Saunders, having selected the most comfortable chair in the hotel lobby, was dozing placidly when Mark rushed in, and shook the detective vigorously.
"Wake up," he called. "Will you come with me to Washington? When is there a train connecting with the Congressional Limited? Father Murray wants to catch that."
Saunders was alert in an instant.
"Sure, I'll go. Train leaves in fifty minutes; you get the Limited at the Junction—have to wait nearly an hour for the connection, though. What's up?"
"Hurry! I'll tell you later. Pack only what you need. Here, you pay the bills." Mark shoved his purse into Saunders' hands. "Keep the rooms; we'll need them when we return. I'm off. Oh, yes! I forgot." Mark stopped on his way to the stairs. "Telephone the Padre about the train."
In good time, Father Murray, Mark and Saunders stood at the end of the station platform, grips in hand.
"Now, open up," said Saunders. "What's wrong?"
Mark looked inquiringly at the priest. Father Murray briefly gave the detective a resume of what had occurred, including the information which had so stunned Mark Griffin, and now had an even more stunning effect on Saunders, the information regarding the priest's relationship to Ruth Atheson.
"But, Father, this looks like the impossible. It's unbelievable that these people could be mistaken about someone they had trailed from Europe. They were so sure about it that they killed that officer."
"Ruth Atheson is my sister's daughter, Mr. Saunders," was the only answer vouchsafed by the priest. He boarded the train, followed by his companions.
Saunders sat in puzzled silence till the junction point was reached. Then the three alighted, and Father Murray turned to the detective.
"Mr. Saunders, I am going to ask a favor of you. I do not know how long I may be away, and my parish is unattended. The Bishop is here to-day on his Confirmation tour, and I am going to take Mr. Griffin with me and call on him. Will you remain here in charge of our effects?"
"Sure, Father. Go on." He glanced toward the bulletin board. "The Limited is late, and you have more than an hour yet. I'll telegraph for sleeper reservations."
Father Murray and Mark started out for the rectory. Very little was said on the way. The priest was sad and downcast, Mark scarcely less so.
"I almost fear to meet the Bishop, Mark," Father Murray remarked, as they approached the rectory, "after that shock the other day; but I suppose it has to be done."
The Bishop was alone in his room and sent for them to come up. There was a trace of deep sorrow in his attitude toward the priest, joined to surprise at the visit. To Mark he was most cordial.
"My Lord," the priest began, "circumstances compel me to go to Washington for a few days, perhaps longer. My parish is unattended. The matter which calls me is urgent. Could you grant me leave of absence, and send someone to take my place?"
The Bishop glanced at Mark before he answered. Mark met his gaze with a smile that was full of reassurance. The Bishop seemed to catch the message, for he at once granted Father Murray's request.
"Certainly, Monsignore, you may go. I shall send a priest on Saturday, and telegraph Father Darcy to care for any sick calls in the meantime."
Mark lingered a moment as Father Murray passed out. The Bishop's eyes were appealing, and Mark could not help whispering:
"It will all come out right, Bishop. Cease worrying. When we return I think you will feel happier. Your message was carried to Monsignore."
At the station Saunders was waiting. "Everything is arranged," he announced. "I tried to get drawing-rooms or compartments, but they were all gone. The last was taken five minutes before I telephoned. I have sections for you both and a lower for myself. It was the best possible, so late."
When the train came in and they had disposed of their effects, Father Murray sat down and took out his breviary. Mark and Saunders, anxious for a smoke, sought the buffet car five coaches ahead. They sat down and Mark passed the detective his cigarette case.
"Thanks, no," said Saunders. "I like the long black fellows best." He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lighted it. He appeared nervous.
"Griffin," he said, after a long silence, "there is something peculiar about this whole business."
"Yes, I know that very well."
"It is quite a little more peculiar than you think. The abduction of the lady was no surprise to me. It is quite in line with what I expected. They had to get her somehow. The way they are supposed to have taken would probably look the best way to them."
"'Supposed to have taken?' What do you mean?"
"Easy now, I'm coming to that. This lady cannot be the Duchess and Ruth Atheson at the same time."
"Decidedly not."
"She is one or the other."
"Well?"
"Either there is no Duchess, or no Ruth Atheson."
"True; but I cannot question the Padre's word. That, at least, I know is good. Then, look at his distress."
"Sure, I know that. I have been looking. And I've been thinking till my brain whirls. The Padre wouldn't lie, and there's no reason why he should. But if the lady is Ruth Atheson, she isnotthe Duchess?"
"N-no."
"Then why did they shoot that poor devil of an Italian? And why the abduction?"
"Oh, I don't know, Saunders." Mark spoke wearily.
"Whoever she is, she can't be in two places at one time, can she?"
