Ruxton's return to town from Dorby was made by special train in the middle of the night. It had been inspired by an irresistible impulse, born of an apprehension which his great love for Vita inspired.
Prince von Hertzwohl had only sheltered one night under the roof of Dorby Towers. Sir Andrew had been urgent that he should remain his guest indefinitely, feeling that the safety of an Englishman's home was the best of all havens for this large, simple-minded Pole. But Vita's father proved something of his daughter's estimate of him. His gratitude and thanks had been sincere and cordial, but he displayed an understanding of the situation which astonished his hosts, and a decision that resisted all appeal.
"Dear friends," he had urged, "it cannot be. It is a joy to me, so great, to feel the warm shelter of your perfect English home. I love the parks, the wide moor, the white cliffs. But I love more than all the generosity and kindliness of your friendship. But you do not yet grasp what all this means. These people will have my life, and your locks and bars will be no obstacle to their Secret Service. They will get me here, as they would get me in their own country. Nor can we say what danger I might not expose you to. No, my course is quite simple. I will show you to-night."
Father and son were reluctantly forced to acquiesce.
That night, after dinner, the shrewdness of Vita's father was displayed. He departed to his bedroom, and, an hour later, he reappeared in the smoking-room.
The metamorphosis was perfect. An unkempt individual, lean, dirty, and slouching, entered the room and made its way to the fire. His beard and moustache were gone, and he was clad in the greasy clothes and discolored overalls of a riverside mechanic. The disguise was so perfect that only with the greatest difficulty both father and son were able to recognize him. Later on he left the house, and set out for the town of Dorby. It was his purpose to lose himself amongst the thousands of workers who peopled the waterside, and so, while keeping in touch with Dorby Towers, completely sink his identity. Nor was it until after profound consideration that Ruxton and his father realized the wonderful but simple astuteness of the man's move.
It was the second night following this event that Ruxton's own resolve was arrived at. It was over forty-eight hours since he had dispatched his telegram to Vita telling her of her father's arrival and safety. He should have received a reply in under six hours. No reply, however, had been forthcoming.
At first Ruxton had been patient. There had been much to occupy him of an important nature at the shipyards. He had had little time to think of anything else. The constructions were steadily growing under the energetic hands of his engineers and marine architects. Already the promise of the future was taking definite shape. The work, pressed on at his urging, was proceeding apace. Already the completed outlines of two of the hulls filled twin slipways. His enthusiasm was growing with the rapidity of a man of keen imagination. His dreams were becoming real, tangible. The experiment was full of a promise which weeks ago had no place in his almost despairing regard of the future.
But at night there was less occupation for his mind, and inevitably his thoughts flew at once to the woman who had opened out to him the radiant possibilities of his future. No reply had reached him on that first night, and unease began to make itself felt. He mentioned the matter to his father with marked unconcern. The shrewd Yorkshire eyes which regarded him were blandly uncurious.
"Did you word it for reply?" he enquired, glancing up from the pictorial periodical he was looking at.
Ruxton had not worded it particularly so, he assured him, with a glance of trouble in his dark eyes.
Then the old man went on with his paper.
"I shouldn't worry about it," he said calmly. "It must have been delivered, or it would have been returned to you."
But the assurance was without effect upon the lover. He said no more then, but at dinner the following evening his anxiety would no longer be denied.
The butler had withdrawn. Ruxton had been unusually disinclined to talk during the meal. The keen brain of his father had summed up the reason to a fraction, but, with quiet understanding, he had waited for the unburdening which he knew would soon come.
It came as Ruxton, ignoring the dessert, sat back in his chair and lit a cigar.
"I've ordered a special train for town, Dad; I can't stand the suspense any longer."
"You mean—the answer to your message." Sir Andrew made no attempt to misunderstand him. "But where is the suspense? It was a message of—his arrival, I understand. The answer was optional."
"Optional? Ah, you don't understand." Just for a moment the trouble seemed to pass out of the younger man's eyes. He was contemplating the wonderful love which had come to him. He breathed a deep sigh. "Look here, Dad, what would you have felt like—you know, say just before you married my mother, if you sent her an urgent message by wire and received no reply? Why, in the past twenty-four hours you'd have been driving in a stage coach, or something equally slow, to find out the reason, if I know anything. There are a dozen things I could have done. I could have kept the wires humming incessantly—but for possibilities. Those possibilities have restrained me. But now I can wait no longer. I must see Vita myself and assure myself that nothing is—wrong. Dad, it's the whole world to me. I can't wait any longer. I love her, and I am going to marry her. That's where the suspense lies."
"That's how I supposed," Sir Andrew nodded, his shrewd eyes twinkling. "One has to endure many anxious moments under such circumstances. I have known them myself. You leave at——"
"Three A. M."
The old man nodded.
"I've not met her yet, boy," he said kindly, "though," he added slyly, "I seem as if I did know her. You see, you've spoken of her a lot. Well, if she's half the woman you have told me she is, I congratulate you heartily. Somehow, boy, I feel sure she is. Yes, it is as well to go—with possibilities hanging over us all."
