That night, Mark Griffin and Father Murray sat in the priest's room at the New Willard until very late. Father Murray was by far the more cheerful of the two, in spite of the strain upon him. Mark looked broken. He had come into a full knowledge of the fact that Ruth had not been false to him, and that no barrier existed to their union, but he could not close his eyes to the danger of the girl's situation. Father Murray, however, could see no dark clouds.
"My dear Mark," he said, "you don't understand the kind of a country you are in. Affairs of state here do not justify murder, and an elected public official cannot, even in the name diplomacy, connive at it. It is true that a Minister cannot very well be arrested, but a Minister can be disgraced, which is worse to his mind. You may be sure that our knowledge of the murder of the Italian will be quite sufficient to keep His Excellency in a painful state of suspense, and ultimately force him to yield."
"I could wish him," said Mark, "amorepainful state ofsuspense."
Father Murray smiled at the grim jest. "He will never see the rope, Mark, you may be sure of that. But there will be no more murdering. The situation of the Ministry is bad enough as it is. His Excellency looked very much perturbed—for a diplomat—before I was done with him. There is nothing more certain than that he has had a messenger in Baltimore to-day, and, unless I mistake very much, he will be able to identify the body. Then they must free Ruth."
"I wish, Father," Mark's voice was very tense, "that I could look at things as you do. But I know how a court works, and how serious are the games of kings. Then I haven't religion to help me, as you have."
"I question a little," replied Father Murray, "if that last statement is true—that you have no religion. You know, Mark, I am beginning to think you have a great deal of religion. I wish that some who think that they have very much could learn how to make what is really their very little count as far as you have made yours count. It dawned upon me to-night that there is a good reason why the most religious people never make the best diplomats. Now, you would have been a failure in that career."
"I think, Father Murray, that your good opinion of me is at least partly due to the fact that I may yet be your nephew. Ruth is like a daughter to you; and so I gain in your esteem because of her."
"Yes," answered the priest thoughtfully, "Ruth is like a daughter to me. And it is a strange feeling for a priest to have—that he has someone looking up to him and loving him in that way. Though a priest is constituted the same as other men, long training and experience have made his life and mental attitude different from those of men of more worldly aspirations. A priest is bound to his work more closely than is any other person in the world. Duty is almost an instinct with him. That is why he seldom shines in any other line, no matter how talented he may be. Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin almost had to unfrock themselves in order to become statesmen. Cardinal Wolsey left a heritage that at best is of doubtful value—not because he was a priest as well as a lord chancellor, but because as lord chancellor he so often forgot that he was a priest. There are many great priest-authors, but few of them are among the greatest. A priest in politics does not usually hold his head, because politics isn't his place. There are priest-inventors; but somehow we forget the priest in the inventor, and feel that the latter title makes him a little less worthy of the former—rather illogical, is it not? The Abbot Mendel was a scientist, but it is only now that he is coming into his own; and how many know him only as Mendel, forgetting his priestly office? Liszt was a cleric, but few called him Abbé. A priest as a priest can be nothing else. In fact, it is almost inevitable that his greatness in anything else will detract from his priesthood. Now the Church, my dear Mark, has the wisdom of ages behind her. She never judges from the exceptions, but always from the rule. She gets better service from a man who has sunk his temporal interests in the spiritual. She is the sternest mistress the ages have produced; she wants whole-hearted service or none at all. I like thinking of Ruth as my daughter; but I am not averse, for the good of my ministry, to having someone else take the responsibility from off my shoulders."
"But," said Mark, "how could a wife and children interfere with a priest's duties to his flock?"
"The church does not let them interfere," answered Father Murray. "She holds a man to his sworn obligations taken in marriage. A husband must 'cleave to his wife.' How could a priestly husband do that and yet fulfill his vow to be faithful to his priesthood until death? His wife would come first. What of his priesthood? Besides, a father has for his children a love that would tend to nullify, only too often, the priest's obligations toward the children of his flock. A man who offers a supreme sacrifice, and is eternally willing to live it, must be supremely free. In theory, all clergymen must be prepared to sacrifice themselves for their people, for 'the Good Shepherd gives up his life for his sheep.' In practice, no one expects that except of the priest; but from him everyone expects it."
"Do you really think," asked Mark, "that those outside the Church expect such a sacrifice?"
Father Murray did not hesitate about his answer.