"For heaven's sake, Saunders!" Mark's look was wild, his weariness gone. "What are you driving at? You'll have my brain reeling, too. What is it now?"
"I thought I'd get you," coolly retorted Saunders. "Here's where the mystery gets so deep that it looks as if no one can ever fathom it." He paused.
"Well?" snapped Mark, exasperatedly.
"From habit a detective is always looking about for clues and possible bits of information. And so, largely as a matter of habit, I glanced into every open compartment as we passed through the coaches. In the second car from this the porter was entering Drawing Room A. I had a clear view of the people inside, and—" the speaker's tone became impressive—"one was that old lady who told you of the abduction; the other was—your lady of the tree."
Mark jumped, and seemed about to rise, but Saunders held him back.
"Don't do that; there may be others to notice."
"Ruth? You saw Ruth?"
"I saw that lady, Ruth Atheson or the Duchess, whichever she is, and the other. I made no mistake. I know for sure. The lady of the tree is on this train."
It was very late when Mark and Saunders retired to their berths. Father Murray was already sleeping; they could hear his deep, regular breathing as they passed his section. Both were relieved, for they dreaded letting him know what Saunders had discovered. Indeed all their conversation since Saunders had told Mark of this new development, had been as to whether they should break the news gently to the priest, and if so, how; or whether it would be better to conceal it from him altogether.
Mark tossed in his berth with a mind all too active for sleep. He was greatly troubled. Cold and calm without, he was far from being cold and calm within. When he had believed Ruth to be the runaway Grand Duchess he had tried to put her out of his heart. He knew, even better than Saunders, that, while there might be love between them, there could never be marriage. The laws that hedge royalty in were no closed book to this wanderer over many lands. But he had believed that she loved him, and there had been some satisfaction in that, even though he knew he would have to give her up. But the sight of the love passage between the girl and the unfortunate officer had opened his eyes to other things; not so much to the deep pain of having lost her, as to the deeper pain caused by her deception. What was the reason for it? There surely had been no need to deceive him. Or—Mark was startled by the thought—had it all been part of an elaborate plan to conceal her identity in fear of her royal father's spies? Mark well believed that this might explain something—until he thought of Father Murray. There was no doubting the priest's words. He had said positively that the girl was Ruth Atheson, his own niece; and Mark remembered well the sweet face of the child in the big London church fifteen years before. He knew that he had begun to love Ruth then, and that he could never love anyone else. Now came the crowning cause of worry. Supposedly abducted as the Grand Duchess, she was even now free, and attended by her own servant, in this very train. What part in the strange play did the false abduction have? Mark could think of no solution. He could only let things drift. Through his worries the wheels of the train kept saying:
"You love her—you love her—" in monotonous cadence. And he knew that, in spite of everything, he would love her to the end.
Then his thoughts went back to the beginning, and began again the terrible circle. Despairing of getting any sleep, and too restless to remain in the berth, Mark determined to get up and have a quiet smoke. He was just arising when there came a most terrific crash. The whole car seemed to rise under him. His head struck sharply against the end of the berth and for an instant he could not think clearly. Then he was out. It looked as if one end of the car had been shattered. There were shouts, and cries of pain. The corridor was filled with frightened people scantily clad; a flagman rushed by with a lantern and his hastily-flung words were caught and repeated:
"Collision—train ahead—wooden car crushed." Cries began to arise outside. A red glare showed itself at the windows. The passengers rushed out, all white with fear.
Saunders was beside Mark. "The Padre! Where is he?" he cried.
"In his berth; he may be hurt."
They drew back the curtains. Father Murray was huddled down at the end of his section, unconscious. The blow had stunned him. Mark lifted him up as Saunders went for water. Then they carried him out and laid him down in the air. He opened his eyes.
"What—what is it?" he asked.
"Wreck—there was a collision," answered Saunders.
Father Murray struggled to arise. "Collision? Then I must go forward, if it is forward—where the people are—maybe dying."
Mark made no attempt to stop him. He knew it would be useless, and he knew, too, that it was only the Soldier of the Cross called to his battlefield. When Saunders would have remonstrated Mark motioned him to silence.
"Let him go, Saunders," he said. "Perhaps his whole life has been a preparation for this. I have given up trying to interfere with God's ways."
So the Padre went, and his friends with him. The dead and wounded were being borne from the two wrecked Pullmans, but the Padre seemed led by some instinct to go on to where the engine was buried in the torn and splintered freight cars of the other train.
"The engineer and the fireman! Where are they?" he asked of the frightened conductor.
The man pointed to the heap of splinters. "In there," he answered.
The priest tore at the pile, but could make no impression on it.
"My God!" he cried to Mark; "they may need me. And I cannot get to them."