He rose from the table and held out his hand as Ruxton followed his example.
"The very best of luck, boy, and—will you give her my love? You can leave the work here in my hands."
The two men clasped hands with a vigor such as belonged to two strong natures, and then, as they moved off to the library, they fell to discussing those "possibilities" to which Ruxton had alluded.
Ruxton's anxiety was no mere impatience of a hotheaded lover. He had not permitted his imagination to distort things out of a real proportion. He knew that their Teutonic enemies were able to lay hands upon Vita if they decided upon such a course. And all too late he had realized that his message had been an indiscretion. Once having arrived at this realization, the rest followed in painful sequence. If his message, though carefully worded, had fallen into enemy hands, the possibilities such an event opened up were illimitable.
It was between ten and eleven in the morning that he presented himself at the flat in Kensington.
On his way up the stairs he received his first shock. It was no less than an encounter with Mrs. Jenkins on her way down them, garbed in her long outdoor ulster, such as all women of her class seem to possess, bearing under one arm an ominous-looking bundle.
He stopped her, or rather she provoked attention herself by a dry cough and a prolonged, moist sniff.
"You goin' up to 'er flat?" she demanded; "'cos if you are she ain't in."
There was a sort of defiant displeasure in her words that, to Ruxton, might have been just her natural form of address, or might not have been.
He paused, glanced down at her bundle, and finally regarded her severely.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Don't see it's your bizness. Any'ow I'm goin' to do a bit o' shoppin'."
Then Ruxton adopted a high hand.
"Well, just come back up-stairs a minute. Your shopping will keep. I want to speak to you on a matter of importance. Come along."
He moved on up the stairs, and Mrs. Jenkins, used to obeying somebody at all times, followed him protestingly.
"I don't see I got no right any'ow. But wot with her bein' away, and stoppin' away, and me 'avin' no food to eat, as you might say, an' my wages overdue, an' the bills unpaid, I don't know, I'm sure. Maybe you got my wages with you, bein' a friend of 'ers?"
But Ruxton offered no explanation until they reached the flat and the door of it was securely shut behind them. Then he turned upon her with a forcefulness that reduced her to the necessary condition for giving all the information he needed with the least superfluous verbiage.
"Look here, Mrs. Jenkins, I just want a few straight answers to a few plain questions. Remember, the matters I'm going to question you on are of vital importance—very vital importance. I just want plain truth and nothing else."
"Truth! You'll say I'm lyin' next. Wot d'yer want to know? My motter is allus tell the truth an' shame the devil."
"Yes, yes, that's all right. Where's your mistress?"
The woman sniffed, while she eyed him distrustfully.
"Dunno. Ain't see 'er since you was 'ere last."
"When did you expect her?"
"Why, next day, o' course. She allus come 'ere every day 'less she sed. 'Sides, my wages was due next day, an' there's the 'ousekeepin' money. I ain't got neither. I writ 'er to 'er home, but ain't 'ad no answer. I got to eat, an' I ain't got nothin' t' eat in the place, so I was just goin' to slip round with a pair o' blankets an' get a loan. Y' see I didn't know wot to do, an' I tho't——" She broke off with a fresh sniff.
Ruxton produced some money and handed her two sovereigns.
"There, that'll keep you going. Now all I want from you are these facts. You haven't seen her since I was here, and you expected her next day. You wrote to her and received no reply. The last time you saw her she was leaving for her—home. That so?"
The woman nodded and sniffed.
"Yes, sir." The gold had impressed her.
"Very well. Now I want you to keep on here as if nothing had happened. You shall have your money regularly. Look after your mistress's things carefully, and if any one calls here, any visitors, men, or—or strangers, let me know. There, that card will give you my address. If I'm not there my secretary will take any message for me. I'm afraid some accident must have happened to your mistress. I am going to find out with the help of the—police. Do you understand? Whatever you do, don't talk."
By the time he had finished the poor woman was thoroughly alarmed, and showed it.
"My, sir, I do 'ope nothin' 'as 'appened serious-like. She was allus a venturesome one, as you might say, goin' about, an' I allus was a-tellin' of 'er——"
"Yes, yes; that's all right. The thing is, I've got to find out. Now, you see and do as I have said, and your mistress will thank you. Nor shall I forget. Remember, if any one calls for her, get their names and remember their faces, and—don't talk."
He hurried away, and passed down the uninviting stairs at a run. Two minutes later he was in a taxi, driving at a breakneck speed for Smith Square.
Arrived there, he ordered his own car, and, while awaiting its arrival, gave a string of instructions to Heathcote. Within another twenty minutes he was in his car, threading his way through the London traffic with the reckless inconsequence only to be found in an ex-naval chauffeur urged by an equally reckless employer.
A nightmare of apprehension pursued Ruxton over the switchback Oxford road. With a mind clear and incisive he had thought at almost electric speed, and planned the course to be pursued. In his brief twenty minutes with his secretary he had carefully detailed all his requirements. Now he could only lie back in his car, while the sailorman, driving him, obeyed the reckless instincts which have made him and his comrades a byword for devotion. Ruxton demanded speed, and the keen-eyed chauffeur gave it him. Heavy car as it was, it danced over the greater part of the journey with the fantastic and dangerous irresponsibility of a runaway. But the man at the wheel knew his machine. The pride and joy of his life was that he was the driver of eighty horse-power. This was the first time he had ever been permitted to test the accuracy of the maker's claims.
