The sun had peeped above the island to the eastward and was throwing
its caressing rays across the Sound. The storm that had chastised the
waters and grumbled its way inland had left a smiling daybreak in its
track. The Crown Prince of Rexania still tossed in feverish sleep upon
his bed upstairs as Posadowski and Posnovitch, who had obtained a short
but thorough rest, stood behind the old manor house, looking out upon the
golden shimmer that gilded the tossing waters of the Sound.
“There is only one way to deal with Ludovics,” said Posadowski,
emphatically. “There is a great risk in sending him back to the city, but
I dare not keep him here. He’s a murderous little man when in liquor,
and our force is not large enough to keep a close watch upon him. Now,
my plan is this. When the prince awakens, I will persuade him to write a
note giving you authority to get his belongings at the hotel. He wouldn’t
be thoroughly comfortable here in evening dress. I will also put Ludovics
in your charge. You must take him to the city and on your way down
intimate that if he returns here he will be locked up, and if he plays us
false in the city there are fourteen men each one of whom will swear to
have his life. Do you understand me, Posnovitch? Good! Go and call him.”
A few moments later Ludovics, pale and limp, felt the cool, morning
air kissing his fevered cheeks. He stood before Posadowski trembling,
repentant, and not quite clear in his mind. He vaguely realized that he
had done something mutinous, but just what it was he could not remember.
“Ludovics,” said Posadowski, sternly, “for the sake of the cause you
love, it is best that you should accompany Posnovitch to the city. Don’t
return here until you get an order from me. Understand?”
The small man trembled with nervousness, and his eyes filled with tears.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I forget what I did that annoyed you. I will
hereafter do as you wish. Come, Posnovitch,” he continued, meekly, “I am
ready to go with you.”
“There is no hurry,” remarked Posadowski, more gently than he had spoken
before. “Posnovitch will have to wait here until I get a note for him
from the crown prince.”
Ludovics’ eyes gleamed as the name of the man he had attempted to brain
with a bottle reached his ear. He gazed about him restlessly for a
moment, and then said, earnestly:
“Yes, Posadowski, you are right. It is better that I should go back to
New York.”
At three o’clock in the afternoon of this day, the city editor of the
_Trumpet_ sent for a reporter named Norman Benedict, a discreet but
energetic and ambitious youth, whose record in the office was high.
“Benedict,” said the editor, “I want you to read this cable despatch. I
will give you your orders afterward.”
He handed the reporter a proof of the despatch from Rexopolis that
Gerald Strong on the following morning was to read to his family at the
breakfast table.
“You can keep the proof for reference,” said the city editor, as the
young man glanced up from the despatch. “Now, I want you to get among the
Rexanians on the East Side and interview those who are willing to talk.
They may be close-mouthed, but they are a thirsty crowd, and by spending
a little money on them you will be able to set their tongues a-wagging.
Get your copy in early. I want to make as good a showing as possible on
the city end of this Rexanian business.”
Half an hour later, Norman Benedict was puffing a cigarette in the
restaurant near St. Mark’s Church, in which the reader first made the
acquaintance of the Rexanian conspirators. It was not yet four o’clock,
and the café was well-nigh deserted. In one corner of the room, however,
sat Ludovics, sipping brandy and smoking cigars. He felt lonely, and an
indistinct impression was upon him that somebody, somehow, had done him
a great wrong. He had depended upon liquor to clear his brain and to
restore him to a thorough comprehension of what had befallen him, but his
constitution was not equal to a full reaction, and the more brandy he
drank the more acute became his sense of wrong and his certainty as to
the source and character of the injustice that had been done him. There
were two ideas in his mind to which he clung tenaciously, and which, by
persistent nourishing, had become to his distorted consciousness facts
of great moment: he had been ill-treated by a king, and that king was
entertaining a few favored guests, with wild revelry, somewhere up in
Westchester County.
“Pardon me,” said Benedict, who suspected that Ludovics was a
Rexanian, partially because of his presence in the restaurant, but
in a larger degree on account of the little man’s peculiar cast of
countenance—“pardon me, but can you tell me where I can find somebody who
is well acquainted with the city of Rexopolis?”
The reporter had crossed the café and seated himself at the table at
which Ludovics preserved his wrongs in brandy. The disgraced conspirator
glared at the youth suspiciously. Benedict’s frank, smiling face disarmed
distrust.
“Before you answer,” went on the reporter, “permit me to order some fresh
cigars, and—and—you are drinking?”
“Brandy,” answered Ludovics, gratefully, for his supply of cash was
beginning to get low.
