The conference broke up. Fenton saw Prince Peter leave the room conversing in low and manifestly earnest tones with Sir John, while Count Grobenski and Monsieur D'Aubignè walked out together, the latter's hand on the Russian's arm. The French statesman was expounding volubly.
When Fenton saw Prince Peter again it was in the ante-room. The representatives of the Allies had gone. Those left included Varden and one of the other Ironian representatives at the conference.
Varden then related the other side of the plot that had been overheard in the palace gardens. Prince Peter did not seem as disturbed as he had been at the information vouchsafed with reference to the Russian advance. He seemed inclined to treat the matter lightly.
"I do not fear them," he declared. "They would, no doubt, do me a mischief if they could. But I do not see why I should feel concern over the possibility of death from an Ironian bullet when we are working for an opportunity to risk our lives on the battlefield."
"But don't you see that Ironia's future depends upon your safety," urged Varden. "If they succeed in putting you out of the way, our chances of success will be infinitely small."
"I shall take every precaution, of course," promised the prince. "You can depend upon me not to risk myself unnecessarily. And now we must devise some means of following more closely the efforts of our adversaries. It is quite clear that they will stop at nothing."
As they spoke, there came a knock, three taps in rapid succession, followed by two slowly. The officer on guard opened the door a few inches and peered out into the intense gloom of the landing. After a brief colloquy in whispers with the new arrival, he stepped back and threw open the door. Came a woman, muffled up so securely in a cloak that nothing of her face and form was visible. She stepped into the area of flickering light provided by the dim gas jet and, loosing her cloak, threw back the hood.
Fenton's first impression was one of astonishment at her unusual beauty; his second an odd sense of recognition. She was small—petiteperhaps would give a more accurate impression—but somehow her smallness seemed an essentiality. Although almost doll-like in sheer perfection of beauty, there was no suggestion of fragility about her. Her hair was a shimmering mass of golden curls dressed with a carelessness that was art itself. Bluest of blue eyes sparkled with animation; devastating eyes, no doubt, when their owner so wished, though now they glowed with serious purpose. The mouth was made for team play with the witching eyes, but it was firm too, very firm, as though she got whatever she wanted. "A determined little person," thought Fenton as, standing back in the gloom, he studied her face. "A little person to be friends with; and, unless I am mistaken, a little person who would make a very staunch friend. But I'm not sure that I would want to stand in the way of the little person's plans."
The new-comer was immediately drawn into an earnest conversation, conducted in low tones, with Prince Peter and Varden. The two men showed the greatest deference in their attitude toward the girl—a deference which apparently had its roots in deeper soil than men's regard for a mere pretty face. When she spoke they listened attentively and seemed to attach weight to her opinions. Fenton could not catch what they said so he contented himself with watching the girl, struggling meanwhile to fix that elusive sense of familiarity that became stronger in his mind every moment. Where had he seen her before? Then it came to him suddenly, a graceful gesture of the little person's arm supplying the necessary clue.
In his mind's eye he saw a crowded assembly hall, a large stage rather dimly lighted and a little figure that suddenly appeared in the centre of it. He saw her rise on her toes, smile a wonderful smile that seemed to grip the hearts of the fashionable audience and then glide into such a dance as the nymphs must trip as the first faint shafts of dawn warn them that their nightly revels are over. Anna Petrowa!
After a few minutes the prince stepped back into the room where the conference had been held and Varden turned toward his friend.
"Come here, Fenton," he said. "Mam'selle, permit me to present our latest acquisition, Mr Fenton from Canada. Fenton, this is Mam'selle Anna Petrowa."
Fenton bowed, and the Little Person, for as such Fenton had unconsciously pigeon-holed her in his mind, smiled. The smile brought back more vivid recollections of her triumph of that evening when he had watched her interpret divine music with her flying feet.
"I saw Mademoiselle Petrowa on her tour in our country," said Fenton. "That was three years ago and it need hardly be added that I recognised her."
The dancer looked up at him and smiled again. She had relaxed from the serious attitude maintained during her conversation with Peter and Varden, and did not seem at all adverse to the prospect of winning admiration from this big stranger.
"I like your Can—ada," she said, speaking English with musical limitations. "Some day I go back. Then perhaps I meet Mistaire Fenton again?"
"I trust our next meeting won't be so long deferred as that," said Fenton heartily. "I'm expecting to stay here in Ironia for some time—or until the little matter in hand is settled. I've enlisted myself as general assistant to Varden."
"And he's plunged right into the thickest of it already," put in Varden. "He hasn't been in Ironia twenty-four hours yet and he's already stumbled in on a secret meeting of the Society of Crossed Swords, dodged half a dozen bullets, insulted Miridoff to his face and made love to—some of our fairest ladies."
"I believe anything of Mistaire Fenton," said Mademoiselle Petrowa, "and especially that which you say last. But have care, Mistaire Fenton, these belles of Ironia—perhaps they aim their deadly glances more true than the men can shoot."
Their laughter at this sally was interrupted by the return of the officer, who had been summoned previously to the inner room.
"His highness would speak with Mademoiselle Petrowa," he announced.
When the door had closed leaving them alone together, Fenton turned eagerly to Varden.
"You promised me plenty of excitement if I stayed here," he said, "but this is certainly exceeding expectations. Anna Petrowa,première danseuse, engaged in an exciting intrigue in Ironia and turning up at a most ungodly hour of the morning in the dark ante-room of a mysterious house! What else have you got up your sleeve, anyway?"
"Let me tell you about the real Anna Petrowa," said Varden. "It will probably surprise you to know that she has been a Russian secret service agent for many years. She was born in Moscow, of very poor parents. They died while she was young, and I guess she had a pretty trying start in life, taking things all round. She was drafted into the Imperial ballet finally and soon made her mark as a dancer. At fourteen she had won recognition as a coming star. At nineteen all Europe was at her feet. She was a little over twenty when we saw her in Toronto, and at that time she had already been enlisted into the ranks of those who follow the most thrilling and dangerous game in the world—secret service."
"Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn't have believed all this," asserted Fenton, "but now anything seems possible. But look here, how in thunder does she happen to be in Serajoz?"
"She was dancing in Vienna when the war broke out," explained Varden. "It was not safe for her to remain there, so on instructions from Petrograd she came to Ironia to assist in watching Russian interests here. She naturally gravitated into close touch with our camp and we have found her our most valuable and active assistant."
"But what part can a pretty woman play in this rough-and-tumble business?" asked Fenton.
"Well, you see Mademoiselle Anna has made the acquaintance of one Lieutenant Neviloff, who is right-hand man to Miridoff. Neviloff has fallen head-over-heels in love with our bewitching Anna, and—well, she can simply twist him around her little finger. So you see we have a most excellent method of getting inside information from the opposite camp."
Fenton whistled softly.
"She's playing a pretty dangerous part, is our famous Mademoiselle Little Person," he said. "If they got on to the fact that she's working with us, I suppose it would go hard with her."