But to Ruxton the speed was a snail gait, and it seemed to him, on that brief journey to Wednesford, that he lived through centuries of despairing anxiety and doubts. Had these devils got at Vita? The burden of his cry was based on all the experiences of the late war. Yet what could they do? What would they dare do, here in England? He tried to reassure himself. But it was a vain attempt. He knew, only too well, the ruthless audacity of these people. Then he blamed himself that he had not insisted that Vita should have abandoned her home in Buckinghamshire when she first told him of Von Salzinger's visit. Was not that sufficient warning for any sane mind? Did it not clearly prove that Vita was watched? And, if she were watched, did it not point the purpose in the Teutonic mind to act if it suited it? Of course it did. He was to blame, seriously to blame—if anything had happened to her. He remembered Vassilitz and the inspiration his doings had awakened in him. He must have been mad not to think further—mad or incompetent.
So his feverish imagination ran on and tortured him as no other anxiety could have tortured him. And then came the relief of further action.
He reached Wednesford all too soon for his sailorman, who would have infinitely preferred continuing his reckless journey to Land's End and then—back again. However, he removed his foot from the accelerator and drew up at the police-station of the little old market town in a perfectly decorous fashion. The local chief was awaiting the car, and Ruxton was conducted promptly to that officer's private room.
The chief superintendent was a florid-faced, bulldog-looking man of about forty, vigorous, alert, but possessing no outward sign of particular mentality. He was all deference for his visitor.
"I received the telephone message, sir," he said at once, "and acted upon it. I sent a plain-clothes man out to Redwithy with instructions to ascertain if Madame Vladimir was at her residence, and, if not, to ascertain if possible something of her recent movements. The man should return now at any moment." He pulled out his watch and made a rough calculation. "Yes, he is quite due now. Would you care to give me more intimate particulars?"
To find himself dealing with a Cabinet Minister in matters of his own department was a little overwhelming to Chief Superintendent Reach, but he saw in it a possibility of advancement, and was ready to surpass himself in his efforts. But Ruxton saw no advantage in laying the inner details of the matter before the local police. If any such official aid were needed it would be better demanded of Scotland Yard.
"For the moment nothing more is needed than the simple local information," he replied. "On that depends all future movements. I will tell you this, however. Apart from my personal interest in the matter, there is certain political significance in it of a very important nature. More than that I cannot say until your man——"
The whistle of the tube on the officer's desk interrupted him.
"That's our man, sir," beamed Superintendent Reach, more than satisfied at the opportuneness of the interruption. "Excuse me, sir," he added, and listened at the tube.
"Ah, yes. Send him up here at once," he called through it. Then glancing over at his visitor, he observed ungrammatically, "It's him, sir."
A moment later a brisk plain-clothes man entered the room.
"Well?" demanded his chief sharply.
"The lady's been away about three days, sir," he said, with the stolidity of a policeman giving evidence. "Couldn't tell me when she'd be back. Hadn't left any instructions about the heating apparatus for the new peach-house she is having built. The butler believed the firm who were constructing the house were to put in the plant. He said she left after tea with her maid and luggage for a journey in a motor. Not her own car. He thought it must have been one she hired from Wednesford. I have been round the garages, but no one from Redwithy has hired a car. That's why I am a bit late, sir."
The chief turned to Ruxton, who was eagerly intent upon the man's information.
"I sent him"—indicating the plain-clothes man—"as a heating expert from a well-known horticultural firm."
Ruxton nodded.
"You saw the butler—a foreigner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you gather an—impression from him?"
"He seemed straightforward and quite ready to talk, sir. I'm sure he knew nothing more, and seemed to believe what he said."
"There's nothing else?"
"No, sir, I think not. The place seemed all reg'lar. You see, sir, I've often 'ad to keep an eye on it when the lady's been away holiday-makin', and during the war. You see, she's a foreigner. So I know it pretty well, though it don't know me. One thing that struck me he was speaking truth was there was a tidy bunch of letters on a hall table. Might have been an accumulation."
"Letters—ah." Ruxton turned to the chief. "I think you'd better come with me and look into things. Those letters. There should be an important telegram there—if——"
He rose from his chair with a sickening fear at his heart. The chief dismissed his subordinate and waited for Ruxton to complete his remark. But as no completion was forthcoming he attempted one himself.
"If there's been no trickery, sir."
"If she went away of her own free will—that's what we've got to find out. Come along."
Half an hour later Ruxton was addressing himself to the black-haired, sallow-faced Vassilitz, who was urbanity itself in the face of the chief of the Wednesford police.
His story was exactly the same as he had told to the plain-clothes man, and no amount of cross-examination could elicit the smallest shadow of contradiction.