A groan beneath his very hands was the answer. The priest and Mark tore away enough of the splinters to see the face beneath. The eyes opened and, seeing the priest, the man essayed to speak; the priest bent low to catch the words.
"Father—don't—risk—trying—to get me—out—before you hear—my confession."
"But the flames are breaking out. You'll be caught," remonstrated Mark. "You have a chance if we act quickly."
"The only—chance—I want—is my—confession. Quick—Father."
With his head held close to that of the dying man, the priest listened. The men stood back and saw the smoke and flames arise out of the pile of splintered timbers. Then the priest's hand was raised in absolution.
"Quick now!" called Father Murray; "get him out."
The men stooped to obey, but saw that it was no use. The blood-spattered face was calm, and around the stiller lips there lingered a smile, as though the man had gone out in peace and unexpected contentment.
Turning aside, they found the fireman, and one man from the wrecked freight, lying beside the tracks—both dead. Then they went to the lengthening line along the fence. The priest bent over each recumbent form. At some he just glanced, and passed on, for they were dead. For others he had only a few words, and an encouraging prayer. But sometimes he stopped, and bent his head to listen, then lifted his hand in absolution; and Mark knew he was shriving another poor soul.
Suddenly the same thought seemed to come to both Mark and Saunders. Quickly passing along the line of pain and death, they both looked for the same face. It was not there. Yetshehad been in the wrecked coach. The light of a relief train was showing far down the straight track, as Mark turned to a brakeman.
"Are there any others?"
"Yes; two—across the track."
Mark and Saunders hastened to the other side. Two women were bending over the forms laid on the ground. One glance was enough. The whole world seemed to spin around Mark Griffin. Ruth and Madame Neuville were lying there—both dead.
The strange women who were standing around seemed to understand. They stepped back. Mark knelt beside the girl's body. He could not see through his tears—but they helped him. He tried to pray, but found that he could only weep. It seemed as though there were a flood within pushing to find exit and bring comfort to him. He could think of her now in but one setting—a great empty church at the end of springtime, crowds passing outside, a desolate man behind a closed door, and a little child, with the face of an angel, sitting alone in a carven pew. He could hear her answer him in her childish prattle, could feel her cool little hand slip into his as she asked about the lonely man within. Then he remembered the kiss. The floods dried up. Mark's sorrow was beyond the consolation of tears.
Saunders aroused him.
"Be careful, Griffin. The Padre will come. Don't let him see her yet. He was hurt, you know, and he couldn't stand it."
Slowly Mark arose. He couldn't look at her again. Saunders said something to the women, and they covered both bodies with blankets from the wrecked car, just as the priest came up.
"Are there others?" the priest asked.
Saunders looked at Mark as if begging him to be silent.
"No, Father, no others."
"But these—" he pointed to the blanket-covered bodies.
"They are—already dead, Father."
"God rest them. I can do no more."
The priest turned to cross the track, and almost fell. Mark sprang to support him. The relief train came in and another priest alighted, with a Protestant clergyman, and the surgeons and nurses.
"It's all right, Father," said Father Murray to his confrere. "I found them all and gave absolution. I'm afraid that I am tired. There are many of your people, too," he said, turning to the Protestant clergyman. "I wish I were able to go back and show—"
He was tired. They carried him into the relief train, unconscious. The young priest and the Protestant clergyman came frequently to look at him as the train sped on toward Baltimore. But there was no cause for alarm; Father Murray was only overcome by his efforts and the blow. In half an hour he was helping again, Mark and Saunders watching closely, in fear that he might lift the blanket that covered the face of Ruth Atheson.
When Father Murray came to where she had been placed in the train, Mark put his hand on the priest's arm.
"Don't, please, Father. She is dead—one of the two you saw lying on the other side when you came over."
"Yes, I know. But I should like to see." Father Murray started to raise the cloth, but again Mark stopped him.
"Please do not look, Father."
The deep sadness in Mark's voice caused the priest to stare at him with widely opened eyes. A look of fear came into them as he glanced at the covered body. For the first time he seemed afraid, and Saunders drew near to catch him. But he did not fall.
"I think—Mark—that I will look. I can drink of the chalice—if it must be—I am sure I can. Don't be afraid for me, my friend. Draw the blanket back."
But Mark could not.
Father Murray pushed him gently aside and lifted the covering reverently and slowly. He dropped it with a faint gasp as the face stood revealed. Then he leaned over the dead girl and searched the features for a full half minute, that seemed an age to Mark. The priest's lips moved, but Mark caught only a few words: "I thank Thee for sparing me, Lord."
He caught the end of the blanket and once more covered the dead face. Then he turned and faced Mark and Saunders.
"God rest her. It is not Ruth."