"Expect it? They demand it. Why, my dear Mark, even as a Presbyterian minister I expected it of the men I almost hated. I never liked priests then. Instinctively I classed them as my enemies, even as my personal enemies. Deep down in my heart I knew that, with the Catholic Church eliminated from Christianity, the whole fabric tottered and fell, and Christ was stamped with the mark of an impostor and a failure—His life, His wonders, and His death, shams. Instinctively I knew, too, that without the Catholic Church the Christian world would fall to the level of Rome at its worst, and that every enemy of Christ turned his face against her priests. I knew that every real atheist, every licentious man, most revolutionists, every anarchist, hated a priest. It annoyed me to think that they didn't hate me, the representative, as I thought, of a purer religion. But they did not hate me at all. They ignored the sacredness of my calling, and classed me with themselves because of what they thought was the common bond of enmity to the priest. I resented that, for, while I was against their enemy, I certainly was not with them. The anomaly of my position increased my bitterness toward priests until I came almost to welcome a scandal among them, even though I knew that every scandal reacted on my own kind. But each rare scandal served to throw into clearer relief the high honor and stern purity of the great mass of those men who had forsaken all to follow Christ. And my vague feeling of satisfaction was tempered by an insistent sense of my own injustice which would not be denied, for I knew that I was demanding of the Catholic priest greater things than I demanded of any other men. Even while I judged—and, judging, condemned—I knew that I was measuring him by his own magnificent standard, the very seeking of which made him worthy of honor. To have sought the highest goal and failed is better than never to have sought at all. So long as life lasts, no failure is forever; it is always possible to arise and return to the path. And a fall should call forth the charity of the beholder, leading him closer to God. But there is no charity for the Catholic priest who stumbles—no return save in spaces hidden from the world. The most arrant criminals, the most dangerous atheists, the most sincere Protestants, demand of the priest not only literal obedience to his vows, but a sublime observance of their spirit. Why, Mark, you demand it yourself—you know you do."
For a moment Mark did not answer.
"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I do demand it. I only wondered if others felt as I do. This job of trying to analyze one's own emotions and thoughts is a difficult one. I have been trying to do it for years. Frankly, there are things I cannot grasp. Let me put one of them before you now."
"Go on," said Father Murray. "I am glad the conversation is off the worry."
"You remember, Father," said Mark, "the day I met you in your study that eventful Sunday in London?"
The priest nodded.
"I had decided then to go out of the church, as I told you, to get away from my faith. I thought that I had come to that decision with a clear conscience, but I know now that I had merely built up a false one and that that was why I sought you out—not to give up, but to defy you, and defy my own heart at the same time. I thought that if I could justify myself before such a man as you it would set things at rest within me for the remainder of my days. I did not justify myself. Ever since that day I have been attracted by the open doors of Catholic churches. I never pass one without seeing that open door. The minute I seriously think of religion the picture of an open church door is in front of me; it has become almost an obsession. I seem to see a hand beckoning from that door; some day I shall see more than the hand—my mother's face will be behind it. I can't get away from it—and I can't understand why."
Father Murray's eyes were serious.
"Why, my dear Mark," he answered, "you ought to know that you can't get away. Do you suppose anybody ever got away from God? Do you suppose any man ever could close his eyes to the fact of His existence? Then how is it possible for you to get away from that which first told you of God, and which so long represented to you all that you knew about Him? There is in the Catholic faith a strange something which makes those who have not belonged to it vaguely uneasy, but which makes those who have once had it always unsatisfied without it. There is an influence akin to that of the magnetic pole, only it drawseverything. It intrudes itself upon every life. There seems to be no middle course between loving it and hating it; but, once known, it cannot be ignored. It has had its chain aroundyou, Mark, and you are only now realizing that you can't cast it off."
Mark Griffin was silent. For some minutes not a word was exchanged between the two men. Then Mark arose and, without looking at his friend, said good night and left the room.
A minute later he returned.
"Father," he said, "you are very hopeful about Ruth. I am trying to share your hope. If everything comes out right and she is not lost to me, will you—heretic or unfaithful son though I may still be, whichever you are pleased to call me—will you still be a friend and, should she accept me, join our hands?"
Father Murray walked over and put his hand on Mark's shoulders.
"I am afraid, Mark, that it is again the Faith instinct. Of course I will marry you—that I expected to do. I could not be a mere onlooker to give her away. When you get her, Mark, you will get her from me, not only with an uncle's blessing, but with another as strong as Mother Church can make it and as binding as eternity."
It lacked but five minutes to the hour of ten next morning when the card of the Minister's secretary was handed to Father Murray. The priest sent down a polite request for the visitor to come to his room, and at once telephoned for Mark. Both men arrived at the same moment and were introduced at the door. Father Murray, at Saunders' own request, kept the detective in the background. Saunders had, in the meantime, been learning all he could about the Ministry and its interior—"for emergencies," he explained to Mark.
The secretary proceeded to business without delay.
"I have come on behalf of His Excellency," he said, "and to express his regrets."
"I scarcely expected regrets," answered the priest; "for at ten o'clock I was to have a definite answer."