Madame was frequently in the habit of going away suddenly and remaining away indefinite periods. But usually she used her own car, and rarely took her maid. Sometimes she said when she would be back; sometimes not. On this occasion she did not. No, she was unaccompanied except for her maid, Francella, Vassilitz's own sister. And she, Francella, had given him no information. Madame was very secret in her movements. Doubtless madame would return in due course, as she had always done. He hoped no accident had happened. He was devoted to madame, whom he had known all his life.
Even the matter of letters in no way disconcerted him. They were all there on the hall table. But he appealed to the chief of police for authority to show them.
The chief assumed the responsibility, and they were produced.
They were examined carefully, and all but one telegram were duly handed back to the butler. The telegram was sequestered by the officer, but remained unopened.
There was nothing more to be gained from Vassilitz, and the car rolled away. And as they went, Ruxton, in an agony of painful conviction, gazed sombrely back at the beautiful old Elizabethan structure in its perfect setting, which was the home of the woman he loved.
He was aroused from his despairing contemplation by the voice of the officer beside him.
"There's trickery afoot, sir," he said emphatically, "and I'll lay a month's salary that black-haired Vassilitz is in it."
Ruxton turned sharply.
"What makes you so convinced?" he enquired thickly.
"Why, the letters. Every one of 'em has been opened. So has this telegram. Didn't you twig it, sir?"
Ruxton confessed his oversight, and the officer beamed pleasant satisfaction.
"That's where experience comes in, sir," he went on. "There never was a system of opening letters that couldn't be detected by those who know. I've made a study of it. Those letters have all been opened—all of 'em. What about this telegram, sir?"
"If it's mine, then the Princess has not left of her own free will. I'm afraid it's mine."
"Princess, sir?"
"Yes. She's the Princess von Hertzwohl!"
The officer's face had become a study. He was impressed more deeply than ever.
"Er—shall I open it, sir?" he hesitated.
Ruxton nodded.
"You may as well."
The man tore it open and glanced at the contents. A flush spread over his already florid cheeks.
"It's yours, sir," he said. Then he added in a low tone: "I'm—I'm sorry, sir."
For answer he suddenly felt a forceful clutch on his arm.
"The Princess has been kidnapped," cried Ruxton, in a voice deep with passionate intensity. "Do you understand? She was waiting at her house there for that message. Nothing but force would have caused her to leave it until she received that message."
Ruxton's extreme dejection on his return to town was changed abruptly into even greater alarm.
His secretary was nervously awaiting him. Nor could he restrain his impatience. Heathcote was in the hall when Ruxton's key turned in the lock. The young man held a long telegram in his hand and flourished it towards his employer the moment the door closed.
"It's from Sir Andrew," he said. "There's trouble—trouble at Dorby."
Ruxton snatched at the ominous paper and his eyes eagerly sought the boldly-written message.
"Explosion here at 6 A. M. Drawing offices completely wrecked. Serious fire. Certain departments damaged and had narrow escape complete destruction.—Farlow."
It was the second blow in a few hours. Ruxton was hit hard. He read into the message all the ominous facts which had been left unwritten.
But in a moment he had been roused out of himself. The loss of the woman he loved had left him stunned in a curious degree. He had been attacked thereby through the sensitive organism which controlled all that belonged to the emotional side of the human heart. A terrible weight of depression had overwhelmed him for the moment. Now it was different. Here was a tangible attack. Here was something that left his heart untouched, but roused instead all the human fighting instinct which had lain dormant within him. There was no deadening apathy, there was no feeling of helplessness. He was alive, alert, and full of battle. So he prepared for a second night in succession to be spent on the railway.
"I must go to Dorby to-night," he said briefly. Then he added, as he passed up-stairs to his library: "Get on to Scotland Yard and put me through."
In the valley of Bar-Leighton the climatic pendulum had swung again. A radiant sort of Indian summer seemed to have definitely set in. Now the sun was shining, and fleecy clouds swept along the bosom of a brisk southeasterly breeze.
But the sinister genius of the place remained unchanging. It would have been optimism of a superlative order to claim that Prince von Berger ever really changed. For those in contact with him it was impossible to believe him capable of warmth or feeling. Even Ludwig von Salzinger, whose human feelings were of a grosser, baser type, regarded him as a mere mechanism, inspired by some brilliant detached evil genius. He had no love for him, contact with him depressed him, and his prevailing emotion was one of fear.
Von Berger turned from the table at which he was sitting. He passed a long document across to Von Salzinger, who was standing before the log fire crackling in the great dining-room fireplace. The Prince had read it through from beginning to end. He had read it again, and then again, so that its contents had almost been committed to memory. Von Salzinger accepted it in a silence which was the effect of his superior's example. And, still following that example, he read it through with the closest attention. Meanwhile Von Berger's dispassionate gaze was turned upon the brilliant sunlight pouring in through the wide and lofty window, which opened out upon a vista of parkland and rolling grass.
It was a written report from Johann Stryj, and it had been delivered that morning by hand.
"By the time this report reaches your Excellency the completion of our plans of destruction will have been reached. They will have been put into operation. The drawing office, where all plans and designs are locked in a strong-room, has been a simple enough matter to arrange. One of our agents works in that department. The development there is timed for 6 A. M. on the morning you will receive this. It is certain—certain as anything human can be.