"God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"[Illustration: "God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"]
"God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"[Illustration: "God rest her," Father Murray said after what seemed an age to Mark; "it is not Ruth!"]
Mark stared bewildered. Had the priest's, mind been affected by the blow, and the subsequent excitement? Father Murray sensed what was going on in Mark's mind.
"Can't you trust me, Mark? I know that the likeness is marvelous—"
"Likeness?" gasped Mark. But there was a whole world of hope in his voice.
"Yes, my friend—likeness. I—" the priest hesitated—"I knew her well. It is not Ruth."
A long, low-built limousine kept passing and repassing the Ministry, and taking excursions to the parks, in an evident effort to kill time. At last, the street being well clear of pedestrians and vehicles, the car drew up in front of the house, the door of which was quickly thrown open. The chauffeur descended and opened the door of the car, but said nothing. A man stepped out backward.
"We have arrived, Your Highness," he said to someone within. "Will you walk across the path to the door, or will you force us again to be disrespectful in carrying out our orders?"
From within a girl's voice answered:
"You need not fear; I shall make no outcry."
"The word of Your Highness is given. It would be painful for us to be disrespectful again. Come."
The girl who stepped out of the car was unmistakably Ruth Atheson. Behind her came a raw-boned, muscular woman, and a powerful-looking man.
As she was hurried between the tall stone gateposts and up the cement walk, Ruth had but little time to observe her surroundings; but her eyes were quick, and she saw that the house she was about to enter was set some twenty feet back in quiet roomy grounds bordered by an ornamental stone wall. Distinguishing the house from its neighbors was a narrow veranda extending for some distance across the front, its slender columns rising to such a height that the flat roof, lodged with stone, formed a balcony easily accessible from the second floor. To one side, between the wall and the house, was a large tree whose foliage, loath to leave the swaying boughs, defied the autumn breeze.
Before she had time to observe more, the party entered the Ministry; the door was closed quickly, and Ruth's companions stood respectfully aside. His Excellency was already coming down the steps, and met her at the foot of the stairs. Bowing low, he kissed the white hand before Ruth could prevent.
"We are highly honored by the presence of Your Highness."
With another low bow he stood aside, and Ruth passed up the stairs. His Excellency conducted her into the room wherein the conference regarding her had been held only a few days before.
"Your Highness—" he began.
But Ruth interrupted him. "I do not understand your language."
The Minister rubbed his hands, smiled, and, still using the foreign language, said, "I am surprised that Your Highness should have forgotten your native tongue during such a short sojourn in America."
Ruth spoke somewhat haughtily.
"I think, Your Excellency, that I know who you are—and also why I am here. Permit me to tell you that you have made a serious blunder. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta."
The Minister smiled again, and started to speak. But Ruth again interrupted him.
"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but if you insist upon talking to me, I must again request that you speak a language I can understand. I have already told you that I do not understand what you say."
The Minister still kept his smile, and still rubbed his hands, but this time he spoke in English.
"It shall be as Your Highness wishes. It is your privilege to choose the language of conversation. We will speak in English, although your own tongue would perhaps be better."
"My own tongue," said Ruth, "is the language that I am using; and again I must inform Your Excellency that I am not the Grand Duchess. You have simply been guilty of abduction. You have taken the wrong person."
For answer the Minister went over to the mantel and picked up a portrait, which he extended toward the girl.
"I know," said Ruth, "I know. Many times in Europe I have been subjected to annoyance because of the resemblance. I know the Grand Duchess very well, but my name is Ruth Atheson."
The tolerant smile never left the face of the Minister.
"Your Highness shall have it as you wish. I am satisfied with the resemblance. Since you left San Sebastian there has been scarcely a minute that you have not been under surveillance. It is true that you were lost for a little while in Boston, but not completely. We traced you to Sihasset. We tracedhimthere also finally—unfortunately for the poor fellow."
Ruth started: "You have not—"
The Minister looked sad. "Alas! Highness," he said, "he is no more—-an unfortunate accident. We do not even know where his body is. I fear he may have been drowned, or something worse. At any rate he will trouble you no more."
The face of the girl showed keen distress. "Poor child!" was all she could say.
"He was not, Highness, exactly a child, you know," suggested the Minister.
"I was not referring tohim."
The Minister's smile returned.
"Then, Highness, perhaps you were referring to the Grand Duchess."
"I was referring to the Grand Duchess."
All this time His Excellency never lost his air of respect, but now a somewhat more familiar tone crept into his voice.