"It is impossible, Reverend Sir, to give you that. His Excellency bade me offer full assurance that a definite answer will not long be delayed; but a somewhat unforeseen situation was found in Baltimore—a situation that was unforeseen by you, though rather expected by His Excellency."
"I cannot imagine," Father Murray spoke rather tartly, "what that situation could be."
"Let me explain then." The secretary talked as one sure of his ground. "I take it that neither Baron Griffin nor yourself, Reverend Sir, would be at all interested in the movements of the Grand Duchess?"
"Not particularly," answered the priest.
"Then I am sorry to say that the dead girl in Baltimore is surely your niece. The other—"
"At the Ministry—" Mark put in.
"Wherever she is," parried the secretary. "The other is the Grand Duchess."
"Perhaps, Mr. Secretary," quietly suggested Father Murray, "you will admit that I ought to know my own niece?"
"There is a great resemblance, Reverend Sir, between the two ladies. I have seen the dead girl, and have examined her belongings. Her apparel was made, it is true, in Paris; but your niece has recently been there. Her bag bears the initials, 'R.A.' The mesh bag is plainly marked in gold cut initials with the same letters. The dressing case is also marked 'R.A.' Even the handkerchiefs are thus marked."
"As she was a guest of my niece, and of course left Killimaga very hurriedly after the abduction," said Father Murray, "it is quite probable that the Grand Duchess took the first clothes and other effects that came to hand. She may even have purposely used things belonging to Miss Atheson in order not to have anything in her possession that might betray her identity."
"True, that is possible," the secretary admitted; "but it is not probable enough to satisfy His Excellency. Without a doubt, he ought to satisfy himself. In the meantime, while the doubt remains, it is clear that your answer cannot be given."
"Suppose we place this matter, then," said the priest, "where the answer will come in response to a demand? There is still the British Embassy and the Department of State."
"It will be plain to you, Reverend Sir," said the secretary, "that such a course would not be of assistance. Frankly, we do not want publicity; but, certainly, neither does your Department of State. In fact, I think that this affair might offer considerable embarrassment to the President himself at this time. And you? Would you wish the reporters to hear of it and have it published with all possible embellishments and sent broadcast? A few days will not be long in passing. I can vouch for the fact that the lady is quite comfortable. Why not see it from His Excellency's point of view?"
"Just what is that point of view?"
"I will be frank. You gentlemen know the situation. His Excellency's entire career is at stake. If this lady is the Grand Duchess and she does not go back to her throne—"
"Her throne?" Mark broke out in astonishment.
"Her father is dead. She is the reigning Grand Duchess, though she does not know it yet. You see the situation? His Excellency must be sure."
"But how does he mean to arrive at certainty?" asked Father Murray.
"That will be our task."
"And in the meantime?"
"She is safe."
"And if we seek the Department of State?"
"It will be the word of the minister from a friendly power against yours—and they will not find the lady."
"You would not—"
"They will not find the lady."
"Then," Mark spoke fiercely. "You have not kept your word."
"We have. She is safe, and shall be safe. Patience, if you please, and all will be well."
"It looks," said Father Murray, "as though we had no other choice."
Mark glanced at the priest, astonished that he should acquiesce so easily, but Father Murray gave him a quick, meaning look.
"That, Reverend Sir," answered the secretary, "is true. Since you see it so, I will bid you good day—to meet you again, shortly."
Scarcely had the secretary left the room when Father Murray was at the telephone calling Saunders.
"Come down," he directed, "at once."
Saunders was with them before either Mark or the priest spoke again.
"Well?" Saunders lost no time.
Father Murray gave him an outline of what had passed. Mark said nothing. A picture of despair, he was sitting with his head bowed upon his breast.
"And now, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "it is your business to counsel—to be a real detective. What do you suggest?"
"She is at the Ministry," said Saunders. "Let that be my first statement. She is occupying a room which opens on a balcony of the second floor. There is a guard in the next room, which also opens on the same balcony. She is well watched. But I was in front of that house three hours last night, and again this morning—rather, I was in the house across the way. I had a good chance to communicate the news of your arrival to her—"
"What!" Mark was on his feet now.
"It was simple. I did it this morning with a hand mirror. You remember how bright the sun was about nine o'clock? Well, it was shining right into the room where I was, and when I saw that she was probably alone I caught the light on my little mirror and flashed the reflection into her room. I juggled it about as oddly as I could, flashing it across the book she was reading. Then I tried to make it write a word on her wall. Perhaps you would like to know the word, Baron?" He turned to Mark with a smile. "You would? Well, I tried to write 'M-A-R-K.' I think she understood, for she turned toward the window and seemed about to give me some signal. Then she raised her hand in a quick motion of alarm and began reading again. I withdrew the light, just in time, for some woman entered the room."
"I am afraid, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you are dangerous, being a very clever man."
