Chapter Seven.The Sign of the Cat’s-Paw.Another part which the Prince played in the present-day drama now being enacted in Eastern Europe brought him in touch with “The Sign of the Cat’s-Paw,” a sign hitherto unknown to our Foreign Office, or to readers of the daily newspapers.At the same time, however, it very nearly cost him his own life.The affair occurred about a couple of months after the death of the fascinating Olga Steinkoff. He had been sent back to the Balkans upon another mission. Cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, he had been moving rapidly up and down Europe gathering information for Downing Street, but ever on the look-out for an opening for the Parson and himself to operate in a very different sphere.Garrett, blindly obedient to the telegrams he received, had taken the car on some long flying journeys, Vienna, Berlin and back to Belgrade, in Servia. For two months or so I had lost sight of both the mild-mannered, spectacled Clayton and the Prince, when one morning, while walking down St. James’s Street, I saw Garrett in his grey and scarlet livery driving the car from Piccadilly down to Pall Mall.By this I guessed that his Highness had returned to London, so I called at Dover Street, and twenty minutes later found myself seated in the big saddle-bag chair with a “Petroff” between my lips.He was in his old brown velvet lounge coat and slippers, and had been at his writing-table when I entered. But on my appearance he threw down his pen, stretched himself, and sat round for a gossip.Suddenly, while speaking, he made a quick, half-foreign gesture of ignorance in response to a question of mine, and in that brief instant I saw upon his right palm a curious red mark.“Hullo!” I asked. “What’s that?”“Oh—nothing,” he replied, rather confused I thought, and shut his hand so that I could not see it.“But it is!” I declared. “Let me see.”“How inquisitive you are, Diprose, old chap,” he protested.So persistent was I, and so aroused my curiosity by finding a mark exactly like the imprint of a cat’s-paw, that, not without considerable reluctance, he explained its meaning. The story he narrated was, indeed, a most remarkable and dramatic one. And yet he related it as though it were nothing. Perhaps, indeed, the puzzling incidents were of but little moment to one who led a life so chock-full of adventure as he.Yes, it really was curious, he remarked at last. It was in March. I had been in London’s mud and rain for a fortnight, and grown tired of it. Suddenly a confidential mission had been placed in my hands—a mission which had for its object British support to the Bulgarian Government against the machinations of Austria to extend her sphere of influence southward across the Danube and Servia.My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and once more the journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one. I had wired to Garrett, who was awaiting me with the car at the Hungaria, in Budapest, to bring it on to Sofia.But I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken to carry out. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task—one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which, ere long, must be the power of the Balkans.I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other governments and other financial houses. Therefore, in the three long never-ending days the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object.The run was uneventful, save for one fact. At the Staatsbahnhof, at Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered, and was given the compartment next mine.His nationality I could not determine. He spoke deep guttural German with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes—which were rather dandified for so old a man—I did not believe him to be a native of the Fatherland.I heard him rumbling about with his bags next door, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in English.A few hours later, at dinner, I found him placed at the little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French—perfect French it was—but refused to speak English, though, of course, he could had he wished.“Ah! non,” he laughed, “I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult.”And so we chatted in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow, and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only Danish margarine.His complaints were amusing. He was possessed of much grim humour. At first themaître d’hôtelbustled about to do the bidding of the new-comer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting criticism of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-lits and all its works.Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the passport-officer took off his hat to him, bowed low andvisédhis passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its owner:“Bon voyage, Altesse.”I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore be either a prince or a grand duke! Just then I was not a prince—only plain M’sieur Martin. In Roumania princes are as plentiful as blackberries, so I put him down as a Roumanian.As I sat opposite him at dinner that night he was discussing with me the harmful writings of some newly discovered German who was posing as a cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community. He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven chin upon his finger, displaying to me most, certainly by accident, the palm of his thin right hand.What I discovered there caused me a good deal of surprise. In its centre was a dark livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a cat’s-paw!It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt convinced. It was just as though a cat had stepped upon blood with one of its fore-paws and trodden upon his hand.Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed.His name, he told me at last, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in Athens. But I took that informationcum grano, for I knew him to be a prince travellingincognito. The passport-officer at Semlin makes no mistakes.But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?There is, unfortunately, no good hotel at Sofia. The best is the Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady to whom I was well-known as M’sieur Martin, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. He gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in Prince Ferdinand’s capital than I myself was, for I had been there at least half a dozen times before. Most of the Ministers knew me, and I was always elected a member of the smart diplomats’ club, the Union, during my stay.The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself as before in a vortex of gaiety; invitations to the Legations poured in upon me, cards for dances here and there, receptions by members of the Cabinet, and official dinners by the British and French Ministers, while daily I spent each afternoon with my friend, Colonel Mayhew, the British militaryattaché, in his comfortable quarters not far from our Agency.All the while, I must here confess, I was working my cards very carefully. I had sounded my friend, Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired Prime Minister—the splendid Bulgarian patriot—and he was inclined to admit the British proposals. The Minister of War, too, was on my side. German agents had approached him, but he would have none of them. In Bulgaria just then they had no love of Germany. They were far too Russophile.Indeed, in this strenuous life of a fortnight or so I had practically lost sight of the ugly old gentleman who had been addressed by the passport-officer as his Highness. Once or twice I had seen him wandering alone and dejected along the streets, for he apparently knew nobody, and was having a very quiet time, Greeks were disliked in Sofia almost as much as Turks, on account of the Greek bands who massacre the Bulgars in Macedonia.One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club—a function at which the smart set at Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of State themselves put in an appearance—I had been waltzing with the daughter of the Minister of the Interior, a pretty dark-haired girl in blue, whom I had met during my last visit to Bulgaria, and the Spanishattaché, a pale-faced young man wearing a cross at his throat, had introduced to me a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black evening-gown trimmed with silver.A thin wreath of the same roses was in her hair, and around her neck was a fine gold chain from which was suspended a big and lustrous diamond.Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly charming. She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well. She had been at school in England, she said—at Scarborough. Her home was at Galatz, in Roumania, where her father was Prefect.We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then we had a couple of waltzes, and I conducted her out to the carriage awaiting her, and, bowing, watched her drive off alone.But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow, the short ugly figure of the old Greek Vassos, with his coat collar turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.A few days later, when in the evening I called on Mayhew at his rooms, he said:“What have you been up to, Martin? Look here! This letter was left upon me, with a note asking me to give it to you in secret. Looks like a woman’s hand! Mind what you’re about in this place, old chap! There are some nasty pitfalls, you know!”I took the letter, opened it, read it through, and placed it in my pocket without a word.With a bachelor’s curiosity, he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.Suffice it to say that on that same night I went alone to a house on the outskirts of Sofia, and there met at her urgent request the pretty girl Marie Balesco, who had so enchanted me. Ours seemed to be a case of mutual attraction, for as we sat together, she seemed, after apologising for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the winds, to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons which had brought me to Bulgaria.Like most women of the Balkans, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. I took one—a delicious one it was, but rather strong—so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. Before I could fight against it the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed I knew no more until on awakening I found myself back in my bed at the hotel.I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what held occurred.My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked at it.Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the Sign of the Cat’s-paw!Horrified I stared at it. It was the same mark that I had seen upon the hand of Vassos! What could be its significance?In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct imprint of the feline foot. From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions, to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played such a prank on me. But he only knew her slightly. She had been staying with a certain Madame Sovoff, who was something of a mystery, but had left Sofia.A month passed. Mademoiselle and Madame returned from Belgrade and were both delighted when I suggested they should go for a run in the “sixty.” I took them over the same road as I had taken Olga Steinkoff. In a week Mademoiselle became an enthusiastic motorist, and was full of inquiry into the various parts of the engine, the ignition, lubrication, and other details. One day I carefully approached the matter of this remarkable mark upon my palm. But she affected entire ignorance. I confess that I had grown rather fond of her, and I hesitated to attribute to her, or to Madame, any sinister design; the strange mark on my hand was both weird and puzzling. We drove out in the car often, and many a time I recollected pretty Olga, and her horrible fate.Vassos, who was still at the hotel, annoyed me on account of his extreme politeness, and the manner in which he appeared to spy upon all my movements. I came across him everywhere. Inquiries concerning the reason of the ugly Greek’s presence in Bulgaria met with negative result. One thing seemed certain; he was not a princeincognito.How I longed to go to him, show him the mark upon my hand, and demand an explanation. But my curiosity was aroused; therefore I patiently awaited developments, my revolver always ready in my hip pocket, in case of foul play.The mysterious action of the pretty girl from Galatz also puzzled me.At last the Cabinet of Prince Ferdinand were in complete accord with the Prime Minister Petkoff, regarding the British proposals. All had been done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day I had lunched with his Excellency the Prime Minister, at his house in the suburbs of the city.“You may send a cipher despatch to London, if you like, Mr Martin,” he said, as we sat over our cigars. “The documents will all be signed at the Cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow. In exchange for this loan of three millions raised in London, all the contracts for quick-firing guns and ammunition go to your group of financiers.” Such was the welcome news his Excellency imparted to me, and you may imagine that I lost no time in writing out a cipher message, and sending it by the man-servant to the nearest telegraph office.For a long time I sat with him, and then he rose, inviting me to walk with him in the Boris Gardens, as was his habit every afternoon, before going down to the sitting of the Sobranje, or Parliament.On our way we passed Vassos, who raised his hat politely to me.“Who’s that man?” inquired the Minister quickly, and I told him all I knew concerning the ugly hunchback.In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown, chatting upon the situation in Macedonia and other matters, when of a sudden, a black-moustached man in a dark grey overcoat and round astrachan cap, sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and raising a big service revolver, fired point-blank at his Excellency.I felt for my own weapon. Alas! It was not there! I had forgotten it!The assassin, seeing the Minister reel and fall, turned his weapon upon me. Thereupon, in an instant I threw up my hands, crying that I was unarmed, and was an Englishman.As I did so, he started back as though terrified. His weapon fell from his grasp, and with a spring, he disappeared again into the bushes.All had happened in a few brief instants; for ere I could realise that a tragedy had actually occurred, I found the unfortunate Prime Minister lying lifeless at my feet. My friend had been shot through the heart!Readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragic affair, which is no doubt still fresh in their minds.I told the Chief of Police of Sofia of my strange experience, and showed him the mark upon my palm. Though detectives searched high and low for the hunchback Greek, for Madame Sovoff, and for the fascinating Mademoiselle, none of them were ever found.The assassin was, nevertheless, arrested a week later, while trying to cross the frontier into Servia. I, of course, lost by an ace the great financial coup, but before execution the prisoner made a confession which revealed the existence of a terrible and widespread conspiracy, fostered by Bulgaria’s arch-enemy Turkey, to remove certain members of the Cabinet who were in favour of British influence becoming paramount.Yes. It was a rather narrow squeak.Quite unconsciously, I had, it seemed, become an especial favourite of the silent, watchful old Konstantinos Vassos. He had no idea that I was a “crook” or that I was a secret agent. Fearing lest I, in my innocence, should fall a victim with his Excellency—being so often his companion—he had, with the assistance of the pretty Marie Balesco, contrived to impress upon my palm the secret sign of the conspirators.To this fact I certainly owe my life, for the assassin—a stranger to Sofia, who had been drawn by lot—would, no doubt, have shot me dead, had he not seen upon my raised hand “The Sign of the Cat’s-paw.”