"The Lord have mercy on her if Miridoff ever suspects what she's doing!" said Varden gravely. "From now on she's going to be doubly valuable to us. You see, it's going to be necessary to watch them closely to forestall any attempts on the life of the prince. And we'll have to depend on Anna Petrowa for that. I don't know which of them is likely to stand in the most danger from now on, Prince Peter or our little dancer."
At this point the rest of the party returned from the inner room and an immediate move toward the street was made.
"There are two cars waiting in the next street for us," whispered Varden, as they cautiously descended the creaky stairs. "I am to accompany the prince home—sort of bodyguard, you know. Will you perform like service for Mademoiselle Petrowa?"
They stepped out into the street to find that the darkness of night had given place to the light of early dawn. It was decidedly chilly. Fenton wrapped himself snugly in his cloak and dropped back beside the diminutive, muffled figure of the dancer.
At that instant a startled shout from ahead broke the stillness. Fenton saw a figure suddenly loom up out of the darkness with arm upraised. Something flashed bright in the hand of the unknown assailant as he hurled himself directly at Prince Peter.
Fenton could see that the man with gleaming dagger raised to strike the blow that would throw the control of Ironian destinies into the hands of the King's party was not alone. Another ruffian had emerged from the shadows of a deep court and was struggling with Varden. He could see that the prince, taken off his guard, had recoiled a step and was endeavouring to draw his sword, around which his cloak had become wrapped in a sudden flurry of the wind. All this the Canadian took in during the fraction of a second following the warning shout from in front. Instantly he stripped off his cloak and plunged ahead, throwing a word of warning back over his shoulder to his companion.
Fenton had been a star half-back in his college days. He covered the intervening space in faster time than he had ever done when the touch-line was ahead and the opposing wing men thundered after. The sound of his flying feet caused the assailant to pause and glance in that direction, which probably saved the prince's life, for before the dagger could descend Fenton's fist had found the fellow's jaw with a glancing blow. The blow was partly spent when it landed, but it had enough force left behind it to spin the assassin around to one side. The next moment Fenton's left hand shot forward and gripped the dagger arm.
The assassin was a wiry fellow, built on the lines most commonly seen in the Near East. He had short, bowed legs, powerful shoulders, arms of almost gorilla-like length. His large, hairy hands had an almost Simian strength, as Fenton found in the struggle that ensued. The fellow fought with the fury of a wild beast, writhing and snarling and struggling to reach Fenton's throat with his free hand. It was all Fenton could do to ward off that powerful paw which would choke the life out of him once it had found its grip. At the same time, it required all the strength he could summon to hold back his opponent's right hand, which still grasped the dagger.
They swayed back and forth, each straining for an advantage. It was a long time before the assassin relaxed his strenuous efforts for a winning hold. Finally, however, Fenton's chance came. His opponent stopped for a moment for breath, and his left hand dropped. Instantly Fenton stepped back and planted a short-arm upper cut in the general direction of his face. It landed fairly on the point of the chin. The ruffian crumpled up at the knees and dropped back on the ground with a thud. The knife, slipping from his fingers, clattered on the pavement at Fenton's feet.
The latter paused a moment for breath, then groped carefully for the knife in the dark. His hand had closed on the handle when Varden called to him.
"I've managed the other one," he said. "Let's make a clean get-away while we've got the chance. Discretion is the better part of valour, particularly when you've fixed up the lesser part of it."
Glancing around, Fenton was rather astonished to find that, with the exception of the recumbent figures of the two would-be assassins, they had the street to themselves. The prince and Anna Petrowa had disappeared. Before he had a chance to express his surprise at this circumstance, Varden linked arms with him, and led the way at a brisk pace from the scene of the encounter. Turning the first corner, they espied a motor-car, the huddled figure of its driver silhouetted against the sombre, grey-black sky. Varden spoke one sharp word in Ironian, and opened the door. They slipped into the seats, and the car glided noiselessly away.
"Well," said Fenton when they had settled back comfortably, "where did the others go?"
"The prince's safety was, of course, the first consideration," explained Varden. "Then, of course, he couldn't risk being seen had anyone been attracted by the noise. If it were known that Prince Peter had been mixed up in an affair of this kind, awkward questions would be asked. Accordingly he waited until he saw that we were able to handle the pair, and then he quietly got away, taking Anna with him. It was extremely important that she should not be seen. By this time they've got safely to the other side of the town."
The Princess Olga rose late the next morning. It is a popular myth that persons of royal blood live an entirely different kind of life from the rest of humanity. The universal conception of the life of royalty does not go much beyond gilded carriages, stately balls and glittering banquets. That a princess is liable to relax, to quarrel, to pout, to wheedle, to preen before mirrors, to enjoy the stray bits of gossip that a confidential maid may retail, to read forbidden novels on the sly, in fact to behave the same as any girl of the same age, is a view-point that few have really accepted.
There may have been princesses who lived the prim, stately kind of life that is popularly ascribed to them, and did not allow themselves to be affected by the emotions and weaknesses of common folk, but certainly Olga was not numbered among them. Olga was a princess on the fairly numerous occasions when appearances in state were necessary, but the rest of the time she was just a wholesome, vivacious girl—a girl who liked to ride and play tennis, to wear French clothes and read English novels and to bully everyone in the establishment, from her father down. She was certainly the most unconventional of princesses.
It was well after eleven when a ray of sunshine, finding its way through the heavy damask curtains, had the temerity to seek out the spot where Olga's head nestled snugly in the pillows. Her eyes fluttered and opened. She sat up a little grudgingly, shook back her tangled curls, and rubbed firm knuckles into unwilling eyes—just a pretty, sleepy-headed girl after all.
Anyone who knows anything about royal households knows that the first act of the day is to ring a bell which summons a retinue of maids. This is an established rule—of the novelists. But Olga did nothing of the kind. In the first place, there was no electric bell to ring, for Prince Peter's establishment, while very large and picturesque, was not fitted up with all the latest improvements; and in the second place, she would not have rung the bell had there been one. Instead, she slipped out of bed into a pair of warm, woolly slippers, ranged methodically on the floor with a precision that bespoke long practice. Then she went to the window and drew back the curtain a cautious inch or two, while she inspected the look of things outside. Satisfied on that score, she proceeded unaided with her toilet, and it was not until the really formidable problem of restoring her unruly curls to order presented itself, that a maid was summoned.
As the maid worked, she talked. Perhaps it was because she had found it necessary to talk in order to distract her royal mistress's attention from the tugs and pulls that invariably accompanied the difficult task of hair-dressing. Perhaps it was because all maids talk. The maid is generic and the Ironian type has as confirmed a failing for chatter as her sister in England or America or Thibet—if such an institution as the handmaid exists in the latter place. What is more, maids talk to princesses as well as to the daughters of brewers and tradesman and manufacturers.