"But how, in Heaven's name," asked Mark, "did you get into that house? It is the home of—"
"Sure it is," answered Saunders. "Sure it is. But the family is away, and they left only the chauffeur at the residence. Chauffeurs are fine fellows—under certain circumstances. They have acquired the habit."
"The conditions," laughed Mark, "will, I suppose, appear in your accounts?"
"In my accounts? Yes… Now to the rest of the discussion. I do not believe this affair can be arranged as easily as you think. It looks to me as if they really believe they have the Grand Duchess, and that we are trying to help her get away. They think she has planned the whole thing and that we are part of the plan. Miss Ruth was with Madam Neuville when they caught her. That's one point in their favor. Then the Duchess had things belonging to Miss Ruth, and had them when killed. That's point two for them. The face of Miss Ruth is the face on the portraits of the Grand Duchess. There's point three for them; and it is a fact that the face of the dead girl was slightly disfigured, as you know. The Minister dare not make a slip. He is not going to make one if he can help it. He will do something without delay to avoid all danger of your interference. If you go to court, you'll have publicity. If you go to the Department of State, their delays would make interference too late. If you don't act quick you'll have no chance to act at all. My advice is, to get into better communication with the young lady and then—to do a bit of quiet abduction ourselves."
"That's easy to say, Saunders," said Mark. "But how carry it out?"
"I'll have to think on that. But I'm sure it can be done." Saunders spoke convincingly. "Let me work this thing out as best I can."
"We are in your hands, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "and we trust you."
"Thanks, Father, I'll do my best. Now let us go on—"
But at this moment the telephone bell rang. Father Murray answered the call.
"It's for you, Mark."
Mark took the receiver, and listened for a moment.
"All right; send him up."
He turned to his companions. "A colored man who insists on seeing me personally."
They had but a few minutes to wait. He came up with a bellboy and stood before them, bowing low—a typical Southern darkey, his hair whitened by age.
"Well, uncle, what can I do for you?" It was Mark who spoke.
"Well, sah, seein' as how I found a lettah addressed to you—"
"A letter?"
"Yes, sah." The old darkey was fumbling with his hat, trying to withdraw the letter he had put away so carefully.
"I found it down the street, sah, neah one of them thar big for'n houses."
"Where?" The word was almost shouted as Mark jumped to his feet.
But the trembling fingers had at last grasped and now held forth the precious letter. Mark tore it open, and with a cry of glad surprise began to devour its contents. When he had finished, he handed the letter to Father Murray without a word, and turned to the darkey.
"Thank you, uncle. I am very glad you brought it."
"Yes, sah. I thought as how you might want to get it, seein' as how it was a pretty young lady that threw it out."
"You saw her?"
"Yes, sah. I was right across the street, and she suah is pretty, sah." The old man smiled and bowed as Mark gave him a bill. "Thank you, sah; thank you, sah." And with a broad grin he left the room.
Father Murray was still reading the letter and Mark motioned to Saunders to come to his side. Looking over the priest's shoulder, Mark read the lines again:
"My Dear Mark: His Excellency isn't a very good housekeeper; I have found an envelope in one of the books, and a tiny slip of blue-corded pencil in the drawer of my dressing-table. I should like to pension the man who first put fly-leaves in a book. Fortunately, my maid isn't with me much, and the man in the yard can't see my front window because of the tree. So I have only to listen to the guard in the next room. He is always walking up and down, and when he reaches the uncarpeted space near the door I know he is at the end and ready to turn back. For that one second I can chance throwing this letter out into the street. I shall load it with a cut-glass ball I found on my desk. It is a beautiful little paper-weight, but its beauty won't save it this time. Someone will surely take the letter to you. Where to find you is my worry. But I know that the signal flashes could only mean that you are in the city, so I am risking the New Willard.
"A warship has been sent to take the Grand Duchess home. I cannot convince them that I am only Ruth Atheson. I am sure they are going to send me away. You must get me out of this house quickly, or it will be too late.
"Give me this special signal and I will be ready: At ten-thirty any morning flash the light and keep it still on the top of the gate pillar. Leave it there a moment; then flash it once across the top if you are coming that day, or twice for night. If you receive this letter, answer it by flashing the light into my room to-morrow morning. I shall pray for friendly sunlight.
"Thank you for coming. I don't know how you found out, but somehow I felt that you would. Love to the dear Father, if he is with you. I feel pretty sure he is.
"Ruth."
Saunders was the first to speak.
"I think, Father," he said, "that you have a clever niece. This makes things easy."
The Padre smiled. But Mark was not smiling—one can't do so little a thing to show unbounded joy.
It was early next morning when Saunders knocked at Mark Griffin's door. His knock was soft, for Mark's room adjoined Father Murray's. When Mark rose to let him in, the detective entered on tiptoe.