Another part which the Prince played in the present-day drama now being enacted in Eastern Europe brought him in touch with “The Sign of the Cat’s-Paw,” a sign hitherto unknown to our Foreign Office, or to readers of the daily newspapers.
At the same time, however, it very nearly cost him his own life.
The affair occurred about a couple of months after the death of the fascinating Olga Steinkoff. He had been sent back to the Balkans upon another mission. Cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, he had been moving rapidly up and down Europe gathering information for Downing Street, but ever on the look-out for an opening for the Parson and himself to operate in a very different sphere.
Garrett, blindly obedient to the telegrams he received, had taken the car on some long flying journeys, Vienna, Berlin and back to Belgrade, in Servia. For two months or so I had lost sight of both the mild-mannered, spectacled Clayton and the Prince, when one morning, while walking down St. James’s Street, I saw Garrett in his grey and scarlet livery driving the car from Piccadilly down to Pall Mall.
By this I guessed that his Highness had returned to London, so I called at Dover Street, and twenty minutes later found myself seated in the big saddle-bag chair with a “Petroff” between my lips.
He was in his old brown velvet lounge coat and slippers, and had been at his writing-table when I entered. But on my appearance he threw down his pen, stretched himself, and sat round for a gossip.
Suddenly, while speaking, he made a quick, half-foreign gesture of ignorance in response to a question of mine, and in that brief instant I saw upon his right palm a curious red mark.
“Hullo!” I asked. “What’s that?”
“Oh—nothing,” he replied, rather confused I thought, and shut his hand so that I could not see it.
“But it is!” I declared. “Let me see.”
“How inquisitive you are, Diprose, old chap,” he protested.
So persistent was I, and so aroused my curiosity by finding a mark exactly like the imprint of a cat’s-paw, that, not without considerable reluctance, he explained its meaning. The story he narrated was, indeed, a most remarkable and dramatic one. And yet he related it as though it were nothing. Perhaps, indeed, the puzzling incidents were of but little moment to one who led a life so chock-full of adventure as he.
Yes, it really was curious, he remarked at last. It was in March. I had been in London’s mud and rain for a fortnight, and grown tired of it. Suddenly a confidential mission had been placed in my hands—a mission which had for its object British support to the Bulgarian Government against the machinations of Austria to extend her sphere of influence southward across the Danube and Servia.
My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and once more the journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one. I had wired to Garrett, who was awaiting me with the car at the Hungaria, in Budapest, to bring it on to Sofia.
But I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken to carry out. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task—one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which, ere long, must be the power of the Balkans.
I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other governments and other financial houses. Therefore, in the three long never-ending days the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object.
The run was uneventful, save for one fact. At the Staatsbahnhof, at Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered, and was given the compartment next mine.
His nationality I could not determine. He spoke deep guttural German with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes—which were rather dandified for so old a man—I did not believe him to be a native of the Fatherland.
I heard him rumbling about with his bags next door, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in English.
A few hours later, at dinner, I found him placed at the little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French—perfect French it was—but refused to speak English, though, of course, he could had he wished.
“Ah! non,” he laughed, “I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult.”
And so we chatted in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow, and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only Danish margarine.
His complaints were amusing. He was possessed of much grim humour. At first themaître d’hôtelbustled about to do the bidding of the new-comer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting criticism of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-lits and all its works.
Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the passport-officer took off his hat to him, bowed low andvisédhis passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its owner:
“Bon voyage, Altesse.”
I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore be either a prince or a grand duke! Just then I was not a prince—only plain M’sieur Martin. In Roumania princes are as plentiful as blackberries, so I put him down as a Roumanian.
As I sat opposite him at dinner that night he was discussing with me the harmful writings of some newly discovered German who was posing as a cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community. He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven chin upon his finger, displaying to me most, certainly by accident, the palm of his thin right hand.
What I discovered there caused me a good deal of surprise. In its centre was a dark livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a cat’s-paw!
It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt convinced. It was just as though a cat had stepped upon blood with one of its fore-paws and trodden upon his hand.
Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed.
His name, he told me at last, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in Athens. But I took that informationcum grano, for I knew him to be a prince travellingincognito. The passport-officer at Semlin makes no mistakes.
But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?
There is, unfortunately, no good hotel at Sofia. The best is the Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady to whom I was well-known as M’sieur Martin, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. He gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in Prince Ferdinand’s capital than I myself was, for I had been there at least half a dozen times before. Most of the Ministers knew me, and I was always elected a member of the smart diplomats’ club, the Union, during my stay.
The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself as before in a vortex of gaiety; invitations to the Legations poured in upon me, cards for dances here and there, receptions by members of the Cabinet, and official dinners by the British and French Ministers, while daily I spent each afternoon with my friend, Colonel Mayhew, the British militaryattaché, in his comfortable quarters not far from our Agency.
All the while, I must here confess, I was working my cards very carefully. I had sounded my friend, Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired Prime Minister—the splendid Bulgarian patriot—and he was inclined to admit the British proposals. The Minister of War, too, was on my side. German agents had approached him, but he would have none of them. In Bulgaria just then they had no love of Germany. They were far too Russophile.
Indeed, in this strenuous life of a fortnight or so I had practically lost sight of the ugly old gentleman who had been addressed by the passport-officer as his Highness. Once or twice I had seen him wandering alone and dejected along the streets, for he apparently knew nobody, and was having a very quiet time, Greeks were disliked in Sofia almost as much as Turks, on account of the Greek bands who massacre the Bulgars in Macedonia.
One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club—a function at which the smart set at Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of State themselves put in an appearance—I had been waltzing with the daughter of the Minister of the Interior, a pretty dark-haired girl in blue, whom I had met during my last visit to Bulgaria, and the Spanishattaché, a pale-faced young man wearing a cross at his throat, had introduced to me a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black evening-gown trimmed with silver.
A thin wreath of the same roses was in her hair, and around her neck was a fine gold chain from which was suspended a big and lustrous diamond.
Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly charming. She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well. She had been at school in England, she said—at Scarborough. Her home was at Galatz, in Roumania, where her father was Prefect.
We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then we had a couple of waltzes, and I conducted her out to the carriage awaiting her, and, bowing, watched her drive off alone.
But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow, the short ugly figure of the old Greek Vassos, with his coat collar turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.
A few days later, when in the evening I called on Mayhew at his rooms, he said:
“What have you been up to, Martin? Look here! This letter was left upon me, with a note asking me to give it to you in secret. Looks like a woman’s hand! Mind what you’re about in this place, old chap! There are some nasty pitfalls, you know!”