The reason why so seemingly trivial a matter is mentioned here is that the chatter of Marie on this particular morning had a most far-reaching effect. If it had not so happened that Marie, who was part French and proud of it, had that morning talked to one of the coachmen in the household who had just returned from an errand to the residence on the Lodz occupied by Varden, where he had conversed with Paula, maid-in-waiting to the Baroness Draschol; and again if Paula had not overheard certain remarks between Varden and his wife, which she confided to the coachman, who in turn passed the news on to Marie; if, we repeat, any link in this chain of communication had failed, the whole future of the picturesque and warlike kingdom of Ironia might have been changed; certainly the future of one, Donald Fenton, might have been very materially altered. But all the "ifs" duly materialised, the highly interesting piece of news was handed along with the astonishing celerity with which such news travel in the under strata of society, and in due course Marie bustled into her mistress's room with the information fairly tingling the sharp end of her pert tongue. It was as though in working out a particularly intricate play, the Master Chess Player had shoved a pawn to its appointed square. It may be added that the information thus freely bandied among the servants of the two households was safe in their keeping. The Ironian in the kitchen will chatter to his fellow of what happens in the saloon above, but will suffer his tongue to be cut out before he gives anything away to the outside world.
The story that Marie had thus picked up was a more or less complete outline of the attempt made to assassinate Prince Peter early that morning and the part Fenton and Varden had played in it. With a skill that showed the buxom maid to be a diplomat of no mean order, she let a hint or two drop. The princess, her interest aroused, sharply questioned the adroit Marie and in due course got to the bottom of the maid's store of information. It may have been that, animated with the desire of your true raconteur to give the auditor the best entertainment, Marie elaborated a little on the original facts, deepening the sanguinary nature of the conflict, multiplying the number of the assailants and thereby gilding in the most vivid colours the valour of the heroic Varden and the strange "Amereecan," whose name she had forgotten but in whom Olga readily recognised the impulsive Fenton. It having been demonstrated to her satisfaction early in the recital that her father had not been injured—Marie had seen him with her own eyes several times that morning—the princess permitted her chief interest to centre on two points, viz., the handsome stranger and the identity of the woman who had been in the party. On this last point Marie, much to her sorrow, had to acknowledge a complete lack of authoritative information.
During her breakfast, which was served in a cosy boudoir overlooking the gardens, the princess was very thoughtful, and at the same time restless. She toyed with the food and surprised the attendants into a bustling efficiency of service by her petulance. She had intended to ride, but changed her mind when the word came that her favourite mount was ready. Instead, she wandered into her sitting-room and ensconced herself in a sunny window with a book and her thoughts for company. They fought it out for supremacy, but it did not take long for the book to drop into second place. It was only after staring steadily at one page for ten minutes that she became aware of the fact that she was holding the volume upside down. When she realised this, she allowed it to slip off her lap to the floor and, tucking her feet up under her on the couch, gave herself over to unrestrained introspection.
The story gleaned from the voluble Marie had given an added impetus to a natural tendency to revert to the events of the preceding evening. The attempt on the life of her father confirmed the story that Fenton had told her and brought conviction home on the score of the duplicity of Miridoff. She felt convinced now that the Canadian's version of the plot had been the truth in every respect. Thus she felt that she had done him an injustice—and the thought was a peculiarly disturbing one. A still more disturbing aspect was the matter of the future, now that she could estimate the real character of the man who might be selected as her husband. If the influence of Miridoff remained in the ascendant, she knew that nothing would dissuade the King from his determination to bring about the match. Alliances of an almost equally infamous character had been quite common incidents in the chequered history of the Balkan Kingdoms.
Had anyone been privileged to watch Olga as her mind grappled with this almost terrifying phase of the situation, it would have been seen that lines denoting determination crept into her face—evidence of a newly formed intention not meekly to accept the fate so cruelly and callously marked out for her.
There is a resiliency about the mind of the young that permits of rapid transitions of mood. The thoughts of Olga soon strayed from the grim possibilities suggested by the danger to her father and the machinations, both political and matrimonial, of Miridoff, into more pleasing channels. From every fresh topic that suggested itself, her mind went back promptly and inevitably to thoughts of Fenton, until finally she gave up all pretence and permitted her fancy to dwell with frank intentness on this interesting stranger. She admitted, to herself, the fascination she had found in him, and on analysis decided that it lay in the fact that he was absolutely different from any man she had ever met before. The type she knew, the Ironian of the upper class, was of short stature and almost Oriental swarthiness—suave, plausible, a diplomatic trickster, avaricious and limited in view-point to the traditions of his little country. Fenton had affected her much as a cool, bracing wind appeals to the jaded traveller on the desert where nothing has been encountered but fetid, almost poisonous air.
And then Fenton had dared to talk to her without any of the restrictions, the insincerities or euphemisms of courtly conversation. She went over again his daring hypothesis. Supposing she ever found the opportunity to face the realities of life, not as the princess but as Olga—the woman—what then? Could it be that what he had hinted at would actually come to pass?
Her chin found a resting-place on her arms. Her eyes were fixed with earnest intentness on the garden beneath, but they were filled with sights much less material. She saw beyond the court, beyond Ironia, a life full of all that could make life worth while—liberty, sincerity, love. She glimpsed many golden scenes from a possible future in which courts and crowns and royal pomp had no place, and from which Miridoff and her other Ironian suitors were strangely missing.
The gorgeously caparisoned footman, entrusted with a message for her, had to speak three times before she came back from the golden kingdom of Youth's Dreamland.
"His grace, the Grand Duke Miridoff," announced the footman, bowing obsequiously in exit.
Miridoff crossed the room toward her with military precision and dignity. He was a rather striking figure of a man, straight and but slightly inclined to portliness. Although in the early forties, his heavy beard gave him the appearance of being somewhat older. The Grand Duke's Teutonic derivation was most strikingly shown in the lines of his face. His eyes were clear, direct, domineering. Altogether he looked exactly what he was—a bold intriguer, thoroughly daring and unscrupulous and efficient to a degree.
The princess rose to meet him, extending a hand on which the Grand Duke imprinted a kiss rather more fervid than court etiquette required. It was noteworthy that, during the interview which ensued, both remained standing. Both realised that a crisis had been reached between them.
"Your highness, I am pleased to see that you are well and not unduly fatigued after the ball," he said. Then, after a moment's pause: "I am assured your highness is well aware that I would not have taken the liberty of so early a call had I not desired to discuss a matter of the utmost importance with you. Have I your permission to proceed at once with the object of my visit?"
The princess bowed in assent.
Her companion deferentially took her arm and led her over to a window—the very window through which she had gazed a few minutes before, while thrilling but impossible day-dreams crowded her mental horizon. Olga again fixed her gaze on the garden beneath; but this time her visions were of a different nature. She saw a future that was sombre, dull and drab, in which happiness was sacrificed to stern, forbidding duty and in which one figure—domineering and repugnant—stood out.
"There is a matter which has never been discussed between us," he said, vainly endeavouring to bring her to look at him, "although we both have understood it—the King's plans concerning us. I have just left His Majesty and I come to you on his suggestion—nay, on his command. His Majesty has seen fit to select me as your future husband. It was my desire that I be permitted to speak to you first. His Majesty enjoined a speedy effort on my part to reach an understanding with you."
Still Olga did not look up. Her day-dreams had fallen in ruins about her. Her fate, in the form of Miridoff, had overtaken her, and was demanding recognition. A half resolution slowly formed in her mind.
