“You are to drive me half a mile down the road and back again,”
said Rudolph sullenly to the aged Jehu who had carried Nemesis in a
tumble-down vehicle to the gateway of the lodge. “Don’t stop to think
about it. The sooner its done the sooner its over.”
With this philosophical remark, the Rexanian entered the carriage and
seated himself gloomily behind the taciturn and dispirited driver.
There was a melancholy aspect to the conveyance as it moved slowly away
from the lodge gate. The broken-hearted steed seemed to be plunged in
a gloomy revery regarding the iconoclastic influence of bicycles; the
driver cracked his tattered whip in a hopeless way, as if he realized
the impotence of his efforts to give an appearance of life and activity
to his antiquated turnout; while Rudolph’s face wore an expression of
mingled apprehension and dismay that grew more intense the farther he
rolled away from the manor-house.
It was this depressing caravan that met the restless gaze of Ludovics
about a quarter of a mile below the lodge. He had cut loose from his
alcoholic moorings at the road-house, and was tacking toward Rudolph’s
ill-fated residence with a purpose much more steady than his steps. He
paused by the side of the roadway and aroused Rudolph from his dark
forebodings by a loud cry.
“Rudolph!” shouted Ludovics. “Rudolph! Have they turned you out? Good! I
knew you were the right kind! Here, man, give me the grip.”
The little inebriate had reached the side of the carriage and seized
Rudolph’s cold, damp, flabby hand.
The lodge-keeper gazed calmly at his unruly compatriot. The thought had
entered his mind that it was possible to save time by sending Ludovics
for the doctor while he and his disheartened driver returned to the lodge.
“Ludovics,” remarked Rudolph, diplomatically, “I’m glad to see you.” Then
he leaned down over the back wheel and whispered, “Be cautious, Ludovics.
The driver there is not one of us.”
Ludovics flashed a glance of withering scorn at the bent back of the
phlegmatic Jehu.
“I see,” he said, with drunken gravity, “you have hypnotized him,
Rudolph. It is well.”
“Yes, that’s it,” answered the lodge-keeper, who was weighing all the
chances and trying to reach a decision. Finally he said, “Ludovics, I
must get back to the lodge at once. You passed a large white house with
pillars in front of it, about a quarter of a mile below here. There’s a
sign on the gate reading ‘Dr. C. H. Moore.’ Now I want you to go back
there and tell the doctor to come to the lodge at once. Do you understand
me?”
Ludovics drew himself up haughtily, as if Rudolph had cast a slur upon
his intellectual ability.
“Of course I understand you,” he answered, petulantly. Then a vivid
suspicion flashed through his befuddled brain.
“Tell me, Rudolph,” he cried, in low, feverish tones, “is he sick? Didn’t
his food agree with him? Ha ha! Well done, Rudolph! I knew you were the
right kind, Rudolph. He needs a doctor, does he? Good! I’ll go and get
the doctor, Rudolph. Give him something more to eat and drink before the
doctor gets there, brother. He’s a stubborn boy, you know. But I trust
you, Rudolph, I trust you. Dr. Moore, you said? Dr. Moore? Down the road?
Very good, Rudolph. I’m off.” Ludovics laughed with a fiendish glee that
horrified even the unimpressionable lodge-keeper.
“Be careful what you say, Ludovics,” he said, harshly. “Simply ring
the bell and say that Dr. Moore is wanted at the Strongs’ manor-house.
Understand me! Don’t talk too much, or you may get into trouble. Now go.”
Leaning forward, Rudolph directed the driver to arouse himself and his
horse from lethargy and return to the lodge gate. A moment later the
broken-spirited horse was retracing his steps hopelessly, while Rudolph
was leaning back in his seat in a more contented frame of mind. He had
saved at least ten minutes by entrusting his mission to Ludovics.
The latter had turned his back on the vehicle and was making his way down
the road at a pace that indicated a set purpose and a slight recovery
from alcoholic domination on his part. Suddenly he paused, looked back
at the retreating carriage, and, leaving the road, leaned against a
fence and indulged for a moment in an inward debate. Then he took from a
pocket in his coat a flask that he had purchased at the road-house, and,
removing the cork, swallowed a fiery mouthful of the raw liquor.
“I wonder,” he said argumentatively to himself, “I wonder if Rudolph is
a truly patriotic cook? There’s a king up here in Westchester County who
needs a doctor. I’m going for the doctor. I look well, don’t I, Ludovics,
getting a doctor for a sick king? I wish I knew how sick he is. If he’s
as sick of himself as I am of kings, he’ll die anyway.” He staggered to
the road and turned again toward the manor-house.
“I don’t think I’m a success going for doctors,” he mused. “I do better
when I’m going for kings.” He placed an unsteady hand on the rear pocket
of his trousers and satisfied himself that the revolver he had purchased
with a part of Norman Benedict’s gratuity was in its place.
“There’s nothing so good for a sick king as pills,” he muttered. “Pills!
Pills made of lead! They’re much more certain than Rudolph’s cooking.
Rudolph means well, but he doesn’t drink enough brandy.”
As this conclusion forced itself upon him, he stopped again and drew
fresh patriotic inspiration from his flask. It was beginning to grow
dark as Ludovics reached the high fence that enclosed the grounds of the
manor-house and ran up flush with the front wall of the lodge. The sun
had sunk in the west like a glowing cannon-ball blushing for its crimes.
“It’s lucky I’m small,” mused Ludovics, as he nimbly mounted the railing
and let himself down on the other side. For a moment it struck him as
curious that he could climb a fence with more assurance than he could
follow a roadway.
“That must be good brandy,” he muttered. “It doesn’t help my walking
much, but it makes me climb like a cat.”
Stealthily he made his way through the tangled grass that covered the
lawn until he stood beneath the balcony at the rear of the manor-house.
The waters of the Sound were leaden-hued, and the gathering gloom of
night gave a dreary aspect to the scene before him.
“The doctor has come,” said Ludovics to himself, a mocking smile
overspreading his face as he glanced upward and saw how easy it would
be for a man of his weight and agility to reach the second story of the
manor-house. “Just where my patient is, I don’t know, but I’m almost sure
that Rudolph said he was going to put the king in the rear room on the
second floor.” The cold, damp breeze that had arisen when the sun went
down chilled the murderous little Rexanian to the marrow: another pull at
the flask was necessary to check the trembling of his hands.
“I’ll cure him,” he continued, leaning against one of the posts that
supported the balcony. “I’ll cure him. My medicine chest is ready for
use. It never fails. When I doctor a king—eh, Ludovics?—he’s never sick
again, is he? Rudolph’s cooking is not so sure as my little pills.
One pill in a vital part, and the man is never sick again! Isn’t that
wonderful? Never sick again!”
Thus muttering to himself, Ludovics began to climb the post at the
southern end of the balcony, his teeth gleaming in the half-light as he
grinned maliciously, while his eyes glanced with feverish eagerness at a
ray of light that flared from a window above him.