I took the letter, opened it, read it through, and placed it in my pocket without a word.
With a bachelor’s curiosity, he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.
Suffice it to say that on that same night I went alone to a house on the outskirts of Sofia, and there met at her urgent request the pretty girl Marie Balesco, who had so enchanted me. Ours seemed to be a case of mutual attraction, for as we sat together, she seemed, after apologising for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the winds, to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons which had brought me to Bulgaria.
Like most women of the Balkans, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. I took one—a delicious one it was, but rather strong—so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. Before I could fight against it the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed I knew no more until on awakening I found myself back in my bed at the hotel.
I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what held occurred.
My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked at it.
Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the Sign of the Cat’s-paw!
Horrified I stared at it. It was the same mark that I had seen upon the hand of Vassos! What could be its significance?
In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct imprint of the feline foot. From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions, to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played such a prank on me. But he only knew her slightly. She had been staying with a certain Madame Sovoff, who was something of a mystery, but had left Sofia.
A month passed. Mademoiselle and Madame returned from Belgrade and were both delighted when I suggested they should go for a run in the “sixty.” I took them over the same road as I had taken Olga Steinkoff. In a week Mademoiselle became an enthusiastic motorist, and was full of inquiry into the various parts of the engine, the ignition, lubrication, and other details. One day I carefully approached the matter of this remarkable mark upon my palm. But she affected entire ignorance. I confess that I had grown rather fond of her, and I hesitated to attribute to her, or to Madame, any sinister design; the strange mark on my hand was both weird and puzzling. We drove out in the car often, and many a time I recollected pretty Olga, and her horrible fate.
Vassos, who was still at the hotel, annoyed me on account of his extreme politeness, and the manner in which he appeared to spy upon all my movements. I came across him everywhere. Inquiries concerning the reason of the ugly Greek’s presence in Bulgaria met with negative result. One thing seemed certain; he was not a princeincognito.
How I longed to go to him, show him the mark upon my hand, and demand an explanation. But my curiosity was aroused; therefore I patiently awaited developments, my revolver always ready in my hip pocket, in case of foul play.
The mysterious action of the pretty girl from Galatz also puzzled me.
At last the Cabinet of Prince Ferdinand were in complete accord with the Prime Minister Petkoff, regarding the British proposals. All had been done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day I had lunched with his Excellency the Prime Minister, at his house in the suburbs of the city.
“You may send a cipher despatch to London, if you like, Mr Martin,” he said, as we sat over our cigars. “The documents will all be signed at the Cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow. In exchange for this loan of three millions raised in London, all the contracts for quick-firing guns and ammunition go to your group of financiers.” Such was the welcome news his Excellency imparted to me, and you may imagine that I lost no time in writing out a cipher message, and sending it by the man-servant to the nearest telegraph office.
For a long time I sat with him, and then he rose, inviting me to walk with him in the Boris Gardens, as was his habit every afternoon, before going down to the sitting of the Sobranje, or Parliament.
On our way we passed Vassos, who raised his hat politely to me.
“Who’s that man?” inquired the Minister quickly, and I told him all I knew concerning the ugly hunchback.
In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown, chatting upon the situation in Macedonia and other matters, when of a sudden, a black-moustached man in a dark grey overcoat and round astrachan cap, sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and raising a big service revolver, fired point-blank at his Excellency.
I felt for my own weapon. Alas! It was not there! I had forgotten it!
The assassin, seeing the Minister reel and fall, turned his weapon upon me. Thereupon, in an instant I threw up my hands, crying that I was unarmed, and was an Englishman.
As I did so, he started back as though terrified. His weapon fell from his grasp, and with a spring, he disappeared again into the bushes.
All had happened in a few brief instants; for ere I could realise that a tragedy had actually occurred, I found the unfortunate Prime Minister lying lifeless at my feet. My friend had been shot through the heart!
Readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragic affair, which is no doubt still fresh in their minds.
I told the Chief of Police of Sofia of my strange experience, and showed him the mark upon my palm. Though detectives searched high and low for the hunchback Greek, for Madame Sovoff, and for the fascinating Mademoiselle, none of them were ever found.
The assassin was, nevertheless, arrested a week later, while trying to cross the frontier into Servia. I, of course, lost by an ace the great financial coup, but before execution the prisoner made a confession which revealed the existence of a terrible and widespread conspiracy, fostered by Bulgaria’s arch-enemy Turkey, to remove certain members of the Cabinet who were in favour of British influence becoming paramount.
Yes. It was a rather narrow squeak.
Quite unconsciously, I had, it seemed, become an especial favourite of the silent, watchful old Konstantinos Vassos. He had no idea that I was a “crook” or that I was a secret agent. Fearing lest I, in my innocence, should fall a victim with his Excellency—being so often his companion—he had, with the assistance of the pretty Marie Balesco, contrived to impress upon my palm the secret sign of the conspirators.
To this fact I certainly owe my life, for the assassin—a stranger to Sofia, who had been drawn by lot—would, no doubt, have shot me dead, had he not seen upon my raised hand “The Sign of the Cat’s-paw.”
Chapter Eight.Concerning a Woman’s Honour.Few people are aware of the Prince’s serious love affair.Beyond his most intimate friend, the Parson, I believe nobody knows of it except myself.The truth I have managed to glean only bit by bit, for he has never told me himself. It is a matter which he does not care to mention, for recollections of the woman are, no doubt, ever in his heart, and as with many of us, ever painful.No man or woman is thoroughly bad. Adventurer that he is, the Prince has ever been true and honourable, even generous, towards a good woman. The best and staunchest of friends, yet the bitterest of enemies if occasion required, he has never, to my knowledge, played an honest woman a scurvy trick.The little romance of real life occurred in Florence about three years ago. A good many people got hold of a garbled version of it, but none know the actual truth. He loved, and because he loved he dare not pose in his usual character as a prince, for fear that she should discover the fraud. On the contrary, he was living at a small cheap hotel on the Lung Arno as Jack Cross, and posing as a man who was very hard-up and, besides, friendless.He had entered upon the campaign with an entirely different object—an object which had for its consummation the obtaining of some very fine jewels belonging to the wife of an American who had made a corner in cotton, and who was engaged in seeing Europe. Max Mason and the Parson were both living as strangers to each other at the Savoy, in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, and idling daily in the Via Tornabuoni. A big coup had been planned, but instead of bringing it off, as luck would have it, his Highness had fallen hopelessly in love, and with a real royal princess, a woman whose beauty was universally proverbial.Their love-story was full of pathos.They were standing together in a garden one sunny afternoon, and were alone, without eavesdroppers. A moment before, he had been wondering what she would do; what she would say if she knew the ghastly truth—that he was a thief!He had been born a gentleman—though he had no more right to the title of “prince” than I had. True, at college at Cheltenham he had been nicknamed “the prince,” because of his charming manner and elegant airs. Few of us even imagined, however, that he would, in later years, pass himself off as a German princeling and gull the public into providing him with the wherewithal to live in ease and luxury.As he stood at the handsome woman’s side, thoughts of the past—bitter and regretful—flashed upon him. His conscience pricked him.“Princess!—I—I—” he stammered.“Well?” and her sweet red lips parted in a smile.“I—ah! yes, it’s madness. I—I know I’m a fool! I see danger in all this. I have jeopardised your good name sufficiently already. People are looking at us now—and they will surely misjudge us!”“You are not a fool, my dear Jack,” she answered in her charming broken English. “You are what you call a goose.” And she laughed outright.“But think! What will they say?”“They may say just whatever pleases them,” she answered airily, glancing at the half a dozen or so smartly dressed people taking tea in the beautiful Italian garden overlooking the red roofs and cupolas of the Lily City, Florence. “They—the world—have already said hard things about me. But what do I really care?”“Youcare for the Prince’s honour, as well as your own,” he ventured in a low serious voice, looking straight into her blue eyes.Her Imperial and Royal Highness Angelica Pia Marie Therese Crown-Princess of Bosnia, and daughter of a reigning Emperor, was acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful and accomplished women in Europe. Her photographs were everywhere, and a year before, at her brilliant marriage in Vienna, all the States of Europe were represented, and her photograph had appeared in every illustrated newspaper on the two Continents. The world, ignorant of the tragedy of life behind a throne, believed the royal marriage to be a love-match, but the bitter truth remained that it was merely the union of two imperial houses, without the desire of either the man, or the woman. Princess Angelica had, at the bidding of the Emperor, sacrificed her love and her young life to a man for whom she had only contempt and loathing.As she stood there, a tall, frail figure, in plain white embroidered muslin, her fair hair soft beneath her big black hat, her sweet delicately moulded face and her eyes of that deep childlike blue that one so seldom sees in girls after fourteen, there was upon her countenance an undisguised love-look. She was indeed the perfect incarnation of all that was graceful and feminine; little more indeed, than a girl, and yet the wife of a prince that would ere long become a king.For a few moments the man and the woman regarded each other in silence.He was spell-bound by her wondrous beauty like many another man had been. But she knew, within herself, that he was the only man she had ever met that she could love.And surely they were a curiously ill-assorted pair, as far as social equality went, she the daughter of an Emperor, while he a hard-up young