"The position," went on the Grand Duke, "is a difficult one. I know that I can discuss it quite frankly with you. His highness, your father, is unfortunately opposed to me at the present time on matters of state policy, but the arrangement that our all-discerning King has honoured me by making is one that will outlast all political differences. May I plead that the divisions now existing be not allowed to influence your regard for me nor to stand in the way of my great good fortune?"
Olga turned her face toward him for the first time and regarded him seriously and intently. Still she did not speak.
"It was in consideration of a possible prejudice that may have crept into your mind against the party I represent and which may have even extended to me personally that I begged the privilege from His Majesty of addressing you before his august wishes had been communicated to you," pursued Miridoff. "I feared that false impressions might have taken lodgment in your mind which I felt confident I could dismiss. And"—he leaned closer toward the girl—"I feared the affect of malicious gossip which I knew would surely reach your ears."
"No gossip can influence the opinion I have formed of your grace," said the girl steadily.
There was a note of quiet finality in her voice that would have been discernible to anyone with a less decided ego; but Miridoff either failed to notice it or did not pause to determine the correct interpretation. He went on confidently:
"The wishes of His Majesty are, of course, not to be gainsaid. I was too sure of your loyalty to entertain any doubts on the score of your consent, but I wanted to just lay before you testimony to my sincere devotion." He concluded with a low bow.
The self-assurance was so openly reflected in his attitude and in every word he uttered that the half-formed resolution in her mind became crystallised on the moment into a fixed determination.
"I trust that my loyalty to His Majesty will never be called into question," she said quietly, "but I cannot give my consent to what he has willed in this matter."
A flush of anger swept across his face. His cool assurance left him and a tendency to bluster became apparent.
"Do I understand," he demanded, his voice hard and rasping, "that you intend to disregard the express command of His Majesty?"
"I will not—I cannot marry you," said Olga. "I must ask that you accept this answer as final. If you entertain for me the devotion that you say, show it by using your influence with the King. Urge him to withdraw his decision."
"May I ask," said Miridoff coldly, "the cause for this inexplicable repudiation of the King's wishes? Why can you not become my wife?"
Olga faced him squarely. Her eyes flashed, her voice rang clear and high.
"A daughter's devotion comes before a subject's obedience!" she declared. "I refuse to marry the man who has plotted against my father's life! I believe in speaking my mind openly, your grace," she went on hurriedly. "If I could but bring proofs to His Majesty of what you are doing——"
This outburst did not entirely surprise Miridoff. He had fully expected that some word of what was going on beneath the surface of things would reach her. It was largely with a view of getting matters settled before further proofs of his duplicity could come out that he had gone to King Alexander early that morning and urged a settlement. Miridoff was not above wooing the girl at the same time he planned to encompass her father's death. He was, therefore, not entirely unprepared, and met the situation coolly.
"A most extraordinary charge you bring against me," he said with well simulated surprise and an elaborate show of sarcasm. "May I ask on what it is based?"
"Why maintain this pretence?" asked the girl, regarding him steadily. "It is part of your creed to stop at no obstacle that lies in the way of the fulfilment of your plans. My father stands in your way and we both understand, your grace, that you will not hesitate to sweep him aside if the opportunity comes. Perhaps I should not blame you so much as the system you represent. You stand for the principles that have been uppermost throughout the whole history of our unfortunate country! You have so little sense of right and wrong that you are surprised when the daughter of the man you are doing your best to destroy refuses to accept the hastily considered dictum of her King to marry you."
The princess had stepped away from him. Miridoff regarded her with a sudden passion that was remarkable in one of his deliberate purpose. She was indeed beautiful to look upon, more beautiful than ever now with her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing their message of contempt. He watched her almost hungrily from beneath his dark brows. A strong approbation of her had always possessed him. In a sort of superior way he had admired her, and had pressed his claims persistently before King Alexander. But now her opposition fanned in him a deeper flame. It suddenly came to him that henceforth every consideration other than the winning of this woman for himself would be of minor importance. A ruthless determination to overcome her took possession of him. But his craft did not desert him even in the face of this all-powerful emotion.
"I know the source from which this charge emanates," he said with a sneer, "and I am surprised that you take the word of an adventurer. However, I do not now endeavour to refute the charge, as events are shaping themselves which will eventually demonstrate how little truth there is in the story."
He was attempting to draw her out. A slight wave of colour that swept her pale face momentarily betrayed the interest that the princess felt in his veiled allusion to Fenton. A question almost escaped her, but she quickly checked the impulse to seek further explanation.
"There is an agent of the British secret service in Serajoz," went on Miridoff deliberately. "His name is Fenton. His errand is to do as much damage as he can to the German cause. His methods are typical of the perfidious nation whose dirty work he does. He has been in Serajoz but one day, and has already started his campaign of insidious lies. I have his record: a spy of the lowest order who once offered to sell secrets of the British Foreign Office to the Germans, and who is suspected even by the unscrupulous men who employ him. I feel it is my duty to warn you——"
"It is false!" The words escaped her in a sudden gust of anger at Miridoff's uncompromising charge. Next moment she was sorry she had permitted herself to be thus tricked into an avowal of interest in the Canadian. But her consternation was no greater than that felt by Miridoff. In her hasty exclamation and the championing flush of her face, the leader of the Society of Crossed Swords had discerned something that he had not previously suspected.
"She is actually interested in the fellow," he said to himself. Miridoff had recognised Fenton's power to do him harm, but had never thought of him as a possible rival.
"Olga!" The word, tense with feeling, escaped from him. It was the first time he had addressed her other than in terms of correct intercourse. Olga recognised something of the turmoil that was raging within him from the tone of his voice and glanced up. Unerring female instinct laid his secret before her: Miridoff was really in love with her!
"Olga," repeated the Grand Duke, "I never before realised what the fulfilment of the King's wish means to me. I want you for my wife."
The princess became cool again in the face of this sudden declaration. "My mind is fully made up," she said. "I am sure His Majesty will not adhere to his decision in view of my unalterable opposition. And so, your grace, I must ask that the subject be considered closed between us."
"You force me to extremes!" exclaimed Miridoff, roused to angry bluster again by her steady opposition. "Let me tell you this: the King's mind is made up. There are important reasons for the match. He will not permit the whims of a girl to interfere with plans upon which the welfare of the state depends."
"Perhaps," cried the girl warmly, "when King Alexander learns the truth about his servant, the Grand Duke Miridoff, he will realise that the welfare of the state demands the removal of that servant to some place where he will no longer be dangerous!"
Miridoff recognised that further efforts at persuasion would be useless. He turned to leave the room, but paused again for a moment.
"I have presented the case to you in but one light," he declared. "It was my desire that you obey the King's command willingly. But now let me tell you that nothing can stand in the way of your becoming my wife. His Majesty is determined. I am prepared to take an unwilling bride—and no power on earth can stand between us!"
Worn out from the excitement of the night, Fenton slept well through the forenoon. When he finally wakened it was to a realisation of stiffened muscles and a general feeling as though he had been drawn through a threshing machine. He seemed one mass of bruises. A warm bath effected a partial revival, and then slowly and laboriously he found his way into his clothes, paying tribute with every move to the prowess of his unknown antagonist of the previous night's mêlée.