"With regard to the docks and slipways there has been greater difficulty, infinitely more so, since these are under direct official control. However, we have seven agents amongst the operatives, and three of our different points of attack are under the immediate foremanship of Heuferman himself, upon whom I wish to report most favorably. The explosions here are to be synchronized with the others.
"In the case of the other matter I have a less satisfactory report to make. Our man certainly landed somewhere on the coast in this region. He was certainly traced to one night's shelter at a certain house, of whose identity your Excellency is aware. The house was penetrated and searched, but the man had taken his departure. There is a possibility he has made his way to London, and our agents there are using every endeavor to trace him. I have as yet received no report from them. My own impression, not based upon evidence, is that he is concealed in our own neighborhood. If this be so I hope later to have a good report to make on the matter to your Excellency.
"The movements of the Englishmen are simple to follow. They are both closely watched. The elder remains here attendant upon the work of construction. He is in our hands at any moment, at your Excellency's commands. The younger, too, can be dealt with effectually. He passes frequently between here and London, and at both ends, and on the journey, he is closely observed. It has now been ascertained that he is working with Scotland Yard in the interests of the woman. But on the result of this combination I have instructed the man on the spot to report himself directly to your Excellency, in accordance with your orders. I understand, however, and would call your Excellency's attention—most earnest attention—to the matter that three of our men in that neighborhood are closely shadowed by men from Scotland Yard. Consequently their services are denied us. These men can be relied on, of course, to give no information, but it points the energy behind the search for the woman and the direction of the suspicions aroused.
"My next report to your Excellency I hope will be on the result of our endeavors here.
"Your obedient servant,"K 1."
Von Salzinger raised his eyes from the paper. They encountered the profile of the Prince. He regarded it for some moments without friendliness. Then he changed his expression to one of official cordiality.
"Stryj is a capable man," he hazarded.
The reply came without a change in the direction of the Prince's gaze.
"He seems successful in the things of lesser importance. Von Hertzwohl has slipped through his fingers. He may be capable. We shall see. But we want the—body—of Von Hertzwohl. This man has made no attempt to communicate with his daughter—yet. Do you know what that means? I doubt if you do. It means that your first visit to her alarmed them. It warned the Prince, through this man Farlow, that there was danger. You, with your attempt at liaison, are responsible for that. Perhaps that will appeal to your—imagination. Herr von Salzinger, you have made two mistakes. The second is more serious than the first. If we do not secure the person of this man you will be recalled to Germany."
The calmness with which he spoke robbed his words of none of their significance. With his final pronouncement his cold eyes were turned full upon his companion, searching his gross face with a glance of inflexible resolve.
Von Salzinger's spirit was tame. But the lash and unjust condemnation goaded him.
"Discipline must be observed, Excellency," he said, with a thickness which warned the other of the effect of his words. "If I am recalled, then I must obey. But it is the authority in Berlin which is to blame for his escape. I came here to track this other, Farlow, and the work at his yards. Von Hertzwohl was still in the Baltic when I visited the Princess. There was no suggestion at the time that the Berlin authority would be sufficiently blundering to permit his escape. It would be more just to find the scapegoat amongst those who were responsible in Berlin. I submit that this matter was in your department, Excellency, of which you are the sole head."
Von Berger's reply came with a flicker of the eyelids.
"Those who are responsible for acts which jeopardize the ends of the Fatherland will reap the consequent punishment—whoever they be. No distinction will be made. That is the discipline of our country, Herr von Salzinger." Then he pointed to a chair.
The other accepted the silent order. But it was with an ill grace. Von Salzinger, for all his discipline, was no weakling. At that moment he was ready to rebel against the iron rod which Von Berger wielded. It would have required but one more sting to set the man's headstrong passions loose, whatever, in the end, it might have cost him.
But the Prince was alive to the danger signal. His understanding of human nature was something more than a study—it was an instinct. A secret purpose lay behind his charge. The value of the terror of authority upon a Prussian subject was well understood by him, and none knew better than he that rank and position afforded no emancipation from its peculiar claims. The danger signal, however, warned him that in the present case he was dealing with a man of hot passion and physical bravery. To gain full effect for his charge he must not jeopardize his purpose by risking an outbreak of passion. The effect would come after Von Salzinger's private reflection through the inborn discipline that was his.
The two men sat facing each other. The truculent regard of Von Salzinger would not be denied. But Von Berger gave no sign. He was entirely master of himself as always, just as he knew he was master of the position at the moment, and of this man.
"That which has happened to us is a greater disaster than the defeat of our armies could have been," he said slowly. "You, as well as everybody else, must realize this. If you do not you must be made to. That is why I have talked plainly. That is why you have indiscreetly permitted your anger to get the better of you. Now you must listen to me while I show you how we can achieve that which Berlin has failed to do, and which this man Stryj has failed to do. I mean lay our hands upon Prince von Hertzwohl. The woman up-stairs has been condemned to death."
"To—death?"