Englishman, tall, dark-haired, with a handsome, serious face, lived, he had explained to her, in Florence, first, because it was cheap, and secondly, because his old aunt, who had a small house out on the Fiesole Road, practically kept him. His story to her was that he had once been on the Stock Exchange, but a run of ill-luck had broken him, so he had left England, and now managed to scrape along upon a couple of hundred or so a year paid him by a firm of Italian shipping and forwarding agents, for whom he now acted as English manager. The position was an excellent “blind.” Nobody recognised him as Tremlett, alias “his Highness.”Half aristocratic Florence—those stiff-backed Italian duchesses and countesses with their popinjay, over-dressed male appendages—envied Jack Cross his intimate acquaintance with the Crown-Princess of Bosnia, who, in winter, lived at the magnificent villa on the Viale dei Colli, overlooking the town. Towards Italian society her royal Highness turned the cold shoulder. The Emperor had no love for Italy, or the Italians, and it was at his orders that she kept herself absolutely to herself.On rare occasions, she would give a small garden-party or dinner to a dozen or so of the most prominent men and women in the city. But it was not often that they were asked, and beyond three or four people in Florence her Highness had no friends there. But part of her school-days had been spent in the big convent up at Fiesole, therefore it had been her whim after her marriage, to purchase that beautiful villa with its gorgeous rooms, marble terraces, and lovely gardens as a winter home.And to that splendid house the Prince, alias Jack Cross, was always a welcome guest. He went there daily, and when not there, her Highness would amuse herself by chattering to him over the telephone to his office.Envied by the society who would not know him because he was not an aristocrat, and with the sharp eye of the Florentine middle-classes upon him, little wonder was it that whispers were soon going about regarding the Princess’s too frequent confidences with the unknown Englishman.He was watched whenever he rang at the great iron gate before which stood an Italian sentry day and night, and he was watched when he emerged. In the clubs, in the salons, in the shops, in thecafés, the gossip soon became common, and often with a good deal of imaginary embroidery.It was true that he often dined at the Villa Renata with her Highness, the young Countess von Wilberg, the lady-in-waiting, and the old Countess Lahovary, a Roumanian, who had been lady-in-waiting to her mother the Empress, and in whose charge she always was when outside Bosnia. The evenings they often spent in the drawing-room, Her Highness being a good pianist. And on many a night she would rise, take her shawl, and pass out into the bright Italian moonlight with the young Englishman as her escort.It was the way they passed nearly every evening—in each other’s company. Yet neither of her companions dare suggest a cessation of the young man’s visits, fearing to arouse the Princess’s anger, and receive their dismissal.At risk of gossip her Imperial Highness often invited him to go for runs with her in her fine forty “Fiat” to Siena, to Bologna, or to Pisa, accompanied always, of course, by the Countess Lahovary. In those days he pretended not to possess a car, though he could drive one, and on many occasions he drove the Princess along those white dusty Italian highways. She loved motoring, and so did he. Indeed, he knew quite as much regarding the engine as any mechanic.The Crown Prince hardly, if ever, came to Florence. His father, the King, was not on the best of terms with the Italian Court, therefore he made that an excuse for his absence in Paris, where, according to report his life was not nearly as creditable as it might have been.Such were the circumstances in which, by slow degrees, her Highness found herself admiring and loving the quiet unassuming but good-looking young Englishman at whom everybody sneered because, to save himself from penury, he had accepted the managership of a trading concern.Prince Albert himself saw it all, and recognised the extreme peril of the situation.Born in the purple as the woman who had entranced him had been, she held public opinion in supreme contempt, and time after time had assured Jack that even if people talked and misconstrued their platonic friendship she was entirely heedless of their wicked untruths and exaggerations.That afternoon was another example of her recklessness in face of her enemies.She had invited up a few people to take tea and eat strawberries in the grounds, while a military band performed under the trees near by. But quickly tiring of the obsequiousness of her guests, she had motioned Cross aside, and in a low voice said in English: “For heaven’s sake, Jack, take me away from these awful people. The women are hags, and the men tailors’ dummies. Let us walk down to the rosary.”And he, bowing as she spoke, turned and walked at her side, well knowing that by taking her from her guests he was increasing the hatred already felt against him.In her heart she loved this unknown hardworking young Englishman, while he was held captive beneath her beauty, spell-bound by the music of her voice, thrilled by the touch of the soft hand which he kissed each day at greeting her, and each evening when they parted.Yes, people talked. Cross knew they did. Men had told him so. Max and the Parson had heard all sorts of wild gossip, and had sent him a letter telling him that he was an idiot. They wanted to handle the American woman’s diamonds. They were not in Florence for sentimental reasons. The report had even reached his old aunt’s ears, and she had administered to him a very severe reprimand, to which he had listened without a single word of protest, except that he denied, and denied most emphatically, that he was the Princess’s lover. He was her friend, that was all.True, she was lonely and alone there in gay Florence, the City of Flowers. Sarajevo, her own capital she hated, she had often said. “It is pleasant, my dear Jack, to be in dear old Firenze,” she had declared only the previous evening as they had walked and talked together in the white moonlight. “But doubly pleasant to be near such a good, true friend as you are to me.”“I do but what is my duty, Princess,” he replied in a low voice. “You have few friends here. But I am, I hope, one who is loyal and true.”Those words of his crossed her mind as they strolled away from the music and the guests that warm May afternoon, strolled on beneath the blossoms, and amid the great profusion of flowers. She glanced again at his serious thoughtful face, and sighed within herself. What were titles, imperial birth, power, and the servility of the people, to love? Why was she not born a commoner, and allowed to taste the sweets of life, that even the most obscure little waiting-maid or seamstress were allowed. Every woman of the people could seek Love and obtain it. But to her, she reflected bitterly, it was denied—because she was not of common clay, but an Emperor’s daughter, and destined to become a reigning queen!Together they walked along the cool cypress avenue; he tall, clean-limbed in his suit of white linen and panama. But they strolled on in silence, beyond the gaze of their enemies.“You seem to fear what these wretched gossips may say concerning us, Jack,” she said at last, raising her eyes to his. “Why should you?”“I fear for your sake, Princess,” he answered. “You have all to lose—honour, name, husband—everything. For me—what does it matter? I have no reputation. I ceased to have that two years ago when I left England—bankrupt.”“Poor Jack!” she sighed, in her quaint, childlike way. “I do wish you were wealthy, for you’d be so much happier, I suppose. It must be hard to be poor,” she added—she who knew nothing of the value of money, and scarcely ever spent any herself, her debts and alms being paid by palace secretaries.“Yes,” he laughed. “And has it never struck you as strange that you, an Imperial Princess, should be a friend of a man who’s a bankrupt—an outsider like myself?” and an ugly thought flashed through his mind causing him to wince.“And have you not always shown yourself my friend, Jack? Should I not be ungrateful if I were not your friend in return?” she asked.They halted almost unconsciously half way along the cypress avenue, and stood facing each other.Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was struggling within himself. He loved this beautiful woman with all his heart, and all his soul. Yet he knew himself to be treading dangerous ground.Their first acquaintance had been a purely accidental one three years ago. Her Highness was driving in the Ringstrasse, in Vienna, when her horses suddenly took fright at a passing motor-car and bolted. Jack, who was passing, managed to dash out and stop them, but in doing so was thrown down and kicked on the head. He was taken to the hospital, and not until a fortnight afterwards was he aware of the identity of the pretty woman in the carriage. Then, on his recovery, he was commanded to the palace and thanked personally by the Princess and by her father, the grey-bearded Emperor.From that day the Princess Angelica had never lost sight of him. When she had married he had endeavoured to end their acquaintance, but she would not hear of it. And so he had drifted along, held completely beneath her spell.He was her confidant, and on many occasions performed in secret little services for her. Their friendship, purely platonic, was firm and fast, and surely no man was ever more loyal to a woman than was the young Englishman, who was, after all, only an audacious adventurer.In the glorious sunset of the brilliant Tuscan day they stood there in silence. At last he spoke.“Princess,” he exclaimed, looking straight into her eyes. “Forgive me for what I am about to say. I have long wished to say it, but had not the courage. I—well, you cannot tell the bitterness it causes me to speak, but I have decided to imperil you no longer. I am leaving Florence.”She looked at him in blank surprise.“Leaving Florence!” she gasped. “What do you mean, Jack?”“I mean that I must do so—for your sake,” was his answer. “The world does not believe that a woman can have a man friend. I—I yesterday heard something.”“What?”“That the Prince has set close watch upon us.”“Well, and what of that? Do we fear?”“We do not fear the truth, Princess. It is the untruth of which we are in peril.”“Then Ferdinand is jealous!” she remarked as though speaking to herself. “Ah! that is distinctly amusing!”“My friendship with you has already caused a scandal in this gossip-loving city,” he pointed out. “It is best for you that we should part. Remember the difference in our stations. You are of blood-royal—while I—” and he hesitated. How could he tell her the ghastly truth?She was silent for a few moments, her beautiful face very grave and thoughtful. Well, alas! she knew that if this man left her side the sun of her young life would have set for ever.“But—but Jack—you are my friend, are you not?”“How can you ask that?”“Ah! yes. Forgive me. I—I know—you risked your life to save mine. You—”“No, no,” he cried, impatiently. “Don’t let’s talk of the past. Let us look at the future, and let us speak plainly. We are old friends enough for that, Princess.”“Angelica,” she said, correcting him.“Then—Angelica,” he said, pronouncing her Christian name for the first time. Then he hesitated and their eyes met. He saw in hers the light of unshed tears, and bit his lip. His own heart was too full for mere words.“Jack,” she faltered, raising her hand and placing it upon his arm, “I don’t quite understand you. You are not yourself this evening.” The bar of golden sunlight caught her wrist and caused the diamonds in her bracelet to flash with a thousand fires.