"I came down to see you early," he said, "because I wanted to dodge the Padre, and I thought perhaps he'd be over in the church for his Mass."
"A good Yankee guess," said Mark. "I heard him leave a few minutes ago, so you can talk as loud as you like. What is the matter? Anything gone wrong?"
"It's just this," said the detective. "We must make our attempt to get Miss Atheson without the Padre's knowing anything about it. I have been thinking about the thing, and I have a plan I believe will work. It's out of the question to get that guard off the watch in any ordinary way. If we attempt it, the house will be alarmed and we shall be taken for burglars."
"What difference if we are?" said Mark, very warmly. "If the Ministry can stand publicity, we can. I am in favor of taking strong measures right now."
"Not on your life, Griffin. Not on your life," said Saunders. "You don't seem to realize that the Padre cannot stand strong measures. Arrest as burglars would mean publicity, and there would be all sorts of fierce stories in the press. He is a priest—and then some."
"Well, what of it?"
"Sure, I know," soothed Saunders. "But the papers aren't in the journalistic game for dignity, and they'd play the Padre up for all he was worth; the more yellow the story, the better. The lady must be gotten out of the Ministry quietly. Once we have her, it will be up to the Ministry to make the next move. I have a hunch that His Excellency won't make it."
"Well," said Mark grudgingly, "I suppose the quiet way is the better way. What is your plan? Why not let Father Murray know?"
"I can't let him know, because he'd want to be in on it. At all risks, he's got to be kept out. What I propose to do is to start up such a trouble in the rear of the house that, for five minutes at least, there'll be no guard in the front."
"You would have to set it on fire to do that."
Saunders put his finger impressively upon a button of Mark's pajamas.
"You've guessed it, first shot out of the box. That's just what I'm going to do. Rather, that's whatwe'regoing to do."
Mark looked at him in solemn silence.
"Saunders, what did you have to put you in this condition?"
"Plain water and a cold bath," answered Saunders promptly.
"Then perhaps you'll explain."
"It'll be easy. They can put the fire out after the lady has gotten away. The Minister is going to dinner to-night. Madame Minister—or whatever you call her—will be with him; so will his flock of girls, and so, of course, will His Excellency's secretary. The rest of his staff don't live there. I figure that the guards, and the servants, and Miss Atheson will be the only ones in the house. The fire will bring all but Miss Atheson to the back. A rope ladder skillfully thrown will do the rest. Now you see why I can't mix the Padre up in that. We may be arrested, though I don't think we shall. The Minister doesn't want anything of that kind. This morning I'll flash the night escape signal to Miss Atheson. She'll be ready to leave, and you may be sure she'll find a way to warn us if the guard is still around. To-night you make an excuse to the Padre and slip away. He's going to see a friend anyhow at the University out in Brookland. I heard him say so. Tell him not to worry if you happen to be out when he comes back. Fix it up any way you like, and we'll make the play and win."
"Who's to do the 'skillful throwing' of the ladder?"
"A friend of mine who used to be a fireman."
"Do you think you can get him?"
"I've engaged him already."
"H-m." Mark stared at the detective, then burst forth with, "What time did you get up?"
"I didn't have to get up. I haven't gone to bed yet."
Mark sat down in his chair to think. After a while he put out his hand to the detective.
"I believe you've got it, Saunders. I'll do it—but you'd better get some rest"
"Me for my little trundle bed." And Saunders, in high spirits, waved his hand as he went out the door.
Left alone, Mark proceeded to dress, but awaited Father Murray's return before going down to breakfast. The time seemed long after breakfast, but at length the priest prepared to leave the hotel.
Mark spoke nonchalantly. "Oh, Father, I'm going out in the country with some friends, and may not get back till quite late to-night."
"All right, Mark. I hope you have a pleasant trip."
It was so easy that Mark felt a trifle worried. His device was crude, and the priest had never before been so easily deceived.
It was midnight when a big automobile containing Saunders, his ex-fireman friend and Mark, drew up cautiously on a side street near the Ministry. The men at first walked quietly past the house. They saw a light in the apartment occupied by Ruth, but there seemed to be no other light within. They then walked around the block, passing a policeman at the corner, and entered the alley behind the Ministry on the other side, out of the bluecoat's sight. There was no one in the back yard, and Saunders easily effected an entrance into the garage, which was not far from the house. Taking from his pocket an ordinary hot-water bag, he knocked the lock off the gasoline tank and proceeded to fill the bag with gasoline. Then he turned to Mark.
"That's all back here for you. Leave the rear work to me. Go around, you two, and get the ladder. In fifteen minutes I'll have a fire at the back door. You'll probably see the light. As soon as you hear cries from the house, listen well and you'll know whether or not the guard has rushed back. The big door-window on the balcony is always left open so that the guard can command the window of Miss Atheson's room, and you can easily hear him open and close the inside door. If he doesn't leave, the game's up. As soon as you are sure he's gone, throw up the ladder. If you get Miss Atheson, don't wait for me. Rush her to the automobile and back to the hotel. I'll take care of myself. Now go on, and wait for the big noise."