The square figure of Von Salzinger was erect, and his eyes were alight with a horror unusual to him. Then his feelings subsided under incredulity. "But that is a threat—merely."
Von Berger shook his head.
"It is a reality. She will die, if we do not get her father. It is part of my plan for trapping him. The news of her death will be whispered through certain channels which we know will convey it to him—wherever he be. Listen, this is the plan, and this is the work which will be assigned to you."
Half an hour later the Prince rose from his chair and crossed to the window. He stood with his back towards his companion. He had talked long and earnestly in his cold, even voice. Now he waited.
"Well?" he said at last without looking round at the still recumbent figure behind him. "That is the duty allotted to you. You accept the position?"
For answer Von Salzinger sprang to his feet. His face was purple with shame. The diabolical nature of the plan had sunk deeply into the half-savage heart of the man and found some small grains of genuine manhood there. Even he was revolted, and the habit of discipline tottered and crumpled.
"No! By God, no!" he cried, with a savage clenching of the fists.
Von Berger remained gazing out at the autumn scene.
"Think again."
But no answer was forthcoming. Von Salzinger's attitude remained, only now it seemed as if his clenching fists were a threat to the man at the window.
"Think again, Herr von Salzinger. Berlin gives no second chance."
The frigidity of the words became a threat that was insupportable. Von Salzinger was a Prussian. Self-preservation counted with him before all things. He saw every hope that had ever been his slipping from his tenacious grasp. To refuse—to refuse. He knew all it meant. He must accept or—kill this man.
His clenching fists relaxed.
"Very good, Excellency. If those are my orders I must execute them."
"Those are your orders."
Von Berger had turned about, and Von Salzinger beheld that terrible gleam in his eyes which Vita had once so painfully witnessed.
Von Salzinger spent a bad evening with himself, and a worse night.
Curiously enough this man regarded himself as not only a man of honor, but chivalrous towards women. How he arrived at the latter conclusion was one of those miracles of psychology which are beyond the understanding of the human mind. To him woman was weaker than the man whose plaything she was set on earth to become. Man's will must be her law. She possessed no rights of her own. Man's strength to enforce his will on all weaker vessels was the only right he could understand. Then woman, in the nature of things, must be intended as his plaything.
But Von Salzinger drew the line hard and fast at the limits of this understanding. Woman must be protected from physical harm and discomfort by the man whose plaything she became. As soon would he deem it right to treat ill any other of those things in life which gave him pleasure. As soon would he expect to see a child tear and rend its favorite toy. Woman must be cared for, woman must be sheltered from the buffets of life outside her own little life. She must be indulged in the feminine luxuries and pastimes. Any other course he believed would be an exhibition of brutality by no means in keeping with the boasted Kultur of his people. The moral and spiritual side of the woman was something which failed entirely to enter into his comprehension. In the moral and spiritual side of life she had no place—no place whatever.
The plan of Von Berger, and the cruel nature of the work assigned to him, had outraged all his ideas of his peculiar form of chivalry. To condemn Vita to death, and wilfully carry out the sentence, failing the success of their plans, was an unthinkable and useless cruelty which he felt he could not take part in. Brutality had here exceeded itself.
So he endured a painful and troubled night as he revolved in his mind the diabolical scheme which Von Berger had unfolded to him.
He contemplated disobedience. Yes, he contemplated defying the terrible power which Von Berger wielded so ruthlessly. But the consequence of such defiance left him panic-stricken, albeit unconvinced. He searched for a way out. But every mode of egress seemed barred to him. Every one except—— She was so very, very beautiful.
A tempting thought possessed him, and surged through the thickly flowing channels of the animal in him. The temptation grew and grew, and, with each passing hour, it more surely took possession of all that was most obstinate in him. He was yielding to it. He knew. He left Von Berger out of his calculations, he left all thoughts of the purposes of his Government out and thought only of himself, and this new temptation which dangled before his greedy eyes. Should he yield to the temptation?
His mind went back again of a sudden to the man, Von Berger, whom he knew he hated as much as he feared. It seemed so hopeless to oppose him, hopeless to oppose Berlin. Yet he felt he ought to. Then his thoughts flew again to Vita, and conjured visions of her perfect charms—and so he fell asleep.
Vita's days and nights had become one long nightmare of terror. The terror for herself had undermined all her confidence for her father, and in her lover's ability to succor. The hours of racking thought since learning the fate awaiting herself left her beautiful face drawn, and her spirit bowed and crushed. There was no hope anywhere.
From the moment she had first recognized Frederick von Berger, a dreary hopelessness had set in, and now she knew that her worst apprehensions were to be more than fulfilled. She knew something of the machinery he controlled, and she knew how hopeless it was that Ruxton, with all his manhood and confidence, could ever hope to contend with it and defeat it. Her father, she knew, would be hunted down and—punished. While she—she must inevitably fall a victim of the sentence passed upon her here in this desolate, secret prison.
The torture she endured was insupportable. Every moment of the day she was watched either by the hard-faced matron of the place, or by her own maid, Francella. She had railed at the latter for her cruel perfidy, she had appealed to the former. But in neither case had she elicited the smallest spark of sympathy.