"Highness," he said, "you will pardon me, I know, if I issue orders in your regard. All is being done by your father's commands, given to me through His Majesty. You know as well as I do that your marriage to this Italian adventurer was impossible. You know that you are next in line of succession, but you do not know something else. You do not know that your father is even now dangerously ill. Your escapade has been hushed up to avoid scandal, for you may be sitting on the throne within a month. You must return to Ecknor, and you must return at once. The easiest way, and the best way, would be to notify the Washington papers that you have arrived on a visit to Americaincognito, and that you are now a guest at the Ministry. Though it is already midnight, I have prepared such a statement. Here is it." The Minister pointed to a number of sealed envelopes on the desk. "If you consent to be reasonable, I shall have these dispatched by messenger at once, and to-morrow make arrangements for your entertainment. We shall send you to see some of the cities of the United States before you leave again for Europe. In this way your presence in America is explained. Nothing need ever be said about this unfortunate matter, and I can promise you that nothing will be said about it when you return home."
It was Ruth's turn to smile.
"You are overlooking one thing, Excellency, and that the most important. I am not the Grand Duchess."
"Of course, Highness. You have explained that before. It would not become me to contradict you, and yet you cannot blame me for carrying out my orders. If you do not agree to the plan I have suggested, I must put you under restraint. No one will be permitted to see you, and proper arrangements will be made to have you transferred secretly to one of our warships, which will be making a cruise—for your especial benefit—to America in the course of a month. A month, Highness, is a long time to wait in restraint, but you must see that there is nothing else for me to do."
Ruth was obliged to smile in spite of herself at the mixture of firmness and respect in the suave Minister's tones. He was encouraged by the smile.
"Ah," he said, "I see that Your Highness will be reasonable."
Ruth looked him straight in the eye.
"But what if I should convince Your Excellency that you have made a mistake, that I am telling you the truth when I say I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta?"
The Minister bowed. "It would be easy to convince me, Highness, if you could produce for me one who is more likely to be the Grand Duchess than yourself. But, alas! could there be two such faces in the world?" Admiration shone out of the little man's eyes.
"There is no doubt, Excellency," said Ruth, still smiling, "that His Majesty was wise in appointing you a diplomat. We shall be good friends even though I have to stay. You are making a mistake, and I am afraid you will have to pay for it. I shall, however, be a model boarder, and possibly even enjoy my trip on the warship. But I certainly shall not receive your friends at a reception, nor will I permit you to give me the honors due the Grand Duchess. Neither can I produce her. She is probably far away by this time. I will tell you my story, and you may judge for yourself."
His Excellency bowed profoundly.
"Your Highness is most gracious," he said. "Will you permit me to be seated?"
"Certainly, Your Excellency."
The Minister drew up a chair and sat down, with a low bow, before his desk; but not before he had placed Ruth in a chair where the light would shine full on her face. He seemed now to be a changed man—almost a judge; and the fingers thrummed on the glass as they had done during the conference with Wratslav and Ivan.
With a half-amused smile, Ruth began.
"Excellency, my name is Ruth Atheson. You may easily verify that by sending for my uncle, Monsignore Murray, of Sihasset, with whom I made my home until he went to college in Rome to study for the priesthood. I was left in Europe to receive my education. Afterward I came to America to be near my uncle, but I made frequent trips to Europe to visit friends. It was during one of these visits that I first met the Grand Duchess Carlotta, four years ago, at San Sebastian. The remarkable likeness between us caused me, as I have already told you, a great deal of annoyance. Her Highness heard of it and asked to meet me.
"We became close friends, so close that in her trouble she turned to me. I was with relatives in England at the time. She wrote asking me to receive her there, telling me that she intended to give up her claim to the throne and marry Luigi del Farno, whom she sincerely loved. I sent her a long letter warning her against the step—for I knew what it meant—and advising her that I was even then preparing to leave for America. Unfortunately, she knew my address and followed me to Sihasset, directing her lover to wait until she sent for him.
"I knew that the best means of concealing her would be to play upon the likeness between us, and never go out together. For extra precaution, when either of us went out, a veil was worn. She was taken for Ruth Atheson; and Ruth Atheson, by your detectives, was taken for the Grand Duchess Carlotta. Indeed," and here Ruth smiled, "she was very much taken—in an auto, and as far as Washington. You propose now to take her still farther. The Grand Duchess would know, ten minutes after it happened, of my abduction, and she would guess who was responsible. So you may be certain that she is no longer at Sihasset. The picture you have, Your Excellency, is the picture of the Grand Duchess, not of me. It happened that, as I was walking outside the gates of my home, your friends appeared. The mistake was quite natural."
The Minister had listened respectfully while Ruth spoke, but he was not convinced.