The three men moved toward the door, but fell back when they saw a dark figure plainly outlined against the dim light behind him. Saunders said something under his breath. The ex-fireman turned pale, for he thought it was a policeman.
"The country is beautiful in the autumn, isn't it, Mark?"
Mark was as embarrassed as any small boy caught in truancy.
"I thought you took things rather quietly, Father—I might have known it was too good to be true. What did you come here for? You surely knew it was something we could not have you concerned in."
The priest laughed at Mark's rueful tone.
"You should have known better, Mark, than to think I could be so easily deceived. I am going to be mixed up in anything that concerns the welfare of Ruth. Besides," he added, with another quiet laugh, "I heard everything you two said this morning. I saw Saunders coming down the hall as I was leaving, and, as it was rather early for a casual visit, I came back to see what he was up to."
"Then why in—I beg your pardon, Father—why in all common sense," blurted out Saunders, "did you come here? You can't help, and we are taking the only possible way."
"Happily," rejoined Father Murray, "it is not the only way. Come out of this, and I will tell you something you will be very glad to hear. Let us get back to your automobile. We must not go very far away, for we have yet to call at the Ministry, when His Excellency returns."
"To-night?"
"This morning," gently corrected the priest. It was now well on toward one o'clock.
The three men obeyed him. The ex-fireman got into the automobile, while Mark and Saunders walked with Father Murray a short distance off. When they were out of earshot, the priest turned to his companions.
"You two have been working your own plans while I have been working mine. When you had finished your little secret conference, I went to St. Patrick's and said Mass. When I returned to the hotel, Mark didn't seem to appreciate my company, so I left rather early. Before going to Brookland, I called at the State Department. Happily, I know someone quite high up, so I had no trouble. I told him the whole story, and he promised to help me. A few hours ago he sent for me again and—" the priest smiled at his hearers' evident anxiety to hear the details—"and everything will be all right now. We are to see the Minister as soon as he returns from the banquet. He will probably be back by one o'clock, and he will listen—and listen well—to what I have to say. The guard will be off before we leave, and Ruth will be at the hotel before noon."
"But, Father," said Mark, "how can you do it? The State Department cannot get into this thing officially—cannot interfere at all. It is too delicate. To-morrow morning Ruth will be on her way to the seacoast, as sure as fate. She will be kept hidden there until that warship comes."
"The warship will not come," answered Father Murray. "His Majesty's warships will be engaged very busily for some time to come. My information—information which so far has not leaked out to the public—is that the Big Kingdom is on the verge of war. There will be no warship flying that flag on this side of the water for a long time."
"War!" said Saunders. "But how does that help us?"
Before Father Murray could reply, an automobile passed swiftly.
"That is the Minister," remarked Saunders.
The priest looked up. "We must hurry. Leave everything to me."
Walking hastily, the trio approached the Minister, who had stopped at the curb to give some order to his chauffeur. The ladies of the party had already entered the house, accompanied by the secretary.
It was Father Murray who spoke.
"Pardon us, Your Excellency, for intruding on you at this hour, but it is necessary that we should speak to you at once. With your permission, we will go inside."
The Minister looked disturbed.
"Surely you know the hopelessness of it? I must warn you that you can secure nothing through violence. My guard would not hesitate to take forcible measures."
"There is no need to worry about that, Your Excellency," replied the priest. "No need at all. We shall not resort to violence. It will not be necessary. But the matter is important, and we must speak to you at once."
The words were spoken sharply. His Excellency hesitated for a moment longer, then threw out his hand and motioned them toward the house.
"Very well, gentlemen. Come."
The unwelcome guests were shown into the drawing-room and the lights switched on. His Excellency put his hat aside and turned to face his callers.
"It is already late, gentlemen, and I will ask you to be as brief as possible. What is it you wish?"
"We shall not detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary," said Father Murray. "Yesterday I received a visit from your secretary, who informed me that the probabilities were so strong that it was my niece who had been killed in the railroad accident that you would be obliged to decide against my claims for the present."
"That is exactly the case," replied His Excellency. "Permit me to say, Reverend Sir, that I can do nothing else. The Grand Duke is dead, and His Majesty has taken charge of the matter. The Grand Duchess is a ruler herself, at the present time. It is true she is only a foolish girl, who ran away to marry a nonentity—but affairs of state are greater than affairs of the heart. At all risks she must return to Ecknor. I must be certain of her identity before I can make another move. I appreciate the delicacy of the situation. I know that I have practically kidnaped the girl. But I am certain your State Department will want no trouble about it, nor will mine. If you are right, and the girl is your niece, you have no cause to fear for her; she will be returned to this country at once. If, on the contrary, she is the Grand Duchess, there is no reason why you should seek to have her taken away from us."