The matron had merely shrugged her broad shoulders.
"You would sell our Fatherland to an enemy. You are not fit to live," she had said, with a coldness which none can display more effectively than a woman.
In Francella she met only the heartless cruelty of a servant who finds it in her power to rend a late mistress.
"Some day I take my children to the grave of the woman who would have betrayed our country, and I make them spit upon it."
So Vita was left to nurse her terror in the awful solitude and silence of the splendid halls of this isolated mansion.
How long she might have borne it and retained sanity is doubtful. It surely could not have been long. With the smallest gleam of sympathy it might have been possible to endure. But there was no sympathy. The gloom of her outlook from her windows, the awesome grandeur of her rooms, the cold antagonism of those who waited upon her as prison warders,—all these things aggravated her trouble, just as they were calculated to aggravate.
Then in the very depths of her despairing misery there suddenly shone out a vague, flickering light of hope. It was no less than a stealthy and secret visit from Ludwig von Salzinger. It came in the night. Vita had abandoned sleeping at night fearing lest the murder would be committed during the hours of darkness. She had allowed her imagination to run riot till she almost came to fear her own shadow.
She was sitting in an upright chair. She was gazing straight before her with eyes staring upon the door. Such was her terror of the night that she had been reduced to this impotent watching. Her thought was teeming, going over and over again every horrible fancy a distorted brain could conjure. Then suddenly, in the midst of it all, she started. Her straining eyes dilated. She leapt from her seat and sprang behind her chair, grasping its back, prepared to defend herself. The door was slowly and silently opening.
Widely ajar it stopped. The next instant a head was thrust round it, a square head with a shock of close-cut hair. The woman breathed a sigh, but remained ready to defend herself. She had recognized Ludwig von Salzinger.
The man recognized her attitude, and signed to her to remain silent. His warning had instant effect. Vita drew another sigh, and her grip upon the chair-back relaxed. With eyes wide with doubt and fear she watched the man's movements. They were stealthy and secret.
He thrust the door further open. Quickly and silently he stepped into the room. Then, with the door still ajar, he gazed back cautiously down the corridor beyond, in both directions. Having satisfied himself he closed the door with the greatest care and came towards her.
"If you speak," he whispered, "don't raise your voice, or—we shall be overheard."
"What have you come for?" demanded Vita, nevertheless obedient to his caution.
The man's brows went up and his eyes were urgent.
"Why, to get you out of this," he said quickly. "Do you think I can stand by while that devil Von Berger does you, a woman, to death? You, the woman I love—have always loved? God! I hate that man," he added, and an unmistakable ring of truth sounded in his final words. "Look here, Vita, I'm part of this diabolical machinery, I know; I can't help it; but to submit to the murder of a woman—you—God! I can't do it—if it costs me my own life. Oh, yes, I know what you'll think. You know the discipline. You know that I was forced into assisting in bringing you here, under orders I dared not disobey. I know all that, and you must think of me as you will, but I love you—madly—and I'll not consent to anything that threatens your life. I tell you, I've done with it all—all—our country. I'm going to get out of it all and flee to America, and—take you with me. You'll come with me? Say you'll come with me, and together we'll outwit this devil of a man. You've done nothing, nothing on earth to warrant the punishment he's preparing for you. Your father—that's different. But you—you—oh, it's horrible. Ach! I could kill that man when I think of it, and all he has said to me yesterday of his devil's plans."
While he was speaking it seemed to Vita that it must be some angel talking disguised in the angular, hard exterior of this Prussian. Every nerve in her body which had been so straining seemed suddenly to have relaxed. It seemed as though years of suffering had been suddenly lifted from her poor tortured brain. She recalled how from the beginning she had thought that if hope there were for her it must lie in this very Von Salzinger who had been disgraced through her father's and her agency. She gazed upon him now in wonder, and was half inclined to weep with gratitude and relief.
But she restrained herself. And quite suddenly she remembered something else. She remembered the man who claimed her love, and she remembered the love this man was now offering her. The relief of the moment changed to doubt, and, finally, to a renewed despair.
There was only one course open to her, and she adopted it frankly and without restraint. She shook her head.
"I—honor you for the sacrifice you would make, but I'm afraid it's useless. Besides, I feel it would be impossible to defeat these people. I must tell you, and by doing so I may lose forever your good-will. I do not love you. All the love I have to give has passed from my keeping——"
"Ruxton Farlow." There was a sharp, brutal ruthlessness in the manner in which Von Salzinger broke in.
Vita shrank at the tone.
"Yes," she said. "I love Ruxton Farlow, and have pledged myself to be his wife."
"Wife?" There was a smile in the man's eyes which did not conceal his jealous passion. "What chance have you of becoming his wife? None. There is only one chance—your escape from here. Your escape from here can only be contrived by me. Am I—I going to risk my life, and all my future, to hand over the woman I love to—Ruxton Farlow? Vita, I am only a man—a mere human man. I will risk all for you. I will dare even the vengeance of Von Berger if you but promise me. But no power on earth can make me stir a hand to deliver up all I care for in the world to—Ruxton Farlow."