"It would be discourteous in me, Highness," he said, "to doubt your word. But it would be worse than discourteous were I to accept it. I am sorry; but you must offer me more than statements. My men could scarcely have been deceived. They followed you each time you came out. Two people do not look so much alike—especially outside of families—"
His Excellency's eyes opened as he flashed a keen look at Ruth. The name "Atheson" had suddenly commenced to bother him. What was it he should have remembered—and couldn't? The intentness of his gaze disconcerted Ruth. The Minister changed it to look down at his thrumming fingers, and continued in his suavest tones, following that scarcely perceptible pause.
"—as to deceive men trained in the art of spying. I can only repeat what I have already said: there are two courses open, and it is for you to determine which you prefer."
"You may be sure, then, Your Excellency," said Ruth, "that I shall not select the course that would put me in a false light before all the world. I am not the Grand Duchess Carlotta, and I must refuse to be taken for her. My uncle will not be long in deciding who is responsible for my abduction, and I can assure you that you will have explanations to make before your warship arrives."
The Minister arose promptly as Ruth stood up, her hand resting lightly on the desk.
"I am tired, Your Excellency," she continued, "and—since you insist on my being the guest of your government—I will ask to be conducted to my apartments."
The Minister bowed. "If Your Highness will permit." He touched a bell. The raw-boned woman was in the room so quickly that Ruth wondered if she had been all the time just outside the door. At a signal from His Excellency, the woman picked up Ruth's wrap and gloves. His Excellency meanwhile, with a low bow, had opened the door. Ruth passed into the broad corridor and, accompanied by the Minister, proceeded to a handsome suite of rooms.
The Minister turned to Ruth. "I am sorry, Your Highness, but I have strict instructions in the event of your refusal to comply with my suggestion, that you are to remain in strict seclusion. I cannot permit you to see or speak to anyone outside, so I hope you will not embarrass me by making any such request." He pointed toward the windows. "You will notice, Highness, that there is a balcony in front of your apartments. In the next room, which also opens upon the balcony, is a guard. There will be a guard also at your door and another on the lawn below. Your windows will be under constant surveillance, though you will never see the guards unless you venture forth. Your guards will be changed constantly, and it will be—" the minister's pause was significant, the tone of his voice even more so "—unwise—to attempt to gain their friendship. They might find it—disastrous." Again the smooth significance of the voice. He paused for a moment, then spoke more lightly.
"If Your Highness will permit, Madam, my wife, will call on you and be at your disposal at any time, as also my daughters. Since you have no maid with you, Madame Helda," His Excellency called the raw-boned woman from the next room as he spoke, "will wait upon you. Everything to make your stay pleasant and comfortable has been arranged. But you are an important personage and if we are firm, Your Highness, it is not because we wish to be, but only because of duty to your country, and to yourself. If you decide, at any time, that you should like to see America, you have only to summon me. Your Highness will permit me to retire?"
"Certainly, Your Excellency, and thank you."
With a profound bow His Excellency left the room. Ruth examined her apartments with a pleased smile of gratification—for they looked anything but a prison. The Minister knew how to make rooms pleasant.
The diplomat went slowly downstairs. He had lost his smile, and his face was contracted with worry. The girl's story had impressed him more than he had cared to own, and there was much of the human in him, in spite of the diplomat's veneer. Then the name "Atheson" sounded insistently in his ears and, momentarily, he felt that he was almost grasping the clue as he strove to remember.
As he entered the library, his secretary stood up, a yellow paper in his hands.
"I have been waiting to hand this to you personally, Excellency."
The Minister took the paper. It was a cablegram translated from code, which read:
"The Duke is dead. If Her Highness has arrived do everything possible to bring her to understand that there must be no scandal. Be absolutely firm and have her return at any risk without delay. TheCaspianhas been dispatched from the coast of France and should arrive in ten days. We have given out that the Duchess is traveling incognito, but has been notified to return."
The worry on the Minister's face deepened.
"This complicates matters, Wratslav," he said, "and makes it more imperative that Her Highness be kept most strictly secluded. Go to bed now. We shall have enough to keep us awake for the next ten days."
Wratslav left, but the Minister sat down at his desk. Morning found him there asleep.
At eleven o'clock, His Excellency the Minister was handed a card which read:
"RIGHT REV. DONALD MURRAY, D.D."
Touching a bell, His Excellency summoned Wratslav.
"There is a clergyman," he said, "who calls on me. I do not know him, and of course I cannot guess his business. Perhaps you will see him."
The secretary bowed and went out. As he entered the reception room, Father Murray arose. Before the priest could speak, the secretary began:
"You desire to see His Excellency?"
Father Murray bowed.
"I am sorry, but His Excellency is very much engaged. He has requested me to ascertain the nature of your business."
"I regret that I may not tell you the nature of my business." Father Murray's reply was instant. "I may speak only to the Minister himself."
"Then," answered the secretary, "I regret to say that he cannot receive you. A diplomat's time is not his own. I am in his confidence. Could you not give me some inkling as to what you desire?"