“No, Princess—I—I mean Angelica. I am not. I wish to speak quite plainly. It is this. If I remain here, in Florence, I shall commit the supreme folly of—of loving you.” She cast her eyes to the ground, flushed slightly and held her breath.“This,” he went on, “must never happen for two reasons, first you are already married, and secondly, you are of Imperial birth, while I am a mere nobody, and a pauper at that.”“I am married, it is true!” she cried, bitterly. “But God knows, what a hollow mockery my marriage has been! God knows how I have suffered, compelled as I am to act a living lie! You despise me for marrying Ferdinand, a man I could never love. Yes, you are right, you are quite—”“I do not despise, you, Angelica. I have always pitied you,” he interrupted. “I knew well that you did not love the Prince, but were compelled to sacrifice yourself.”“You knew!” she cried, clutching his arm wildly, and looking into his face. “Ah! yes, Jack. You—you knew the truth. You must have known. I could not conceal it from you.”“What?” he asked, his hand upon her slim shoulder.“That—that I loved you,” she burst forth. But next second, as if ashamed of her confession, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly.Tenderly he placed his strong arm about her neck as her head fell upon her shoulder. For a moment he held her closely to him. Then, in a faltering voice, he said:“Angelica, I know that our love is mutual, that is why we must part.”“No! no!” she cried through her tears. “No. Do not leave me here alone, Jack! If you go from Florence I must return to the hateful semi-imprisonment of the Palace at Sarajevo among those dull boors with whom I have not the least in common.”“But, Angelica, I am in honour bound not to compromise you further. Your enemies are all talking, and inventing disgraceful scandals that have already reached the Prince’s ears. Hence his spies are here, watching all our movements.”“Spies! Yes, Bosnia is full of them!” she cried angrily. “And Ferdinand sends them here to spy upon me!” and she clenched her tiny white hands resentfully.“They are here, hence we must part. We must face our misfortune bravely; but for your sake I must leave your side, though heaven knows what this decision has cost me—my very life and soul.”She raised her head, and with her clear blue eyes looked into his face.At that same instant they heard a footstep on the gravel, and sprang quickly apart. But just as they did so a tall, well-dressed, brown-bearded man came into view. Both held their breath, for no doubt he had seen her in Jack’s arms.The man was the Marquis Giulio di San Rossore, a Roman nobleman, who was a friend of her husband the Prince. But that he was her secret enemy she well knew. Only a month ago he had fallen upon his knees before her, and declared his love to her. But she had spurned and scorned him in indignation. He heard her biting words in silence, and had turned away with an expression upon his face which plainly told her of the fierce Italian spirit of revenge within his heart.But he came forward smiling and bowing with those airs and graces which the cultured son of the south generally assumes.“They have sent me to try and find you, your Highness,” he said. “The Duchess of Spezia has suggested a ball in aid of the sufferers from the earthquake down in Calabria, and we want to beg of you to give it your patronage.”And he glanced at the Princess’s companion with fierce jealousy. He had, as they feared, witnessed the beautiful woman standing with her head upon his shoulder.“Let us go back, Mr Cross,” her Highness said, “I would like to hear details of what is proposed.”And all three strolled along the fine old avenue, and skirted the marble terrace to where the guests, having now finished their tea, were still assembled gossiping with the Countess Von Wilberg and Countess Lahovary.As they walked together, the Marquess Giulio chuckled to himself at the discovery he had made, and what a fine tale he would be able to tell that night at the Florence Club.The truth was proved. The penniless Englishman was the Princess’s lover! Florence had suspected it, but now it should know it.That same night, after dinner, Jack was standing alone with the Princess in the gorgeoussalonwith its gilt furniture and shaded electric lights. He looked smart and well-groomed, notwithstanding that his evening clothes showed just a trifle the worse for wear, while she was brilliant and beautiful in an evening-gown of palest eau-de-nil embroidered chiffon, a creation of one of the great houses of the Rue de la Paix. Upon her white neck she wore her historic pearls, royal heirlooms that were once the property of Catherine the Great, and in her corsage a splendid true-lover’s knot in diamonds, the ornament from which there usually depended the black ribbon and diamond star-cross decoration, which marked her as an Imperial Archduchess. The cross was absent that night, for her only visitor was the man at her side.Her two female companions were in the adjoining room. They knew well their royal mistress’s attraction towards the young Englishman, and never sought to intrude upon them. Both were well aware of the shameful sham of the Princess’s marriage and of his neglect and cruelty towards her, and both women pitied her in her loveless loneliness.“But, Jack!” her Highness was saying, her pale face raised to his. “You really don’t mean to go? You can’t mean that!”“Yes, Angelica,” was his firm reply, as he held her waist tenderly, drawing her towards him and looking deeply into her fine eyes. “I must go—to save your honour.”“No, no!” she cried, clinging to him convulsively. “You must not—you shall not! Think, if you go I shall be friendless and alone! I couldn’t bear it.”“I know. It may seem cruel to you. But in after years you will know that I broke our bond of affection for your own dear sake,” he said very slowly, tears standing in his dark eyes as he uttered those words. “You know full well the bitter truth, Angelica—just as well as I do,” he went on in a low whisper. “You know how deeply, how fervently I love you, how I am entirely and devotedly yours.”“Yes, yes. I know, Jack,” she cried, clinging to him. “And I love you. You are the only man for whom I have ever entertained a single spark of affection. But love is forbidden to me. Ah! yes I know! Had I been a commoner and not a princess, and we had met, I should have found happiness, like other women. But alas! I am accursed by my noble birth, and love and happiness can never be mine—never!”“We love each other, Angelica,” whispered the man who was a thief, softly stroking her fair hair as her head pillowed itself upon his shoulder. “Let us part, and carry tender remembrances of each other through our lives. No man has ever loved a woman more devoutly than I love you.”“And no woman has ever loved a man with more reverence and more passion than I love you, Jack—my own dear Jack,” she said.Their lips slowly approached each other, until they met in a fierce long passionate caress. It was the first time he had kissed her upon the lips—their kiss, alas! of long farewell.“Good-bye, my love. Farewell,” he whispered hoarsely. “Though parted from you in the future I shall be yours always—always. Remember me—sometimes.”“Remember you!” she wailed. “How can I ever forget?”“No, dear heart,” he whispered. “Do not forget, remember—remember that we love each other—that I shall love you always—always. Farewell!”Again he bent and kissed her lips. They were cold. She stood immovable. The blow of parting had entirely paralysed her senses.Once more he pressed his hot lips to hers.“May Providence protect and help us both, my beloved,” he whispered, and then with a last, long, yearning look upon the sad white countenance that had held him in such fascination, he slowly released her.He caught up her soft white hand, kissing it reverently, as had been his habit ever since he had known her.Then he turned, hard-faced and determined, struggling within himself, and next second the door had closed upon him, and she was left alone.“Jack! My Jack!” she gasped. “Gone!” and grasping the edge of the table to steady herself, she stood staring straight before her.Her future, she knew, was only a blank grey sea of despair.Jack, the man whom she worshipped, the man whom she believed was honest, and for whom her pure affection was boundless, had gone out of her young life for ever.Outside, a young Tuscan contadino, passing on to meet his love, was singing in a fine clear voice one of the old Florentinestornelli—those same love-songs sung in the streets of the Lily City ever since the Middle Ages. She listened:Fiorin di mela!La mela è dolce e la sua buccia è amara,L’uomo gli è finto e la donna sincera.Fior di limone!Tre cose son difficili a lasciare:Il giuoco, l’amicizia, e il primo amore!Fior di licore!Licore è forte e non si può incannare;Ma son più forti le pene d’amore.She held her breath, then with sudden wild abandon, she flung herself upon the silken couch, and burying her face in its cushions gave herself up to a paroxysm of grief and despair.Six weeks later.Grey dawn was slowly spreading over the calm Mediterannean, the waters of which lazily lapped the golden shingle. Behind the distant blue the yellow sun was just peeping forth. At a spot upon the seashore about four miles from Leghorn, in the direction of the Maremma, five men had assembled, while at a little distance away, on the old sea-road to Rome, stood the hired motor-car which had brought one of them there.The motive for their presence there at that early hour was not far to seek.The men facing each other with their coats cast aside were the brown-bearded Marquess Giulio di San Rossore, and Prince Albert.The latter, having left Florence, had learnt in Bologna of a vile, scandalous, and untrue story told of the Princess by the Marquess to the aristocratic idlers of the Florence Club, a story that was a foul and abominable lie, invented in order to besmirch the good name of a pure and unhappy woman.On hearing it he had returned at once to the Lily City, gone to the Marquess’s palazzo on the Lung’ Arno, and struck him in the face before his friends. This was followed by a challenge, which Jack, although he knew little of firearms, was forced to accept.Was he not champion and defender of the helpless and lonely woman he loved—the woman upon whom the Marquess had sworn within himself to be avenged?And so the pair, accompanied by their seconds and a doctor, now faced each other, revolvers in their hands.The Prince stood unflinching, his dark brow slightly contracted, his teeth hard set, his handsome countenance pale and serious.As he raised his weapon he murmured to himself some words.“For your honour, my own Angelica—my dear lost love!”The signal was given an instant later, and two shots sounded in rapid succession.Next moment it was seen that the Italian was hit, for he staggered, clutched at air, and fell forward upon his face, shot through the throat.Quickly the doctor was kneeling at his side, but though medical aid was rendered so quickly, he never spoke again, and five minutes afterwards he was dead.Half an hour later Prince Albert was driving the hired car for all he was worth across the great plain towards the marble-built city of Pisa to catch the express to Paris. From that day Jack Cross has concealed his identity, and has never been traced by the pretty Crown-Princess.No doubt she often wonders what was the real status of the obscure good-looking young Englishman who spoke German so perfectly, who loved her devotedly, who fought bravely in vindication of her honour, and yet who afterwards so mysteriously disappeared into space.These lines will convey to her the truth. What will she think?