“Very good!” cried Benedict. “Waiter, bring out a pint of your choicest
cognac and half a dozen of your very best cigars.”
Ludovics smiled cordially. He liked this open-handed youth.
“You are from Rexania?” asked Benedict, as he lighted a cigar and gazed
earnestly at Ludovics’ flushed face.
“Rexania!” cried the latter, hysterically. “Rexania! Of course I’m from
Rexania. And, let me tell you, young man, I’m going back to Rexania. Did
you say the king wouldn’t let me? You lie, young man, you lie! He can’t
help it. How can a dead king keep a live man out of his fatherland? Tell
me that, will you?”
Ludovics paused and glanced around the deserted room suspiciously. Then
he again turned his eyes to the sympathetic face of his companion. He
vaguely felt that he should stop sipping liquor and keep his reckless
tongue quiet, but he was in a mood that craved expression, and Benedict’s
cordial manner was very soothing to the overwrought Rexanian. The
reporter had been successful in his profession from his power of allaying
suspicion and inspiring confidence.
“But, my friend,” suggested Benedict, quietly, “the king is not yet
dead—though very ill.”
Ludovics looked almost sober as he flashed an eager and inquiring glance
at the young man.
“How do you know that? Have you heard from Rexopolis?”
Benedict did not reply for a moment. He was carefully weighing a bold
step. Should he show this man the proof of the cable despatch he carried
with him? “He will be too drunk in an hour to sell the news to another
paper, even if he knew the ropes well enough when sober,” reflected
Benedict, as he took the proof-slip from his coat and handed it to
Ludovics.
The effect of the despatch on the Rexanian astonished the reporter. The
little man uttered a shout of triumph and then glanced anxiously around
the room. Seizing his brandy-glass, he drained it to the bottom. Such
glimmerings of common sense as had marked his conversation up to this
point deserted him on the instant. His disordered mind fell back upon
the idea that he had been wronged by a king, and that that king was
holding high carnival up in Westchester County.
“Young man,” he said, impressively, a wild gleam in his restless eyes,
“I don’t know who you are, but I’d trust you with my life. Listen!” He
leaned forward across the table and placed a clammy hand on Benedict’s
arm. “Listen! I’ve been drinking too much: haven’t I? Don’t lie to me.
I can see it in your face. I’m drunk, and you show it. That’s queer,
isn’t it? But I could tell you something that would make you drunk and me
sober. I’ll try it. Bend nearer to me. They don’t know in Rexania where
the crown prince is. The king is dying. Damn him! let him die. Look here,
boy, I’d kill all kings! Wouldn’t you?”
The intoxicated Rexanian gazed suspiciously at Benedict.
“Of course I would,” answered the reporter, heartily. A conviction had
come upon him that the little drunkard had something in his mind that was
not altogether an alcoholic hallucination.
“I knew you would,” cried Ludovics, in delight. “You’re not made of
dough, like—like—well, never mind their names. But look here, boy, I need
your help. There’s a king up in Westchester—do you hear me—who tried to
take my life.”
Benedict began to fear that he had been wasting time and money to no
purpose on this madcap foreigner, when the latter noting, with drunken
slyness, the change of expression on the youth’s face, felt that his
pride had been hurt.
“You doubt my word, boy,” he cried, angrily. “I don’t know who you are,
or what you mean by trying to find out what I mean. But I’m telling you
the truth. We’ve got the Crown Prince of Rexania up in Westchester,
and—and——” A look of horror crossed Ludovics’ face as he realized what he
had done. He trembled violently, and the tears poured down his cheeks.
“Let me have some more brandy,” he implored, in a weak voice, but before
the waiter could get it for him he had fallen forward on to the table and
into a deep stupor.
Norman Benedict arose, and, giving the waiter a bill, directed him to
see to it that the Rexanian was cared for until the next day, when he
would look in upon him. Then he hastily left the restaurant and strode
eagerly away. Whether he had received a newspaper “tip” of great value
or only the dregs of a drunkard’s mind he was not sure. But there had
been something in the words and manner of the brandy-soaked Rexanian that
strongly impressed Benedict with the idea that he could not afford wholly
to neglect the hint that had been thrown out. The despatch from Rexopolis
said that the crown prince had not been seen for weeks. Benedict turned
cold at the tremendous possibilities suggested by the thoughts that
crowded through his brain.
“I’ll abandon the interviews and run my risk,” he finally decided.
“My first step is to find out if there are any Rexanians living in
Westchester County. That ought to be easy. I’ll try the office first.”