He found his host most impatiently pacing the library. Varden had not been down long himself but, to judge from his attitude, he had already come into possession of important news.
"Just in time, Fenton," said Varden briefly. "In ten minutes I'd have gone without you."
"Where?" asked the Canadian. His tone seemed to evidence a certain lack of interest, due possibly to his breakfastless condition.
"To the station," replied Varden. "I just got wind of an interesting piece of news. General Jules Lebrun, the hero of the French Army, is passing through Serajoz to-day on his way to Russia to consult with the General Staff of the Tsar. He has a stopover of a few hours, and his entertainment has been entrusted to me. As you probably surmise," went on Varden, lowering his voice to a discreet pitch, "the time that the General spends with me will not be entirely given over to social amenities. He has certain papers bearing on a suggested plan of campaign in case of—certain eventualities—which are to be handed to me. We may get an opportunity to discuss various phases of the plan. You understand, of course, the reason why this work is in my hands. It would not be politic for a member of the Ironian General Staff to be seen with the French general. I will serve as a go-between."
Fenton had spent the greater part of the time following the outbreak of the war in the south of Russia, so that such news of the progress of the campaign as reached him had been decidedly meagre. Nevertheless he had heard much of the spectacular work of the great little victorious French general, and Varden's news kindled in him a keen desire to see the famous fighter whose dashing tactics had done so much to win the Battle of the Marne. And then an idea occurred to him.
"Varden," he said, "has it occurred to you that the general's visit can be turned to great purpose in deciding the wobbling policy of Ironia?"
"In what way?" asked the other.
Fenton shook his head sadly. "As a newspaper man you always fell down hard when it came to grasping the dramatic possibilities of a story. As a diplomat it seems you are just the same. Percy, don't you realise the advertising value of Lebrun's visit to Serajoz? He has come right at the psychological moment to produce the proper dramatic effect.
"The Ironian people are Latin and so claim kinship with the French," he went on. "The influence of France is shown in every phase of Ironian life. The factor in deciding the sympathies of Ironia, next in importance to the question of the two lost provinces, is the love and admiration that the people here have for everything that pertains to France. Now then, Lebrun's exploits have been told and retold from one end of Ironia to the other. Just let it become generally known that he's in Serajoz, and you'll stir up a demonstration that will open the eyes of your stubborn King! I tell you, Percy, it's a heaven-sent opportunity. The hoarse roar of a thoroughly enthused mob will accomplish more than the carefully considered whisperings of all the diplomats in the country."
"But," protested Varden, "I must have an opportunity to talk with him. A popular demonstration is not just the best background for a discussion on tactics."
"Have your talk first," said Fenton confidently. "Then take our trump card out in an open fiacre and drive him slowly down the Lodz. Be sure that the good news is circulated well in advance. I tell you what—let me stage-manage this affair. I was always rather strong on the dramatic possibilities."
They talked the plan over in whispers, while Fenton bolted a ten-minute breakfast. Varden then hurried away to keep his appointment, and the Canadian began the busy task of arranging the "props" for the brilliant demonstration he had planned out.
No inhabitant of Serajoz will ever forget that day. The news that General Lebrun was in the city spread like wild-fire. His name was on every lip within an hour. Thousands of excited and enthusiastic Ironians rushed to the station only to learn that the little general had duly arrived and been promptly whisked away. Crowds gathered in the streets. Ironian and French flags were displayed on all sides, impromptu processions were organised, songs were vociferously chorused by the ardent townspeople, the "Marseillaise" being heard as often as the Ironian national anthem. Later, when Percival Varden drove out into the Lodz in an open fiacre with a little white-haired, powerful man beside him, the stage was all set for a demonstration, the like of which Serajoz had not seen since the memorable day when Alexander Sobiesku, first King of Ironia, was crowned.
The fiacre drove slowly up the Lodz between solid banks of agitated humanity. "Lebrun," "France," "War," were the words that one heard rising from out of the babel of sound. Excited men climbed on the steps of the carriage to grasp the hand of the gallant little Frenchman. Swords appeared above the heads of the mob, and the clamour for war became insistent and belligerent. The demonstration reached its height when the carriage rolled into the Square of Triumph, where a huge bronze statue of Sobiesku, the national hero of Ironia who had defeated the Turks in the War of Liberation, reared itself proudly above plashing fountains and luxuriant foliage. Here, immediately beneath the figure of the grim old warrior, they encountered another carriage containing Prince Peter. The King's brother rose and warmly grasped the hand of the grizzled French general. For several seconds they stood thus, while the crowds thundered their appreciation of the tableau.
Standing back in the dense throng, Fenton witnessed the scene with double appreciation, for he had himself suggested, and, in fact, arranged the setting. "Pretty effective," he said to himself. "If this doesn't shake the country off the fence I am out in my calculations."
He felt a pressure on his arm as though someone had gently tugged his sleeve. Next moment a slip of paper was pressed into his hand. Fenton turned as quickly as his crowded surroundings permitted but could discern nothing in the swarthy faces of those nearest him to indicate who had been responsible. Elbowing his way out of the crush, Fenton made his way to a deserted corner of the street and eagerly inspected the note. It was written in French in a feminine hand and contained neither address nor signature, merely the words:
"Dine at eight to-night at the Continental. Important."
The Continental Hotel at Serajoz is known to all travellers by reputation at least. It ranks with Shepherd's Hotel at Cairo, the Eis Arena in Berlin, Giro's at Monte Carlo. At the Continental one meets diplomats, statesmen, secret service agents from all countries. Many an extra tangle in the Near-East question has been tied at quiet, informal parties on the terrace of the Continental. The second Balkan War, when the rest of the Confederacy joined arms against Bulgaria, was planned one evening around a marble-topped table in a secluded corner of the terrace. Here revolutions have been plotted, dynasties have been overturned, assassinations have been coolly debated. To the average traveller the Continental is not in any degree different from other hotels of the same order except that it is perhaps a little larger, a little noisier and a little more tawdry in its appointments.
But ask an official of any of the foreign offices of Europe. You will get a polite and blandly evasive reply at first, of course, for that is the way of foreign offices; but get into the confidence of some official and he will tell you stories that make the wildest of fiction seem colourless and banal.
Fenton took his seat at a corner table on the terrace. He had confided his mission to Varden, who had earnestly recommended him to disregard the mysterious summons. Varden was convinced that the invitation was part of some plot, and quite as positive that Miridoff was behind it. There was too strong a tinge of romance to the whole incident, however, for Fenton to accept this prudent advice. The mystery drew him like a magnet, and accordingly the appointed hour found him at his corner table, watching the crowds that surrounded him with interest, while he puffed innumerable cigarettes.
The thronged terrace presented a cosmopolitan air that was fascinating to the Canadian. There were all sorts and conditions of men and women. Here a prince, scion of a ruling house; there a parvenu millionaire, every line of him and every move shouting his newly acquired wealth to the world. A party of American tourists, scintillating spots of fire from the jewels of their womenfolk, occupied one table. A thief of international fame lounged through, eyeing the company insolently. A fluffy mondaine on the arm of an officer laughed and chatted as she passed. Members of the highest nobility rubbed elbows with gamblers of the most doubtful antecedents. Beauty and vice sat side by side.