Few people are aware of the Prince’s serious love affair.
Beyond his most intimate friend, the Parson, I believe nobody knows of it except myself.
The truth I have managed to glean only bit by bit, for he has never told me himself. It is a matter which he does not care to mention, for recollections of the woman are, no doubt, ever in his heart, and as with many of us, ever painful.
No man or woman is thoroughly bad. Adventurer that he is, the Prince has ever been true and honourable, even generous, towards a good woman. The best and staunchest of friends, yet the bitterest of enemies if occasion required, he has never, to my knowledge, played an honest woman a scurvy trick.
The little romance of real life occurred in Florence about three years ago. A good many people got hold of a garbled version of it, but none know the actual truth. He loved, and because he loved he dare not pose in his usual character as a prince, for fear that she should discover the fraud. On the contrary, he was living at a small cheap hotel on the Lung Arno as Jack Cross, and posing as a man who was very hard-up and, besides, friendless.
He had entered upon the campaign with an entirely different object—an object which had for its consummation the obtaining of some very fine jewels belonging to the wife of an American who had made a corner in cotton, and who was engaged in seeing Europe. Max Mason and the Parson were both living as strangers to each other at the Savoy, in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, and idling daily in the Via Tornabuoni. A big coup had been planned, but instead of bringing it off, as luck would have it, his Highness had fallen hopelessly in love, and with a real royal princess, a woman whose beauty was universally proverbial.
Their love-story was full of pathos.
They were standing together in a garden one sunny afternoon, and were alone, without eavesdroppers. A moment before, he had been wondering what she would do; what she would say if she knew the ghastly truth—that he was a thief!
He had been born a gentleman—though he had no more right to the title of “prince” than I had. True, at college at Cheltenham he had been nicknamed “the prince,” because of his charming manner and elegant airs. Few of us even imagined, however, that he would, in later years, pass himself off as a German princeling and gull the public into providing him with the wherewithal to live in ease and luxury.
As he stood at the handsome woman’s side, thoughts of the past—bitter and regretful—flashed upon him. His conscience pricked him.
“Princess!—I—I—” he stammered.
“Well?” and her sweet red lips parted in a smile.
“I—ah! yes, it’s madness. I—I know I’m a fool! I see danger in all this. I have jeopardised your good name sufficiently already. People are looking at us now—and they will surely misjudge us!”
“You are not a fool, my dear Jack,” she answered in her charming broken English. “You are what you call a goose.” And she laughed outright.
“But think! What will they say?”
“They may say just whatever pleases them,” she answered airily, glancing at the half a dozen or so smartly dressed people taking tea in the beautiful Italian garden overlooking the red roofs and cupolas of the Lily City, Florence. “They—the world—have already said hard things about me. But what do I really care?”
“Youcare for the Prince’s honour, as well as your own,” he ventured in a low serious voice, looking straight into her blue eyes.
Her Imperial and Royal Highness Angelica Pia Marie Therese Crown-Princess of Bosnia, and daughter of a reigning Emperor, was acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful and accomplished women in Europe. Her photographs were everywhere, and a year before, at her brilliant marriage in Vienna, all the States of Europe were represented, and her photograph had appeared in every illustrated newspaper on the two Continents. The world, ignorant of the tragedy of life behind a throne, believed the royal marriage to be a love-match, but the bitter truth remained that it was merely the union of two imperial houses, without the desire of either the man, or the woman. Princess Angelica had, at the bidding of the Emperor, sacrificed her love and her young life to a man for whom she had only contempt and loathing.
As she stood there, a tall, frail figure, in plain white embroidered muslin, her fair hair soft beneath her big black hat, her sweet delicately moulded face and her eyes of that deep childlike blue that one so seldom sees in girls after fourteen, there was upon her countenance an undisguised love-look. She was indeed the perfect incarnation of all that was graceful and feminine; little more indeed, than a girl, and yet the wife of a prince that would ere long become a king.
For a few moments the man and the woman regarded each other in silence.
He was spell-bound by her wondrous beauty like many another man had been. But she knew, within herself, that he was the only man she had ever met that she could love.
And surely they were a curiously ill-assorted pair, as far as social equality went, she the daughter of an Emperor, while he a hard-up young Englishman, tall, dark-haired, with a handsome, serious face, lived, he had explained to her, in Florence, first, because it was cheap, and secondly, because his old aunt, who had a small house out on the Fiesole Road, practically kept him. His story to her was that he had once been on the Stock Exchange, but a run of ill-luck had broken him, so he had left England, and now managed to scrape along upon a couple of hundred or so a year paid him by a firm of Italian shipping and forwarding agents, for whom he now acted as English manager. The position was an excellent “blind.” Nobody recognised him as Tremlett, alias “his Highness.”
Half aristocratic Florence—those stiff-backed Italian duchesses and countesses with their popinjay, over-dressed male appendages—envied Jack Cross his intimate acquaintance with the Crown-Princess of Bosnia, who, in winter, lived at the magnificent villa on the Viale dei Colli, overlooking the town. Towards Italian society her royal Highness turned the cold shoulder. The Emperor had no love for Italy, or the Italians, and it was at his orders that she kept herself absolutely to herself.
On rare occasions, she would give a small garden-party or dinner to a dozen or so of the most prominent men and women in the city. But it was not often that they were asked, and beyond three or four people in Florence her Highness had no friends there. But part of her school-days had been spent in the big convent up at Fiesole, therefore it had been her whim after her marriage, to purchase that beautiful villa with its gorgeous rooms, marble terraces, and lovely gardens as a winter home.
And to that splendid house the Prince, alias Jack Cross, was always a welcome guest. He went there daily, and when not there, her Highness would amuse herself by chattering to him over the telephone to his office.
Envied by the society who would not know him because he was not an aristocrat, and with the sharp eye of the Florentine middle-classes upon him, little wonder was it that whispers were soon going about regarding the Princess’s too frequent confidences with the unknown Englishman.
He was watched whenever he rang at the great iron gate before which stood an Italian sentry day and night, and he was watched when he emerged. In the clubs, in the salons, in the shops, in thecafés, the gossip soon became common, and often with a good deal of imaginary embroidery.
It was true that he often dined at the Villa Renata with her Highness, the young Countess von Wilberg, the lady-in-waiting, and the old Countess Lahovary, a Roumanian, who had been lady-in-waiting to her mother the Empress, and in whose charge she always was when outside Bosnia. The evenings they often spent in the drawing-room, Her Highness being a good pianist. And on many a night she would rise, take her shawl, and pass out into the bright Italian moonlight with the young Englishman as her escort.
It was the way they passed nearly every evening—in each other’s company. Yet neither of her companions dare suggest a cessation of the young man’s visits, fearing to arouse the Princess’s anger, and receive their dismissal.