"Her own wishes—" began Saunders.
"Pardon me, sir. Her own wishes have nothing to do with the matter. I confess that it is embarrassing that she does not want to go, but it is more embarrassing that she ever went away. She must return to her country, wishes or no wishes. I will consider nothing else. I have my orders, and I shall obey them." The Minister turned toward the door, evidently desirous that his visitors should leave. "I will ask you to excuse me now, gentlemen."
But matters had not been arranged to Father Murray's satisfaction. He made no move to go, and looked straight into His Excellency's face as he spoke.
"Your Excellency has of course been informed of the critical condition of affairs in Europe?"
"I do not understand."
Though somewhat surprised, the priest could not doubt the sincerity of the speaker. He hesitated but a moment, then spoke quietly.
"Before the conversation proceeds farther, may I suggest that it might be well for Your Excellency to see if there are any late dispatches from your home government?" Noticing the Minister's haughty astonishment, he added, "I have come from the Department of State."
The Minister was startled, and turned to leave the room. "Pardon me a moment, gentlemen."
Mark turned to the priest. "What have you up your sleeve, Father?"
Father Murray only smiled. "I think, Mark," he said, "that you are certainly improving in the American brand of English. 'Up your sleeve' is decidedly good United States. You will want to stay with us—even though you are a Baron."
Mark could get no more out of the priest.
In a few minutes His Excellency returned, his face showing signs of extreme annoyance.
"I thank you, Reverend Sir," he said courteously. "I cannot understand why my dispatches were not delivered to me at the banquet. I can only express my regret." Father Murray bowed, and the Minister went on:
"The lady is probably asleep now, but I think I may safely promise that in a few hours she will be with you. It is more than probable that I shall relinquish all claims upon her."
Father Murray smiled and picked up his hat which was lying on a table.
"We may expect the lady before noon?"
"Yes."
"I thank Your Excellency. Permit us to bid you good morning."
With a courteous bow, Father Murray took his leave, followed by Mark and Saunders. The last they saw of His Excellency was the top of his head as he bowed them out.
Father Murray chuckled all the way back to the hotel—and kept his counsel. When they arrived at his bedroom door, Mark stopped him.
"Great Heavens, Father! You're not going to leave us in the dark like this?"
"'In the dark' isverygood United States, Mark."
"But what does it mean? What card did you play?"
Father Murray's hand was on the doorknob, his eyes dancing with merriment.
"They say, Mark, that a royal flush beats everything. Well, I played that."
Mark tried to catch him but, with a low chuckle, he slipped into the room and closed the door.
A few hours later—about ten o'clock—an automobile stopped in front of the New Willard Hotel, and the Minister and his secretary alighted. The visitors were shown at once into Father Murray's room where Mark, Saunders and the priest waited. His Excellency took the chair offered him and, with some hesitation in his choice, of words, opened the conversation.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I first wish to congratulate you on your persistence. That persistence led me to think that there was some justice in your case. You can scarcely blame me, however, for not granting your wish immediately, especially since, as my secretary informed you, the effects of the dead lady seemed to indicate that it was Miss Atheson who had been killed. I find that I was mistaken. It was the Grand Duchess. There is absolutely no question about that now. As soon as you are ready to receive Miss Atheson, she shall leave the Ministry where, as you understand, she has been an honored guest."
The impetuous Saunders broke out: "Your Excellency means an honored prisoner."
But Father Murray stepped into the breach.
"Not at all, Saunders," he said, "not at all." Then he turned to the Minister. "Miss Atheson has been an honored guest at the Ministry. That is perfectly understood, Your Excellency,perfectlyunderstood."
The Minister bowed. "I thank you, Reverend Sir. I am glad you do understand. Miss Atheson was a friend of the Grand Duchess Carlotta. She had known her in Europe. Why should she not have been a guest at the Ministry of the nation which exercises a protectorate over the domains of her late Royal Highness? I should wish to have that known to the public. This afternoon we shall give to the press the sad story of the visit to America of Her Royal Highness, under strict incognito. Her friend, Miss Atheson, was of course awaiting the arrival of the Grand Duchess, having come down in advance. Miss Atheson will, I am sure, be kind enough, and considerate enough of the memory of Her Highness, not to deny any of these statements."
"I am sure, Your Excellency," said the priest, "that Miss Atheson will keep strict silence as to the past. She would not wish to embarrass the situation nor in any way stain the memory of her dead friend. Of that you may rest assured."
"I beg your pardon," said His Excellency, "but—I trust I may rely upon the discretion of these gentlemen?"
Mark and Saunders bowed their assurance.