Fenton took it all in, but at no time did the thought that had obsessed his mind for the past twenty-four hours leave him. Fenton was in love. He had no doubts on thai score himself. Most men have many love affairs and are deceived often, but when thegrande passioncomes they know. Fenton knew. Not for one waking minute since he had first seen Olga had he forgotten her. This had lasted a day by ordinary computation of time, an age according to the calendar of Cupid. She was at once the most wonderful, the most beautiful and the most inaccessible woman in the world. The Canadian's reason told him that he could never hope to win her, but his heart whispered to him to go in and win. Of one thing he was certain, that he would never leave Ironia while any possible hope of winning her remained.
The hope was strong in Fenton that the mysterious message was in some way connected with the object of his adoration. His eye had but one object in scanning the brilliant crowd with eager interest—to see if by any chance she were in the company.
The soft swish of a woman's gown warned him of a close approach to his table. Before he could turn a voice spoke almost in his ear, a very pleasant voice too:
"Good evening, Mistaire Fenton. It is most fortunate that you dine alone. I have something to say to you of the most importance."
Fenton sprang to his feet. It was Mademoiselle Petrowa.
"This is most unexpected good fortune," he said. Then he glanced around hurriedly. "But is it not indiscreet? Is it safe for you to make it known that we—er—know each other?"
"Quite," and her silvery laugh broke in ripples. "Come, do not look so—so tragic, is it not? Sit down and invite me to be of your company. I will then explain."
They seated themselves, Fenton still very dubious, she with demure grace. For a moment neither spoke. The little dancer regarded her companion with an intentness, behind which seemed to lurk an almost roguish interest.
"It is this way," she said finally. "I am playing what you call the double game. I find for your friends all that I can, but they—the other side—think that I work for them. It is needed that I so do, else I cannot be of use to the great cause, Monsieur Fenton. I tell to them some things that are so and many things that are not. The Duke Miridoff has entrusted to me many missions, and this morning he comes to me."
She paused and requisitioned a cigarette, lighting it daintily and deliberately.
"This is what I am to do," she said. "I am to watch one, Mistaire Fenton, most closely, to win his confidence, and if possible—but of course it is not so—to make him make love to me. Is the work my good Miridoff sets likely to be of the most difficult, mon ami?"
Had Fenton known of the scene between the Grand Duke and Olga of that morning he would perhaps have been able to understand the motive that had prompted the former thus to set a watch on his movements. Had he known the furious thoughts that surged in Miridoff's brain as he left the palace after the interview he would have understood why the little dancer had been deputed to win attention from him; and, knowing this, he would have been in a position to anticipate what followed. But as it was Fenton could make nothing out of it, and so stared across the table at his merry companion with palpable amazement.
"You mean that Miridoff has instructed you to follow me and to work up a flirtation between us?" he demanded. "What object can he have in that?"
"Is the—what you call it?—prospect—so dismal then that you must look so?" laughed his companion. "As for me, I am most frank, monsieur. I have had missions more disagreeable. But come, it cannot hurt you to help me play well my part. Smile,mon ami, look pleasant. The gentle Miridoff will have those here who report how Anna Petrowa does her work. See, I take one of these roses and put it in your buttonhole."
Plucking a bloom from the bouquet on the table she leaned across the table and deftly fixed it in his coat. For a moment their heads were close together. A stray tendril touched his face. She whispered in French:
"Monsieur, I have news—big news. Listen closely——"
There was a sudden interruption. A young man in the uniform of the Royal Guards of Ironia rose from a nearby table and stalked towards them. The dancer caught her breath in a way that almost suggested fright, and subsided into her chair. The officer frowned at her angrily, ignoring Fenton entirely.
"Anna," he exclaimed in Ironian, "come with me at once. I insist!"
"By what right, Lieutenant Neviloff?" demanded the girl.
"Come at once," repeated Neviloff in a hectoring tone. "I must not be trifled with. You are trying my patience."
The Canadian had not understood a word of the conversation, but he rightly judged the nature of it from the attitude of the others.
"What is it all about?" he demanded. "Shall I send him politely about his business or just drop him over the balcony?"
"Allow me to present Lieutenant Neviloff, Monsieur Fenton," said the girl, anxious to avoid a scene.
Fenton rose, and the two men faced each other steadily. The officer ignored the introduction, glaring at the Canadian in the most offensive way.
"Mademoiselle Petrowa accompanies me," he declared in broken French. "I warn you, fellow, to be more careful in future. Anna, come at once!"
"Not so fast!" exclaimed Fenton, his choler rising. "I don't like your way of doing things, Monsieur Lieutenant. Mademoiselle Petrowa stays where she is!"
Neviloff turned a furious red and took a step closer to Fenton with a threatening gesture. "You foreign pig!" he said through gritted teeth. "Leave while you may with a whole skin. You try my patience much. I shall spit you with my sword if you remain longer in my sight!"
Fenton laughed—a short, ominous laugh.
"You miserable little whipper-snapper!" he said, both fists clenched and itching for action. "If ever let myself go and lay hands on you—— Get out yourself before my patience runs out!"
"If you were of rank to be worth notice," retorted Neviloff with angry contempt, "I would slap you with my glove in the face, and then to-morrow morning I would end your miserable life. But as it is——"
A shrug of his shoulders and a gesture eloquent of his contempt followed. Fenton suddenly lunged forward and seized the officer's arm with a grip that almost paralysed that member. Half leading, half dragging, he propelled the unwilling lieutenant toward his own table. Arriving there, Fenton forced Neviloff down on his chair so hard that it went over backward, taking him with it.
"There," said Fenton. "Now behave!"
Neviloff scrambled to his feet with more expedition than dignity. His face was crimson with wrath and humiliation. With a sudden fury he half drew his sword from its sheath.
"It is too much!" His voice was high and shrill. "I kill you for this. This evening a friend of mine shall wait upon you. To-morrow I shall honour you, pig of a foreigner, by killing you, as I would a gentleman."
"Go as far as you like," said Fenton nonchalantly, turning back.
He walked back to his table to find it empty. The Little Person had gone. Fenton paid his score and left. He idled about the Lodz, which was brilliantly lighted at night, and on the Duntzig, where the orchestras played, for an hour or so, enjoying himself fully. The incident on the terrace he had dismissed from his mind. He did not, as a matter of fact, expect ever to hear of it again, but when he reached home Varden greeted him with a face of tragic concern.
"Look here, what have you been doing?" demanded the latter. "An officer of the Guards has just been here with a formal challenge from Neviloff. What in heaven's name have you done to offend him?"
Fenton laughed almost incredulously. "You must be joking," he said. "I haven't done anything. This Neviloff fellow tried to take Mademoiselle Petrowa away from me over at the Continental. He was most offensive about it. I stood as much as I could from him, and then I just led him back to his seat and made him behave."