At risk of gossip her Imperial Highness often invited him to go for runs with her in her fine forty “Fiat” to Siena, to Bologna, or to Pisa, accompanied always, of course, by the Countess Lahovary. In those days he pretended not to possess a car, though he could drive one, and on many occasions he drove the Princess along those white dusty Italian highways. She loved motoring, and so did he. Indeed, he knew quite as much regarding the engine as any mechanic.
The Crown Prince hardly, if ever, came to Florence. His father, the King, was not on the best of terms with the Italian Court, therefore he made that an excuse for his absence in Paris, where, according to report his life was not nearly as creditable as it might have been.
Such were the circumstances in which, by slow degrees, her Highness found herself admiring and loving the quiet unassuming but good-looking young Englishman at whom everybody sneered because, to save himself from penury, he had accepted the managership of a trading concern.
Prince Albert himself saw it all, and recognised the extreme peril of the situation.
Born in the purple as the woman who had entranced him had been, she held public opinion in supreme contempt, and time after time had assured Jack that even if people talked and misconstrued their platonic friendship she was entirely heedless of their wicked untruths and exaggerations.
That afternoon was another example of her recklessness in face of her enemies.
She had invited up a few people to take tea and eat strawberries in the grounds, while a military band performed under the trees near by. But quickly tiring of the obsequiousness of her guests, she had motioned Cross aside, and in a low voice said in English: “For heaven’s sake, Jack, take me away from these awful people. The women are hags, and the men tailors’ dummies. Let us walk down to the rosary.”
And he, bowing as she spoke, turned and walked at her side, well knowing that by taking her from her guests he was increasing the hatred already felt against him.
In her heart she loved this unknown hardworking young Englishman, while he was held captive beneath her beauty, spell-bound by the music of her voice, thrilled by the touch of the soft hand which he kissed each day at greeting her, and each evening when they parted.
Yes, people talked. Cross knew they did. Men had told him so. Max and the Parson had heard all sorts of wild gossip, and had sent him a letter telling him that he was an idiot. They wanted to handle the American woman’s diamonds. They were not in Florence for sentimental reasons. The report had even reached his old aunt’s ears, and she had administered to him a very severe reprimand, to which he had listened without a single word of protest, except that he denied, and denied most emphatically, that he was the Princess’s lover. He was her friend, that was all.
True, she was lonely and alone there in gay Florence, the City of Flowers. Sarajevo, her own capital she hated, she had often said. “It is pleasant, my dear Jack, to be in dear old Firenze,” she had declared only the previous evening as they had walked and talked together in the white moonlight. “But doubly pleasant to be near such a good, true friend as you are to me.”
“I do but what is my duty, Princess,” he replied in a low voice. “You have few friends here. But I am, I hope, one who is loyal and true.”
Those words of his crossed her mind as they strolled away from the music and the guests that warm May afternoon, strolled on beneath the blossoms, and amid the great profusion of flowers. She glanced again at his serious thoughtful face, and sighed within herself. What were titles, imperial birth, power, and the servility of the people, to love? Why was she not born a commoner, and allowed to taste the sweets of life, that even the most obscure little waiting-maid or seamstress were allowed. Every woman of the people could seek Love and obtain it. But to her, she reflected bitterly, it was denied—because she was not of common clay, but an Emperor’s daughter, and destined to become a reigning queen!
Together they walked along the cool cypress avenue; he tall, clean-limbed in his suit of white linen and panama. But they strolled on in silence, beyond the gaze of their enemies.
“You seem to fear what these wretched gossips may say concerning us, Jack,” she said at last, raising her eyes to his. “Why should you?”
“I fear for your sake, Princess,” he answered. “You have all to lose—honour, name, husband—everything. For me—what does it matter? I have no reputation. I ceased to have that two years ago when I left England—bankrupt.”
“Poor Jack!” she sighed, in her quaint, childlike way. “I do wish you were wealthy, for you’d be so much happier, I suppose. It must be hard to be poor,” she added—she who knew nothing of the value of money, and scarcely ever spent any herself, her debts and alms being paid by palace secretaries.
“Yes,” he laughed. “And has it never struck you as strange that you, an Imperial Princess, should be a friend of a man who’s a bankrupt—an outsider like myself?” and an ugly thought flashed through his mind causing him to wince.
“And have you not always shown yourself my friend, Jack? Should I not be ungrateful if I were not your friend in return?” she asked.
They halted almost unconsciously half way along the cypress avenue, and stood facing each other.
Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was struggling within himself. He loved this beautiful woman with all his heart, and all his soul. Yet he knew himself to be treading dangerous ground.
Their first acquaintance had been a purely accidental one three years ago. Her Highness was driving in the Ringstrasse, in Vienna, when her horses suddenly took fright at a passing motor-car and bolted. Jack, who was passing, managed to dash out and stop them, but in doing so was thrown down and kicked on the head. He was taken to the hospital, and not until a fortnight afterwards was he aware of the identity of the pretty woman in the carriage. Then, on his recovery, he was commanded to the palace and thanked personally by the Princess and by her father, the grey-bearded Emperor.
From that day the Princess Angelica had never lost sight of him. When she had married he had endeavoured to end their acquaintance, but she would not hear of it. And so he had drifted along, held completely beneath her spell.
He was her confidant, and on many occasions performed in secret little services for her. Their friendship, purely platonic, was firm and fast, and surely no man was ever more loyal to a woman than was the young Englishman, who was, after all, only an audacious adventurer.
In the glorious sunset of the brilliant Tuscan day they stood there in silence. At last he spoke.
“Princess,” he exclaimed, looking straight into her eyes. “Forgive me for what I am about to say. I have long wished to say it, but had not the courage. I—well, you cannot tell the bitterness it causes me to speak, but I have decided to imperil you no longer. I am leaving Florence.”
She looked at him in blank surprise.
“Leaving Florence!” she gasped. “What do you mean, Jack?”
“I mean that I must do so—for your sake,” was his answer. “The world does not believe that a woman can have a man friend. I—I yesterday heard something.”
“What?”
“That the Prince has set close watch upon us.”
“Well, and what of that? Do we fear?”
“We do not fear the truth, Princess. It is the untruth of which we are in peril.”
“Then Ferdinand is jealous!” she remarked as though speaking to herself. “Ah! that is distinctly amusing!”
“My friendship with you has already caused a scandal in this gossip-loving city,” he pointed out. “It is best for you that we should part. Remember the difference in our stations. You are of blood-royal—while I—” and he hesitated. How could he tell her the ghastly truth?
She was silent for a few moments, her beautiful face very grave and thoughtful. Well, alas! she knew that if this man left her side the sun of her young life would have set for ever.
“But—but Jack—you are my friend, are you not?”
“How can you ask that?”
“Ah! yes. Forgive me. I—I know—you risked your life to save mine. You—”
“No, no,” he cried, impatiently. “Don’t let’s talk of the past. Let us look at the future, and let us speak plainly. We are old friends enough for that, Princess.”
“Angelica,” she said, correcting him.
“Then—Angelica,” he said, pronouncing her Christian name for the first time. Then he hesitated and their eyes met. He saw in hers the light of unshed tears, and bit his lip. His own heart was too full for mere words.
“Jack,” she faltered, raising her hand and placing it upon his arm, “I don’t quite understand you. You are not yourself this evening.” The bar of golden sunlight caught her wrist and caused the diamonds in her bracelet to flash with a thousand fires.
“No, Princess—I—I mean Angelica. I am not. I wish to speak quite plainly. It is this. If I remain here, in Florence, I shall commit the supreme folly of—of loving you.” She cast her eyes to the ground, flushed slightly and held her breath.
“This,” he went on, “must never happen for two reasons, first you are already married, and secondly, you are of Imperial birth, while I am a mere nobody, and a pauper at that.”
“I am married, it is true!” she cried, bitterly. “But God knows, what a hollow mockery my marriage has been! God knows how I have suffered, compelled as I am to act a living lie! You despise me for marrying Ferdinand, a man I could never love. Yes, you are right, you are quite—”
“I do not despise, you, Angelica. I have always pitied you,” he interrupted. “I knew well that you did not love the Prince, but were compelled to sacrifice yourself.”
“You knew!” she cried, clutching his arm wildly, and looking into his face. “Ah! yes, Jack. You—you knew the truth. You must have known. I could not conceal it from you.”
“What?” he asked, his hand upon her slim shoulder.
“That—that I loved you,” she burst forth. But next second, as if ashamed of her confession, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly.
Tenderly he placed his strong arm about her neck as her head fell upon her shoulder. For a moment he held her closely to him. Then, in a faltering voice, he said:
“Angelica, I know that our love is mutual, that is why we must part.”
“No! no!” she cried through her tears. “No. Do not leave me here alone, Jack! If you go from Florence I must return to the hateful semi-imprisonment of the Palace at Sarajevo among those dull boors with whom I have not the least in common.”