"Since I cannot see him without giving you the information, you might say to His Excellency that I have come to speak to him in reference to Miss Ruth Atheson—" Father Murray paused, then added coolly: "He will understand."
The secretary bowed courteously. "I will deliver your message at once," he said.
In exactly one minute the Minister himself was bowing to Father Murray.
"I beg your pardon for detaining you, Reverend Sir, but, as my secretary explained, I am extremely busy. You mentioned Miss Atheson and, at least so I understand from my secretary, seemed to think I would know of her. In deference to your cloth, I thought I would see you personally, though I do not recall knowing anyone by that name. Perhaps she wishes aviséfor a passport?"
"That might explain it," answered Father Murray; "but I think she desires a passport without thevisé. I have reason to believe that Your Excellency knows something of her—rather—unexpected departure from her home in Sihasset. In fact, my information on that point is quite clear. I am informed that she was mistaken for another, a visitor in her home. Possibly she is here now. The passport desired is your permission for her to return to her friends."
The Minister's face expressed blankness.
"You have been misinformed," he answered. "I know nothing of Miss Atheson. Would you kindly give me some of the facts? That is, if you think it necessary to do so. It is possible I might be able to be of service to you; if so, do not hesitate to command me."
"The facts are very easily stated," said the priest. "First, the young lady is my niece."
It was the Minister's boast—privately, understand—that he could always tell when a man believed himself to be telling the truth, and now—past master in the art of diplomacy though he was—he found it hard to conceal his shocked surprise at this confirmation of the girl's story.
"You say she left her home unexpectedly?"
"She was seized by two men and hurried to a waiting auto, Your Excellency."
"And this happened where?"
"At Sihasset. Your Excellency passed through there quite recently, and will probably remember it."
The half-closed eyes almost smiled.
"Had your niece lived there long?"
"Only a few months. She arrived less than a week before her visitor."
Outwardly the Minister was calm, unmoved; but underneath the cold exterior the lurking fear was growing stronger. He must know more—all.
"Before that—?"
"She came direct from England, where she was visiting relatives."
"She was educated there perhaps?"
"She received her education principally in Europe."
"She has traveled much, then?"
"She has spent most of her time in America since I came here; but she has many friends both in England and on the Continent, and visits them quite frequently. She has very special friends in San Sebastian."
"Ah!"
"Perhaps Your Excellency knows something about it now?"
"Nothing, I assure you. But I find your story very interesting, and regret that I can see no way of assisting you."
Father Murray perfectly understood the kind of man he was dealing with. He must speak more plainly, suggesting in some degree the extent of his knowledge.
"I see, Your Excellency, that it will be necessary for me to mention another name, or rather to mention a title. There are, in your Great Kingdom, dependent duchies, and therefore people called grand dukes, and others called grand duchesses. Does that help Your Excellency to understand?"
The Minister still had control of himself, though he was greatly worried.
"It does not, Reverend Sir," he answered, "unless you might possibly be able to introduce me to a grand duchessin America. I am always interested in my countrymen—and women. If a grand duchess were brought here—that is," he corrected himself, smiling courteously, "if a grand duchess should call to see me, I should be glad to place my entire staff at your service to find the Ruth Atheson you speak of. Perhaps your Reverence understands?"
"Thoroughly," said Father Murray. "I could not fail to understand. But it would be difficult for me to bring a grand duchess to call on you, since the only one I have ever known is, unfortunately, dead."
At last the Minister lost hissang froid. His face was colorless.
"Perhaps you will tell me the name of this grand duchess whom you knew?"
"I think Your Excellency already knows."
"How did she die, and when?"
"I am sorry to say that she was killed in an accident."
"Where?"
"If Your Excellency will pick up this morning's paper—which you possibly have neglected to read—you will see a list of those killed in a railroad wreck which took place the night before last on a Washington-bound train. The list includes 'two women, unknown' and the pictures of both are printed. Their bodies are now in the morgue in Baltimore awaiting identification."
The Minister turned hastily to a table on which a number of newspapers had been carelessly laid. He picked up a Washington publication. On the front page was a picture of two women lying side by side—taken at the morgue in Baltimore. Despite the rigor of death on the features, the Minister could perceive in the face of the younger woman an unmistakable resemblance to the girl upstairs. Greatly agitated, he turned to the priest.
"How do I know," he asked, "that this—" pointing to the picture—"is not Ruth Atheson?"
"I think," said the priest, "that you will have to take my word for it—unless Your Excellency will verify my statement by an actual visit to the morgue. The body is still unburied."
"I shall send to the morgue."
