We sail this morning for Europe."
"Huh," and there was a suggestion of doubt in his grunt. "The police
are making an investigation in the hotel. They would like to have a
look at these rooms. Do you mind?"
"Not at all. My maid will show them around."
"What time do you sail? Does this trunk go on board?"
"Yes,--I want it sent on a special wagon, for I fear we will be late.
The steamer sails at nine o'clock."
The detective nodded to the porter, who brushed close by the Princess
with his cargo.
"_Bon voyage!_" she said with a smile.
"What's that?" asked the detective.
"I merely called my maid. You're an unusually impertinent and
inquisitive man. In my country gentlewomen are shown some degree of
courtesy, even by hotel servants," she remarked icily.
The detective's ruddy face grew redder.
"Well, I dunno about your country, whatever that is. But in this
country, and in this hotel there don't nothin' get by me. That's all.
Come on in, boys."
Two bluecoats entered the room, gazed awkwardly about, and walked to
the window to peer down at the street. Then they passed out, not
without, it must be admitted, an envious glance at the collection of
jewels on the table.
As the door closed behind them, her Serene Highness turned toward Nita,
as she relaxed in the chair by the dressing-table.
"You may dress my hair, child. I wonder how the door was broken?"
"Ah, madame," was the guileless response. "_Quien sabe?_"
VI
OVER THE SEA AND FAR AWAY
That journey to the _Mauretania_ was never to be forgotten by Warren
Jarvis; and yet so weird, bruising, jumbling, and altogether horrible
was it, that he could never distinctly remember its details.
With hands stretched tensely against the corners of the trunk, he
warded off as best he could the shocks of the skilled baggage-breakers
along the route. Again and again, an unexpected twist would bang his
throbbing head against the adamantine sides, and with a wince, a sharp,
in-drawn breath, he would hold himself "together" for one more bump!
The air was stifling; yet the foresight of cutting the holes gave him
enough oxygen to maintain his senses. At last, after aeons of suffering
which reminded him of nothing so much as his initiation into the
college fraternity, he felt himself being dragged up the side of the
great ocean greyhound.
More jolts, more rolls and bangs, and at last, with muscles wrenched, a
swollen forehead and nerves aquiver, there was rest.
"I'm in her cabin at last--and now for a graceful exit!" he told
himself, with an enforced jocularity. But this was no easy task. He
spent a full half-hour, working and prying with the shears against the
lock which imprisoned him with indomitable force from the outside of
the iron-and-leathern prison.
Upon the outer deck of the great turbiner, the Princess nervously
fought her way through the great throng of voyagers and their friends.
Nita was close by her side. It seemed impossible to capture a steward
who was not busy with the bearing of bouquets and wine baskets. In
other circumstances this young personage would have been furious at the
lack of respect which she had been educated to expect from the throngs
of her own country.
But to-day her only anxiety was to find her elusive quarters for the
strange cruise, to learn whether or not her new knight-errant were
alive or dead from the rigors of his escape.
At last, with the aid of an extravagant _largesse_, she was conducted
to her staterooms.
As she entered the parlor of her luxurious suite, the first sight which
caught her eye was the trunk, inverted! The printed sign of direction,
"This End up with Care," were upside down!
She gasped, and looked nervously about to note the expression upon the
face of Nita. That young woman was busy studying the handsome features
of the ingratiating bedroom-steward. So engrossed was she that she
stumbled over the elevated sill of the door from the promenade deck.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, miss!" apologized the steward. "Did you hurt
yourself? These doors are always troublesome until you get used to
them. But they are necessary to keep out the water in rough weather."
The Princess was thinking only of the opportunity to open the fateful
trunk.
"You don't anticipate a bad passage, steward?"
"Rather uncertain, ma'am, at this time of the year," and he busied
himself adjusting the hand luggage and arranging the chairs. "But your
location is good. You'll find the _Mauretania_ as steady as a parish
church. Here is the clothes press, ma'am, and the other rooms are off
there. It's quite the finest suite on the boat, ma'am."
The steward looked about ingratiatingly, then he turned toward the
door.
"If you want anything, ma'am--there is the telephone.... I'll place
your trunk, if you please, ma'am!"
He started to drag the trunk to the side of the cabin, but the Princess
intervened.
"That's all right; you may place it later. But you _might_ fix it right
side up!"
The steward turned it, as the girl breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am. I hope the contents are not upset."
"I hope not."
"Anything else, ma'am?"
"No, not now, steward? How soon do we sail?"
"Very soon," and as he spoke there came the stentorian warning: "All
ashore that's going ashore!" The call was repeated four times, and the
voice died away in the distance of the long promenade deck.
With a bow, and a significant glance at the attractive maid, the
steward finally dragged himself out of the attractive cabin. The
Princess sank nervously into a chair.
"That is all, now, Nita. I have the key to the trunk. I will call you
when I need you."
"Yes, your Highness. But, will your Highness excuse me if I am mistaken
in thinking that I recognized his Excellency the Duke, your exalted
cousin, among the passengers as we came up the gangplank...?"
Her Highness was distinctly startled, but she showed no trace of her
emotion to the servant.
"My cousin--it is impossible. He is at Madrid, where his Majesty the
King is holding Court."
"Yes, your Highness," and she went, but her inflection showed that she
knew herself to be in the right. Nita was too good a servant to argue
with her betters.
"Carlos here? How could he be, I wonder?" and the Princess fumbled with
her keys, until she found the right one. She opened the trunk with a
trembling hand, and began to raise the cover, a quiver in her voice.
"Are you all right ... Mr. Jarvis?"
It was the voice of a nervous, frightened girl--not of a royal
personage--this time.
Just then she heard a knock on the cabin door. There was no time for a
response. "Quiet! Be careful!" she cautioned, _sotto voce_.
As she hurried to the door, she pulled her taut nerves together. There
on the threshold was her kinsman: Nita had been right as usual, in her
sharp way.
Carlos, Duke of Alva, with smiling lips and sinister eyes, greeted her
with the suave courtesy which is so characteristic of his race and
class. He typified the worst of the Spanish folk, even as the young
girl did the best. To a keen student of physiognomy the mental attitude
of the Duke of Alva would have been an open book. To Maria Theresa,
loyal to family and countrymen, he was the symbol of her own strata in
Spain--yet, beneath her gracious forgiveness of and enforced
indifference to many things, there lurked a latent mistrust, which she
had never yet defined in practical, applicable terms.
With white teeth, crisp-curling black hair, and eyes of sparkling
coal-shade, the Duke of Alva bowed with that polished grace which had
broken many a heart and carried him over many a stretch of thin ice, in
the courtly adventuring on the Continent.
"Carlos!" exclaimed the Princess.
"Fair cousin--if I but knew you were as pleased, as you are surprised,
at seeing me!" With the words he advanced and kissed her cold
finger-tips with Old-World punctiliousness.
"What are you doing on the _Mauretania_? Why did you leave Spain,
Carlos?"