“But, Angelica, I am in honour bound not to compromise you further. Your enemies are all talking, and inventing disgraceful scandals that have already reached the Prince’s ears. Hence his spies are here, watching all our movements.”
“Spies! Yes, Bosnia is full of them!” she cried angrily. “And Ferdinand sends them here to spy upon me!” and she clenched her tiny white hands resentfully.
“They are here, hence we must part. We must face our misfortune bravely; but for your sake I must leave your side, though heaven knows what this decision has cost me—my very life and soul.”
She raised her head, and with her clear blue eyes looked into his face.
At that same instant they heard a footstep on the gravel, and sprang quickly apart. But just as they did so a tall, well-dressed, brown-bearded man came into view. Both held their breath, for no doubt he had seen her in Jack’s arms.
The man was the Marquis Giulio di San Rossore, a Roman nobleman, who was a friend of her husband the Prince. But that he was her secret enemy she well knew. Only a month ago he had fallen upon his knees before her, and declared his love to her. But she had spurned and scorned him in indignation. He heard her biting words in silence, and had turned away with an expression upon his face which plainly told her of the fierce Italian spirit of revenge within his heart.
But he came forward smiling and bowing with those airs and graces which the cultured son of the south generally assumes.
“They have sent me to try and find you, your Highness,” he said. “The Duchess of Spezia has suggested a ball in aid of the sufferers from the earthquake down in Calabria, and we want to beg of you to give it your patronage.”
And he glanced at the Princess’s companion with fierce jealousy. He had, as they feared, witnessed the beautiful woman standing with her head upon his shoulder.
“Let us go back, Mr Cross,” her Highness said, “I would like to hear details of what is proposed.”
And all three strolled along the fine old avenue, and skirted the marble terrace to where the guests, having now finished their tea, were still assembled gossiping with the Countess Von Wilberg and Countess Lahovary.
As they walked together, the Marquess Giulio chuckled to himself at the discovery he had made, and what a fine tale he would be able to tell that night at the Florence Club.
The truth was proved. The penniless Englishman was the Princess’s lover! Florence had suspected it, but now it should know it.
That same night, after dinner, Jack was standing alone with the Princess in the gorgeoussalonwith its gilt furniture and shaded electric lights. He looked smart and well-groomed, notwithstanding that his evening clothes showed just a trifle the worse for wear, while she was brilliant and beautiful in an evening-gown of palest eau-de-nil embroidered chiffon, a creation of one of the great houses of the Rue de la Paix. Upon her white neck she wore her historic pearls, royal heirlooms that were once the property of Catherine the Great, and in her corsage a splendid true-lover’s knot in diamonds, the ornament from which there usually depended the black ribbon and diamond star-cross decoration, which marked her as an Imperial Archduchess. The cross was absent that night, for her only visitor was the man at her side.
Her two female companions were in the adjoining room. They knew well their royal mistress’s attraction towards the young Englishman, and never sought to intrude upon them. Both were well aware of the shameful sham of the Princess’s marriage and of his neglect and cruelty towards her, and both women pitied her in her loveless loneliness.
“But, Jack!” her Highness was saying, her pale face raised to his. “You really don’t mean to go? You can’t mean that!”
“Yes, Angelica,” was his firm reply, as he held her waist tenderly, drawing her towards him and looking deeply into her fine eyes. “I must go—to save your honour.”
“No, no!” she cried, clinging to him convulsively. “You must not—you shall not! Think, if you go I shall be friendless and alone! I couldn’t bear it.”
“I know. It may seem cruel to you. But in after years you will know that I broke our bond of affection for your own dear sake,” he said very slowly, tears standing in his dark eyes as he uttered those words. “You know full well the bitter truth, Angelica—just as well as I do,” he went on in a low whisper. “You know how deeply, how fervently I love you, how I am entirely and devotedly yours.”
“Yes, yes. I know, Jack,” she cried, clinging to him. “And I love you. You are the only man for whom I have ever entertained a single spark of affection. But love is forbidden to me. Ah! yes I know! Had I been a commoner and not a princess, and we had met, I should have found happiness, like other women. But alas! I am accursed by my noble birth, and love and happiness can never be mine—never!”
“We love each other, Angelica,” whispered the man who was a thief, softly stroking her fair hair as her head pillowed itself upon his shoulder. “Let us part, and carry tender remembrances of each other through our lives. No man has ever loved a woman more devoutly than I love you.”
“And no woman has ever loved a man with more reverence and more passion than I love you, Jack—my own dear Jack,” she said.
Their lips slowly approached each other, until they met in a fierce long passionate caress. It was the first time he had kissed her upon the lips—their kiss, alas! of long farewell.
“Good-bye, my love. Farewell,” he whispered hoarsely. “Though parted from you in the future I shall be yours always—always. Remember me—sometimes.”
“Remember you!” she wailed. “How can I ever forget?”
“No, dear heart,” he whispered. “Do not forget, remember—remember that we love each other—that I shall love you always—always. Farewell!”
Again he bent and kissed her lips. They were cold. She stood immovable. The blow of parting had entirely paralysed her senses.
Once more he pressed his hot lips to hers.
“May Providence protect and help us both, my beloved,” he whispered, and then with a last, long, yearning look upon the sad white countenance that had held him in such fascination, he slowly released her.
He caught up her soft white hand, kissing it reverently, as had been his habit ever since he had known her.
Then he turned, hard-faced and determined, struggling within himself, and next second the door had closed upon him, and she was left alone.
“Jack! My Jack!” she gasped. “Gone!” and grasping the edge of the table to steady herself, she stood staring straight before her.
Her future, she knew, was only a blank grey sea of despair.
Jack, the man whom she worshipped, the man whom she believed was honest, and for whom her pure affection was boundless, had gone out of her young life for ever.
Outside, a young Tuscan contadino, passing on to meet his love, was singing in a fine clear voice one of the old Florentinestornelli—those same love-songs sung in the streets of the Lily City ever since the Middle Ages. She listened:
Fiorin di mela!La mela è dolce e la sua buccia è amara,L’uomo gli è finto e la donna sincera.Fior di limone!Tre cose son difficili a lasciare:Il giuoco, l’amicizia, e il primo amore!Fior di licore!Licore è forte e non si può incannare;Ma son più forti le pene d’amore.
Fiorin di mela!La mela è dolce e la sua buccia è amara,L’uomo gli è finto e la donna sincera.Fior di limone!Tre cose son difficili a lasciare:Il giuoco, l’amicizia, e il primo amore!Fior di licore!Licore è forte e non si può incannare;Ma son più forti le pene d’amore.
She held her breath, then with sudden wild abandon, she flung herself upon the silken couch, and burying her face in its cushions gave herself up to a paroxysm of grief and despair.
Six weeks later.
Grey dawn was slowly spreading over the calm Mediterannean, the waters of which lazily lapped the golden shingle. Behind the distant blue the yellow sun was just peeping forth. At a spot upon the seashore about four miles from Leghorn, in the direction of the Maremma, five men had assembled, while at a little distance away, on the old sea-road to Rome, stood the hired motor-car which had brought one of them there.
The motive for their presence there at that early hour was not far to seek.
The men facing each other with their coats cast aside were the brown-bearded Marquess Giulio di San Rossore, and Prince Albert.
The latter, having left Florence, had learnt in Bologna of a vile, scandalous, and untrue story told of the Princess by the Marquess to the aristocratic idlers of the Florence Club, a story that was a foul and abominable lie, invented in order to besmirch the good name of a pure and unhappy woman.
On hearing it he had returned at once to the Lily City, gone to the Marquess’s palazzo on the Lung’ Arno, and struck him in the face before his friends. This was followed by a challenge, which Jack, although he knew little of firearms, was forced to accept.
Was he not champion and defender of the helpless and lonely woman he loved—the woman upon whom the Marquess had sworn within himself to be avenged?
And so the pair, accompanied by their seconds and a doctor, now faced each other, revolvers in their hands.
The Prince stood unflinching, his dark brow slightly contracted, his teeth hard set, his handsome countenance pale and serious.
As he raised his weapon he murmured to himself some words.
“For your honour, my own Angelica—my dear lost love!”
The signal was given an instant later, and two shots sounded in rapid succession.
Next moment it was seen that the Italian was hit, for he staggered, clutched at air, and fell forward upon his face, shot through the throat.
Quickly the doctor was kneeling at his side, but though medical aid was rendered so quickly, he never spoke again, and five minutes afterwards he was dead.
Half an hour later Prince Albert was driving the hired car for all he was worth across the great plain towards the marble-built city of Pisa to catch the express to Paris. From that day Jack Cross has concealed his identity, and has never been traced by the pretty Crown-Princess.
No doubt she often wonders what was the real status of the obscure good-looking young Englishman who spoke German so perfectly, who loved her devotedly, who fought bravely in vindication of her honour, and yet who afterwards so mysteriously disappeared into space.
These lines will convey to her the truth. What will she think?