"Then for the present I will bid Your Excellency good morning. Before going, however, I should like to emphasize that the lady now in your custody is my niece. And Baron Griffin, of the Irish peerage, is taking an active personal interest in the matter. Baron Griffin is now in Washington and requests me to state that he will give you until to-morrow morning to restore the lady to her friends. That will afford ample time for a visit to Baltimore. Unless Miss Atheson is with us by ten o'clock to-morrow morning the whole affair will be placed in the hands of the British Ambassador and of our own State Department—with all the details. I might add that I am stopping at the New Willard Hotel."
The priest looked at His Excellency, who again felt the insistent hammering of that "something" he should have remembered. The phrase, "all the details," bore an almost sinister significance.
His Excellency gave a sudden start. "Atheson—Atheson." His voice was tense and he spoke slowly. "What was her father's name?"
It was what the priest had been waiting for, had expected all along. Forgotten for years—yes. But where was the diplomat who did not have the information somewhere in his files? His face saddened as he answered.
"Edgar Atheson."
"Etkar—"
But the priest raised his hand.
"Edgar Atheson—if youplease."
The Minister bowed. "And you are the brother of—"
"Alice Murray," the priest interrupted quietly, with a touch of dignified hauteur.
His Excellency was silent, and his visitor continued.
"I must also suggest to Your Excellency that the fate of the young Italian officer is known to others beside myself. It would make unfortunate state complications if the occurrence should be made public. I wish Your Excellency good morning."
He turned to go, but the Minister stood between him and the door.
"One moment," he said. "I regret that it is necessary to request your Reverence to remain. You will pardon the necessity, I am sure. I cannot permit His Majesty's secrets to be made known to the public. State complications often oblige us to take stern measures, and—" he continued coldly—"you are now on the territory of my royal master."
But Father Murray did not seem at all afraid.
"Do not think of detaining me, Your Excellency," he said quietly. "I mentioned Baron Griffin. There is another. Both know where I am. Nor need you worry as to our discretion. We are well enough acquainted with state complications to know when silence is best. We shall not speak unless it becomes necessary; but in that event we shall not hesitate. Don't make matters more difficult for yourself. I shall insist on the release of my niece, and I warn you that neither you nor His Majesty may touch either of us and go unscathed. Kindly stand aside."
But His Excellency still barred the way.
"Your Reverence," he said, after a pause, "I shall stand aside on one condition: that you will again give me your word that you will keep silence. To-morrow morning you shall have your answer; but in the meantime not one syllable about this must pass your lips, and Baron Griffin must not approach the British Embassy on this matter. There may be no need of his doing so at all. Please understand my position. I must guard His Majesty's interests, and do my best under difficult circumstances. Whether the lady be the Duchess or your niece, no harm shall come to her. Have I your word?"
"You have my word. Unless Your Excellency makes it necessary to act, we shall keep silence."
"Then," said the Minister, stepping aside, "I will bid you good morning."
Father Murray bowed himself out. He met Mark and Saunders at the corner. As they walked away, they saw nothing of the spy upon their footsteps; but they knew that the spy was there, for they had knowledge of the ways of diplomacy. As a matter of fact, inside of twenty minutes the Minister knew what room each man was occupying at the New Willard. An attache did not leave the hotel all night; and the next morning the same man found himself in the unusual surroundings of St. Patrick's Church where Father Murray said Mass.
When the Minister returned to the library his face was white. Wratslav was in his confidence, and did not have to wait long for information. For the first time in his diplomatic career of thirty years His Excellency was nonplussed.
"If she is dead, Wratslav," he said, "what will be said of us, and what new trouble will arrive? Who is next in line of succession?"
"The Duchy," said Wratslav, "will pass to the Grand Duke's brother."
"Not so bad, not so bad. The King would like that. I think, then, that the brother is the only one who will benefit by this unfortunate complication. The Salic law should be enforced throughout the whole world. When we have to deal with women, only the good God knows what's going to happen. I am afraid the girl above told the truth."
"But," objected Wratslav, "even if she did, Excellency, you cannot take the risk of letting her go without orders from His Majesty. The Grand Duchess was always clever. She knew she was tracked down. It would be easy for her to pretend that she did not know her native language. You cannot let her go until you are sure."
The Minister passed his hand wearily across his forehead and sighed.
"At any rate we can verify some of the details. You must go to Baltimore, Wratslav, and view the bodies. Arrange for the embalming. Say that the two are ladies of our country. Give any names you wish. Place both bodies in a vault until this thing is cleared up; and bring me half a dozen pictures of the young one, taken close to the face on every side. Note the hair, the clothes, any jewels she may have about her; but, above all, find out if there are any papers to be found. See also if there are identifying marks. Return to-night; for by to-morrow morning I must be ready to decide. I shall send no dispatches until then."
His Excellency turned to his papers, and Wratslav left the room.