The diplomat would say nothing more. When pressed by Charlie Rolfe he
said that it was a surmise. Until the truth was proved he refused to
speak more plainly.
"You declare that the plot by which an innocent child died was formed by
a friend of mine!" the younger man exclaimed.
"I tell you that such is my firm belief," Sir Charles repeated.
"To-morrow I will endeavour to discover whether the same influence that
caused the explosion of the bomb at Topschieder is responsible for the
Doctor's disappearance."
"But cannot you be more explicit?" asked Rolfe. "Who is the assassin--
the murderer of children?"
"At present I can say no more than what I have already told you," was
the diplomat's grave response.
"You believe that the same motive has led to the Doctor's disappearance
as was the cause of the bomb outrage at Topschieder?"
"I do."
"Then much depends upon the Doctor's death?"
"Very much. His enemies would reap a large profit."
"His enemies in the Skuptchina, you mean?"
"Those--and others."
"He had private enemies also--secret ones that were even more dangerous
than the blatant political orators."
"Then private vengeance was the cause?"
"No--not exactly; at least, I think not," Sir Charles replied. "But
please ask no more. I will tell you the truth when I have established
it."
"I wish I could discover where Maud is. Surely it is strange that the
Prime Minister's wife should have said she met her lately here, in
Belgrade."
"Maud Petrovitch is not in Servia. I am certain of that point."
"Why?"
"Because her father would never allow her to return here after that
tragedy at Topschieder."
"The assassin--the man who threw the bomb. Where is he?"
"In the fortress--condemned to a life sentence," the diplomat answered.
"He was caught while running away from the scene--a raw peasant from
Valjevo, hired evidently to hurl the bomb. He was subjected to a
searching examination, but would never reveal by whom he was employed.
He was tried and condemned to solitary confinement, which he now is
undergoing. You know the horrors of the fortress here, on the Danube,
with its subterranean cells--eh?"
"I've heard of them," responded the younger man. "But even that fate is
too humane for a man who would deliberately kill an innocent child!"
"A life sentence in the fortress is scarcely humane," the British
Minister remarked grimly. "No one has ever entered some of those
underground dungeons built by the Turks centuries ago. Their horrors
can only be surmised. To all outsiders, who have wished to inspect the
place, the Minister of Justice has refused admission."
"Then the assassin has only received his deserts."
"The person who formed the plot and used the ignorant peasant as his
cat's-paw should be there too--or even instead of him," declared Sir
Charles angrily. "The peasant suffers, while the real culprit gets off
scot-free and unknown."
"Then he is still unknown?" exclaimed Rolfe in surprise.
"Save to perhaps three persons, of whom I am one."
"And also the man who threw the bomb!"
"I have heard that the solitary confinement in a dark cell already
worked its effect upon him. He is hopelessly insane."
Rolfe drew a long breath, and glanced around the cosy room with its long
row of well-filled book-cases, its big writing-table, and its smaller
tables filled with Japanese bric-a-brac, of which Sir Charles was an
ardent collector.
In the silence that fell the footman tapped at the door and presented a
card. Then Rolfe, declaring that he must go, rose, gripped the
grey-haired Minister's hand, and extracting from him a promise to tell
the truth as soon as he had established it, followed the smart English
footman down the stairs.
That night, as he sat amid the clatter and music of the brilliantly lit
Grand Cafe, he reflected deeply on all that had been told him, wondering
who was the friend who had been responsible for the outrage, which had
induced the Doctor to forsake his native land never to return. Servia
was a country of intrigue and unrest, as is every young country. He
looked around the tables at the gay crowd of smart officers with their
ribbons and crosses upon their breasts and their well-dressed womenkind,
and wondered whether any fresh conspiracy was in progress.
The rule of King Peter--maligned though that monarch had been--had
brought beneficent reforms to Servia. And yet there was an opposition
who never ceased to hurl hard epithets against him, and to charge him
with taking part in a plot, of the true meaning of which he certainly
had had no knowledge.
Belgrade is a city in which plots against the monarchy are hinted at and
whispered in the corners of drawing-rooms, where diplomacy is a mass of
intrigue, a city of spies and sycophants, of concession-hunters and
political cliques. Gay, pleasant, and easy-going, with its fine
boulevard, its pretty Kalamegdan Garden, and its spick-and-span new
streets, it is different to any other capital of Europe; more full of
tragedy, more full of plot and counter-plot.
Austria is there ever seeking by her swarm of secret agents to stir up
strife and to organise demonstrations against the reigning dynasty.
Germany is there seeking influence and making promises, while Bulgaria
is ever watchful; Turkey is silent and spectral, and Great Britain looks
on neutral, but noting every move of the deep diplomatic juggling of the
Powers.