"Certainly."
"Your Excellency may rely on our discretion."
"It is needless for me to say," continued the Minister, "that the situation is most embarrassing. But there is no reason why the Grand Duchess should not have visited her friend—no reason why she should not have come to Washington on her way back to her own country. She would naturally wish to avoid publicity and, of course, the Ministry was constantly in touch with her moves. All this is a reasonable explanation of what has occurred. As to the body's having lain neglected in the Baltimore morgue for some hours, something must be assumed by the telegraph company. The body has already been embalmed, and arrangements have been made for its shipment to Europe. I shall myself go to Baltimore this afternoon. Do you, Reverend Sir, wish it known that the friend of the Grand Duchess is your niece?"
"Yes; but I wish it put to the world in the proper form. Since Your Excellency is preparing copy for the papers, may I ask if you will permit me to revise it?"
"That I shall be glad to do," said the Minister, his face all smiles.
As His Excellency was about to depart, Saunders stopped him.
"One word, Your Excellency. Baron Griffin and myself were witnesses to a very sad occurrence in Sihasset—"
The Minister turned hurriedly.
"You are mistaken, my friend," he said, significantly. "You are mistaken. You saw nothing—remember that. It will be better for all concerned. Your State Department would not thank you for making embarrassing statements. Things have come out happily for you, if not for the unfortunate Duchess. Yet, after all, perhaps the best thing that could have happened for her was what you believed—until you were corrected—happened in Sihasset. Baron Griffin will tell you that I speak the truth when I say that the next best thing was her own death."
Mark inclined his head, for he had heard something of the reputation of Luigi del Farno, when he was in Florence.
And then for the moment the Minister was forgotten in the man, and tears glistened in His Excellency's eyes.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I never saw Her Royal Highness. But I have heard a great deal of her, and I have followed her career. She was not born to be a Duchess. She had all my sympathy, for she was just a woman—beautiful, sentimental, loving. She was just the kind to do the rash things which courts will not tolerate. She was the kind to follow her own heart and not the dictates of kings. She was unhappy at court, and that unhappiness was increased when she fell in love with the Italian. She was the kind who would love until death—and then beyond the grave. She was one who would make any sacrifice to her devotion. But she fought against the solid rock of princely customs and prejudices, and there was nothing for her but to break upon it. Her love ruined that young officer. He was doomed from the moment she went away and he followed her. No earthly power could have saved him. But—believe me—she is better dead than married to him. We had his life investigated. He has had his just deserts. The Grand Duchess was not the first. It is well that she was the last, poor girl. The most merciful thing that could have happened to a woman of her character was the thing that did happen. She never knew of his fate. She died thinking that she should meet him again—that she had successfully broken down all barriers—that she and her lover could live their lives in peace, here in America. She never learned that there could be no happiness for her with a man like him. Let them rest in their graves—for graves are better than courts. As Minister I could not say these things; but I trust you, gentlemen, and I am talking to you now as a man who has known love himself. Good-bye."
The little man stiffened up and became the Minister again.
"When, gentlemen, will you be ready to receive Mademoiselle Atheson?"
Father Murray bowed. "Whenever Your Excellency is pleased to send her."
"Perhaps, Reverend Sir, you will honor me by your presence at luncheon?" As Father Murray hesitated, he added, "It will be better that you should accompany Mademoiselle Atheson to the hotel. Besides," and he smiled good-humoredly, "we can get together and revise those statements properly."
Father Murray bowed his acceptance and His Excellency took his leave. "Luncheon is at one," he remarked, as he left the room. "I should be pleased if you would come a little early. I know you will desire to talk with Mademoiselle."
Shortly after twelve Father Murray was admitted to the Ministry, where Ruth greeted him affectionately.
"How do you like being a Grand Duchess, Ruth?"
She made a little moue. "I don't like it at all. I'm abdicating to-day."
He laughed, and they chatted together for some time, being finally joined by His Excellency's daughters, who stayed with them until luncheon was served. The meal proved to be a merry one, and after it was over the two gentlemen withdrew to the library, followed by Wratslav. Then, accompanied by Ruth, Father Murray returned to the hotel—in a long, low-built limousine.
The Bishop hurriedly pushed aside his almost untouched breakfast and hastened to his study. The time was short, and there was much to be done. His secretary, always prompt, handed him the morning papers, but the Bishop pushed them aside.
"No, I haven't time now. Put them in my grip."
The secretary started to speak, but the Bishop was already giving his instructions, and his subordinate waited, perforce, for a more opportune time—which never came.
On the train, the Bishop's breviary first claimed his attention. As he paused to rest his eyes, his idle glance was suddenly arrested by the flaring headlines of a paper across the aisle. Quickly he opened his grip and brought forth his own papers. Ah, here it was—on the first page.