"Is that all?" asked Varden in mock surprise. "Didn't you perform any little trivial politeness such as breaking a rib or two, or leave him a souvenir in the way of a couple of black eyes? Damnation, Fenton, they fight duels in this country on the strength of a side-glance of the eye, a shrug of the shoulder, an inflection——"
"Have I got to fight him then?" asked the Canadian.
"It looks like it," said Varden gloomily. "Either that or make a quick exit from the country."
"Which last is, of course, out of the question," said Fenton positively. "Still I'm in rather a fix. I won't put up much of a fight I'm afraid. Do I have the choice of weapons?"
"Yes, as challenged party you can choose the method by which this Neviloff will kill you."
"I know as much about a harpoon as I do about a sword," said Fenton reflectively. "I can shoot a little though. Make it pistols."
"Say, Don," protested Varden tragically, "what is it all about anyway? How did you come to get into such a mess?"
Fenton told him the whole story, and at the conclusion Varden swore vindictively.
"It was all arranged," he declared. "Miridoff is behind this. He instructed the girl to make up to you, and then had his handy man there to force you into a quarrel—a nice convenient form of assassination, quite worthy of Miridoff."
"Do you mean that Mademoiselle Petrowa was in with them too?" asked Fenton, astounded.
"No, of course not. I would stake my honour on her. Miridoff probably suggested that she make up to you, and, seeing an easy avenue opened up of getting into communication with us, she assented. Then Miridoff works this other trick and—there you are! Don, for the love of heaven clear out while you have the chance. They'll kill you sure if you stay!"
"I can't go," said Fenton firmly. "It would brand me as a coward—and I cannot leave that kind of a reputation behind me. But, Varden, there's one thing—I don't understand what Miridoff's game is in regard to Mademoiselle Petrowa! Why should he want her to entangle me?"
"I can see several likely reasons," answered Varden. "You have earned his resentment in the first place, and Miridoff always pays off his scores. It served as a good pretext for Neviloff to pick a quarrel in the second place. And thirdly—Miridoff is jealous. Your escapade of this evening will be reported in a certain quarter in a way calculated to injure you in the eyes of—a certain person. You see I know Miridoff thoroughly."
Fenton had recognised the possibilities of a popular demonstration for the great French General, but if he had known how far public feeling would be aroused, he undoubtedly would have hesitated before suggesting that capital be made out of the timely visit of the French hero. As things turned out the appearance of the grey-haired general on the Lodz set in motion such waves of racial enthusiasm and warlike frenzy that Serajoz experienced one of the wildest days and maddest nights in all its wild and mad history.
The terms of the duel had been settled between the sadly perturbed Varden and a saturnine officer who called on behalf of the aggrieved Neviloff, and the former sat with his principal in a balcony that overlooked the seething, turbulent Lodz. It was after eleven o'clock, but the crowds were not thinning out, and the tumult seemed to be increasing in violence all the time.
After half an hour's earnest argument Varden had given up hope of persuading the Canadian to depart from the capital before he fell a victim to the skill of Neviloff, and now sat eyeing, glumly, the animated scene below. Suddenly, above the noise of the mobs, came the electrifying crackle of musketry. First there were a few sharp explosions, then gradually the firing settled down into the sustained din of a steady fusillade.
"That means trouble!" ejaculated Varden. "The Guards must be firing on the people down around the royal palace, judging from the sound."
Moved by a common impulse the two men rose. Varden brought out heavy caps and cloaks, so that when they emerged into the street they were effectually disguised.
"Lead on, right into the thick of it," admonished Fenton. "I'm afraid we've missed something!"
They had. When they reached the square in front of the royal palace, they found it jammed with excited humanity, except for a significant radius around the entrance. Drawn up across the imposing gates was a double file of soldiers.
"The Guards fired on the mob. A couple have been killed!" exclaimed Varden, who had picked up the information from the excited shouts of those around them. "The fat's in the fire, Don! If Alexander holds out much longer they'll burn the palace to the ground."
In the surging mob the pair were soon separated, Varden being borne off bodily in a panicky rush of the people to avoid a threatened charge by the soldiers. Loath to return home while the excitement ran so high, Fenton drifted along with the crowd. He witnessed a demonstration in the course of which every window in the Austrian embassy was smashed. He saw Turkish shops and Austrian restaurants raided. Street fights became a mere incident. The clamorous cry for war was heard on every hand, coupled with execrations of King Alexander. On one public square the stubborn sovereign of Ironia was burned in effigy.
About one o'clock Fenton found himself in a small Greek restaurant on one of the narrow mercantile streets that run off the Duntzig. He was hungry enough to overlook the uninviting appearance of the place and the decidedly rough-looking crew who crowded about the tables. He shared one table with a picturesque old foreigner with a battered, time-worn countenance, and apparel that bespoke either poverty or utter disregard for appearance. Fenton stared at the grimy menu card printed in Ironian that a tatterdemalion waiter presented, and pointed to one of the items haphazard. Luck was not with him, his selection proving to be a sallow omelet of uncertain composition but positive odour. One look at the steaming mess and Fenton's appetite took wings. He pushed the plate to one side.
"Monsieur has not learned to appreciate native cookery," said the foreigner, glancing up and speaking in excellent French. "Monsieur perhaps speaks French?"
"He does," replied Fenton. "And decidedly he does not appreciate native cookery."
"For ten years I have been an exile from my beloved France!" sighed the old man. "It has been hard, monsieur, very hard. But the hardest part has been to subsist on the reeking, nauseous stuff that these Ironians call food. But time can work any miracle, monsieur. To-day I, François Dubois, with a palate that once was educated to the highest Parisian standard, can eat even the omelet of an Ironian cook and—forgive the blasphemy, monsieur—call it good!"
Fenton twisted his chair around so that he could regard his table companion more closely. The old Frenchman had a care-lined face from which a pair of black eyes looked out with a virility strangely at variance with the lifeless grey of the mask in which they were set.
"How do you happen to be living in Serajoz?" Fenton asked curiously.
"It's a long story and would weary monsieur's patience in the telling," replied the old man. "In a word, I came here with a company of strolling players—I was an actor and a musician, monsieur. Ironia was in a bad way ten years ago. A revolution threatened, war with Turkey was feared, the Government was nearly bankrupt. We made so little money that our company disbanded in Serajoz, and here has Francois Dubois remained ever since, picking up a meagre living by teaching music to such pupils as he has been able to find. The thought that some day I would save enough to return to France has kept life in this useless old body, monsieur. But that hope is now almost gone!"
"You know Ironia well then?" suggested Fenton. "Tell me, what is the real sentiment of the people? Is this all froth or do they really want war?"
"The people of Ironia want war!" said the old man soberly. "Listen to me, monsieur, for I know of what I speak. They are a deep lot, these Ironians, deeper than most people think—fiery in love, implacable in hate, consistent in gratitude, eternal in revenge, deep, deep. They hate the Turk and the Austrian. They want to win back the lost provinces, and would rather win them back by fighting for them. The smoke of battle is incense in the nostrils of the Ironian."
The old man wagged his forefinger portentously at Fenton.