At night amid the clatter, the laughter, and the gipsy music of the
Grand Cafe, with its billiard tables in the centre and its restaurant
adjoining, the stranger would never dream of its close proximity to the
tragedy of a throne. Just as the bright lights and calm, moonlit sea
throw a glamour over that plague spot Monte Carlo, until the visitor
believes that no evil can lurk in that terrestrial paradise, so in
Belgrade is everything so pleasant, so happy, so careless that the
stranger would never dream that the whole city sits ever upon the edge
of a volcano, and that the red flag of revolt is ready at any, moment to
be hoisted.
Charlie Rolfe knew Belgrade, and knew the tragedy that underlay its
brightness. What greater tragedy could there be than the death of the
innocent child blown to atoms by the bomb?
Who could be the culprit whom Sir Charles had told him was his "friend."
He had known the Doctor well, but not intimately as Max Barclay had
done. Curious that Max had told him nothing concerning that tragic
incident which had caused the Servian statesman and patriot to turn his
back upon his beloved country and live in studious seclusion in England.
Max had told him many things, but had never mentioned that subject.
Was Max Barclay the "friend" to whom Sir Charles had referred. Was it
really possible? He held his breath, contemplating the end of his
half-smoked cigar and wondering.
It was a strange suspicion. Of late, ever since Max had charged him
with having been present at Cromwell Road on the night of the
disappearance, he had somehow held aloof from the man to whom Marion was
so devoted.
And now? Even she had disappeared! What could it mean?
Did Max Barclay really know how and why Marion had disappeared, and for
motives of his own was making a mystery?
The message from Barclay worried him. Marion was missing. Why had she
left Cunnington's? She must have left of her own accord, he felt
confident. She would never be discharged. Sam Statham would never, for
a moment, allow that.
A tall man with a fair, pointed beard approached him, raised his hat,
and gripped his hand. It was Drukovitch, the director of the National
Theatre, and a friend of his. The new-comer seated himself at the
table, and the waiter brought a tiny glass of "slivovitza," or plum gin,
that liqueur so dear to the Servian palate. Drukovitch was one of the
best-known and most popular men in Belgrade; a thorough-going
cosmopolitan, and a man of the world. Sometimes he went to London, and
whenever there Charlie entertained him at his club, or they went to the
theatre and supped at the Savoy.
As they chatted, Rolfe explaining that he was in Servia upon financial
matters as usual, Drukovitch nodded to the officers and civilians whom
he knew, many of them famous for the part they had played in the recent
_coup d'etat_. Some of them, indeed, wore the white-enamelled cross,
which decoration marked them as partisans of the dynasty of the
Karageorge. And meanwhile the orchestra were playing the popular waltz
from "The Merry Widow," the air haunting everybody and everyone.
That night there was a court hall at the Palace, and the forthcoming
event was upon everyone's lips. There was seldom any entertainment at
the New Konak, for his Majesty led a very quiet life, the almost ascetic
life of a soldier--riding out at dawn, attending to duties of state
during the day, and retiring early.
Perhaps the most maligned man in all Europe, King Peter of Servia was,
nevertheless, known to those intimate around the throne to be a most
conscientious ruler, fully aware of all his responsibilities, and
striving ever to pacify the various political factions, sustaining the
prestige of Servia abroad, and ameliorating the condition of his people
at home.
The truth regarding King Peter had never been written. Of libels and
vile calumnies there had been volumes, but no journalist had ever dared
to put into print the real facts of King Peter's innocence of any
connivance at the dastardly murder of Alexander and Draga.
Those who knew the real facts admired King Peter as a man and fearless
patriot, but those who gathered their information from sensational
newspapers and scurrilous books emanating from Austria believed every
lie that the back-stairs scribes chose to write.
Drukovitch was one of the men who knew the truth, and many a time he had
explained them to his friend, who, in turn, had told old Sam Statham,
the hard-headed misanthrope whose prejudices were so strong, and yet the
chords of whose heart-strings were so readily touched.
Sam had lent money to Servia--huge sums. And why? Because he knew his
Majesty personally, and had heard from his own lips the story of his
tragic difficulties and his high aspirations.
Once, indeed, in that silent study in Park Lane he had been reading a
confidential report from Belgrade, predicting a black outlook, when he
turned to his secretary and said:
"Rolfe. There will be trouble in Servia. But even though I may lose
the million sterling I have loaned it will not trouble me. I have tried
to assist an honest man who is at the same time a philanthropist and a
king."
Charlie Rolfe recollected these words at that moment as he sat amid the
noise and chatter of the cafe, where, above every other sound, rose the
sweet, tuneful strains of the waltz that had within the past few weeks
gripped all Europe.
There was something bizarre, something incongruous with it all.
He was thinking of his lost love--his sweet-faced Maud with the unruly
wisp of hair straying across her white brow.
Where was she? Ay, where was she?