"If there is one man in Ironia blinder than all others it is King Alexander," he went on. "I, Francois Dubois, say so. Monsieur, I feel in the prophetic vein to-night and I am telling you this: that Alexander will not give in to the people. He is a stiff-necked man, this Alexander, and he believes in the divine right of kings. His pledged word as a monarch is more to him than the welfare of the country over which he rules. He will not budge one inch, monsieur, and I see the day not far distant when, as first step to making the war they have willed, the Ironians will take from Alexander his crown. No king can balk the will of a nation to-day—not even a nation in the Balkans!"
"You really think it could happen?" asked Fenton, a little incredulous. "If they did depose Alexander, who would succeed him?"
"The Prince Peter, perhaps," replied the old actor. "Or, more likely still, Ironia would become a republic like my own dear France! Ah, monsieur, it would almost reconcile me to dying in this country if I knew that the freedom of France had at last reached Ironia!"
"A republic!" ejaculated Fenton, bright visions flitting before him, conjured up by the old man's words. A republic meant the breaking down of social barriers, the abolition of royal families—and, therefore, of royal marriages. But then he perceived the absolute futility of the idea. What did it matter to him whether Ironia became a republic or not? That morning he was due to offer himself as a target to Neviloff, and the outcome did not seem at all uncertain. Almost unconsciously he started to talk to his companion, telling him of the impending duel.
"It is not uncommon for visitors to become embroiled with native officers, monsieur," said the old man. "Many a duel has been fought on grounds that smacked strongly of robbery. The upper-class Ironian, monsieur, is a cut-throat, a thief, with the manners of a gentleman but the instincts of a pirate. But," and he shrugged his shoulders, "I would not fear the outcome. I know my Ironian well. He is devilish handy with the sword, but a poor shot, an atrociously bad shot. Have courage; you are more likely to wing him yourself. And in any case, the duel—it has not often the fatal ending. Look at me, monsieur. In my day four duels have I fought—and at sixty-two I live to teach music in the gutter of Europe!"
Considerably comforted by the old man's words, Fenton took down his address on a card and left, promising to look Monsieur Dubois up on the first opportunity.
*****
At dawn the Canadian accompanied Varden to a misty, silent field on the outskirts of the city, there to wait for Neviloff and his friends. They waited long past the appointed hour, until Varden, who had come in a mood of almost despairing protest, began to cheer.
"Something's gone wrong," he said finally. "Neviloff would not funk it, of course. This sort of thing is all in the day's work to Neviloff. But a hitch has occurred somewhere."
As he finished an officer came across the field toward them. He saluted and spoke in Ironian to Varden.
"Saved, Don!" exclaimed the latter when the officer had left. "Once again have you managed to evade the consequences of your rash conduct. Neviloff can't keep the appointment. The riots last night became so bad that the troops in the city have been ordered to remain under arms, and the gallant lieutenant will be chained to duty until the situation becomes less acute. In the meantime his slighted honour must go without redress. He sends most profuse apologies—for not being able to kill you this morning. Come on, Don, I feel as though I could enjoy a good breakfast now."
The particular department of the well-known firm of Fate & Co., to which had been deputed the difficult task of weaving a train of circumstances that would plunge a nation into war, had been working overtime during the forty or so hours that Donald Fenton had been in Serajoz. The web was being surely and unerringly spun, and already certain skeins that represented human lives had been closely interwoven. Three lives, indexed in the ledgers of Fate perhaps by soul numbers, but distinguished from other mortals on earth by the titles of Donald Fenton, the Grand Duke Miridoff, and Olga of Ironia, were so hopelessly tangled, it was apparent that in the unravelling process one or more might be snapped off. Peering at what was ahead, the grim official saw two men stand face to face with the world-old issue to be settled between them, at the same time that angry mobs stormed palace walls for a cause that a stubborn king had forsworn.
And with this objective in view the minion of Fate first prompted a prudent thought to take possession of the mind of Prince Peter that morning, and then saw to it that a whisper of a restaurant brawl and a duel, impending or already fought, reached the ears of the Princess Olga. Acting on the first, Prince Peter decided that in its upset condition Serajoz was no place for his daughter, and notified her that he had decided she must go to his county estate at Kail Baleski until such time as the trouble blew over, and acting on the second, Olga hurriedly summoned her carriage and set out for a house on the Lodz where resided her very great confidante, the Baroness Draschol. Not content with this, the untiring tangler of human skeins prompted a certain little person of exceptional personal charm and international antecedents to don the garb of a peasant woman, muffling her face in a hood, and to set off on foot by sundry unfrequented streets and alleys bound for the same residence in the Lodz.
When he had seen that the princess entered by the front portal at the very moment that the pseudo-peasant knocked at a rear entrance, and had furthermore satisfied himself that Donald Fenton had risen from the breakfast-table and had strolled aimlessly into the library, there to wait for his host who had been called away, the official of Fate was content to sit back and let events take their course, confident that now his human puppets could not deviate from the lines he had laid down for them.
Baroness Draschol received her royal friend in her own sitting-room, which was just across the hall from the library. There they chatted for some time. Olga soon gleaned such information with reference to the postponed duel as the prudent Varden had seen fit to trust to his wife. In the meantime the peasant woman, who had asked at the rear door first for Mr Varden and then for Mr Fenton, and had been admitted only after the transfer of a gold coin, had been escorted to the library, where she removed the heavy hood, revealing the pleasing features of Anna Petrowa.
Fenton, who was becoming inured to surprises of all descriptions, accepted this transformation with equanimity.
"Good morning, mademoiselle," he said, setting a chair for her. "I am delighted to see you, but not surprised. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened for half an hour or so. I felt that the inactivity wouldn't keep up much longer."
"I am so more than glad that monsieur has come to no harm," said the dancer quite earnestly. "I see it all now. It was a plot to trap you, and I an innocent part playing in it. But monsieur, I see, does not think of me as the double traitor."
She placed a finger on her lips to enjoin silence, and then, tip-toeing over beside him, whispered:
"I had not time before we were interrupted to tell the big news that I have learned, and thus have I risked all by coming here so in the broad daylight. It is this: Many of the army officers are with our cunning Miridoff, and a plot is spreading to force Ironia into war against Russia by the same means that they used with Turkey. A body of Ironian troops, acting without official orders, will cross the line to Russia and burn a village or so. The Russians, of course, they retaliate, and then war is certain to follow. It is all arranged, monsieur. Where or when I do not know. Word, I beseech, must be taken at once to his highness."
Fenton sprang up and paced the floor excitedly. "Of course, it is exactly what they would do," he exclaimed. "Last night has shown them that they cannot win by fair means. Mr Varden is out, mademoiselle, but will be back in a very few minutes. Word shall be taken to Prince Peter as soon as he returns."
In the course of a minute or so Fenton's thoughts, occupied with the important information that she had brought, turned to the consideration of how so vital a piece of news had been obtained. He stood in front of his intrepid companion and regarded her with stimulated interest and quite frank admiration.
"I can't understand it at all," he said. "Try as I may I can't really associate you with plots and counter-plots and secret meetings, and associations with all the rag-tag and bob-tail of Balkan intrigue. You are so fair, so young, so—well, so completely feminine that I can't see how you succeed in work that belongs, by its very nature, to the rougher animal, man."