The frank, ruthless honesty of the man's denial was not without its appeal to Vita. She even smiled a faint, gentle smile.
"It is as I said—useless. It is only as I could have expected. I could not hope it would be otherwise. I love Ruxton Farlow."
"Whom you can never hope to see again." Again came that savage crudeness of method which Vita recognized as part of the man. Then his eyes lit with a deep, primitive passion. "Oh, yes, I must seem brutal, a devil, like that Von Berger. Maybe I am, but I can see plain sense. In less than a week you will die here, murdered. How, I can only guess at. Von Berger knows no mercy. Your father is surrounded at Dorby, and will suffer a similar fate. All your plans and schemes will be frustrated. The works at Dorby are even now destroyed. There is no power on earth that can give you to this man you say you love. Well? Is not life still sweet to you? Is not your father's escape also something to you? I tell you I can contrive these things. All I ask is that you will marry me. Your solemn pledge. I love you, and will teach you to love me and forget this Englishman. It is madness to refuse. It is your one single chance of life, and you would fling it away for a shadow, a dream which can never be realized."
There was something in the man's manner which appealed to Vita. Perhaps it was the rugged brutality of his force. The repugnance in which she had held him had lessened. To her his genuineness was unmistakable. And he was honest enough to make no claim to generosity in the course he was prepared to adopt at her bidding.
Von Salzinger saw something of the effect he had achieved upon her and resolutely thrust home the advantage.
"Vita," he said, lowering his voice still more, but losing nothing of the urgency of his manner, "I have a plan whereby I can save you both—your father and you. Think of him, that great, but misguided man, who has lavished a world of affection upon you, and to whom you are more than devoted. Can you let him die? Think how he will die under Von Berger's hands. I tell you, Vita, better endure the agony of death at the hands of a common murderer a hundred times than be left at the mercy of that man. Even the torture of the old Inquisition might be preferable. He has neither soul nor conscience. And what does it mean to achieve this safety for you both? It means the sacrifice of your love for this Englishman. God! Is it so great a sacrifice when it can never be fulfilled? A passing dream which must end in the tragedy of your murder. You say you have no love. I ask for none. That will come. I will teach you a love which this Englishman could never have inspired. And I can give you back your life, and your father's life, in the great country across the Atlantic. Every detail of my plans are complete, but it must be now or never. Do you still refuse? Do you still desire to sacrifice your father to this selfish dream which can never be fulfilled?"
The woman's eyes were yearning. A great struggle looked out of their grey depths into the passion-lit eyes of the man. The hope, oh, the hope of it all! But the price was the price of all that a woman looks forward to in life.
"Do you swear to me that my father shall be saved?" she demanded, in a low tone which thrilled to jubilance every sense in the man's body.
He flung out his arms.
"He shall leave this country with you. The fulfillment of your solemn word shall not be required of you till you are both safe across the water. If we fail—then you have sacrificed nothing. Can I say fairer? Can you doubt my honesty of purpose after that? Ach! it maddens me with alarm and impatience to see you hesitate. For you it is safety—life. For me I risk all—everything—for a wife who has no love to give me. If I fail your present lot is nothing to what mine will be. If I hate Von Berger he has no love for me, and—he is not human."
But still Vita hesitated. It was not that she doubted this man, though she knew she had little enough reason to trust him. It was the love for the man of her choice holding and claiming her. She strove to set it aside. She tried to apply reason. But it would not be denied, and it elbowed reason at every turn.
What was life without this love of hers? No, it was nothing. Would it matter if death came upon her and left her cold? No. It would even be preferable to the life of terrible regret which Von Salzinger offered her. Her father—she caught her breath. It was the one thought which her love could not thrust aside. It was in her power to save him—if she would.
The struggle went on. It shone in her eyes, it was displayed in the panting rise and fall of her bosom. The appeal of it was too great. To leave him to his fate would be the vilest selfishness. This man had promised that he should leave the country with them—before she became his wife.
She looked up. A burning excitement shone in her eyes.
"Can you communicate with my father?" she asked.
The man shook his head.
"Then how can you—save him?" she demanded sharply. "I do not know where he is, and if I did wild horses would not drag his whereabouts from me—even for the purpose of saving his life."
But her words did not offend.
"You do not trust me," returned the man, with a tolerant shake of the head. "I cannot blame you either. I must prove my sincerity—later. Meanwhile the matter is simple enough. Give me your solemn pledge that you will become my wife as soon as we safely land across the water, you, your father and me. Then I will show you."
For another few silent moments the struggle in Vita's heart went on. Now it was a struggle of doubt and credulity. All other feeling had yielded in that earlier struggle. Dare she trust this man? Dare she? But he was asking nothing until their safety had been assured. His seemed the greater risk, unless this were some diabolical plot with his superior, Von Berger. She could not reason it out. Reason was beyond her. Her father's safety lay in the balance. She forgot self for the time. So she thrust her finger upon the scale.
"I solemnly pledge myself under the conditions you name," she said in low tones.
The joy in the man's hard eyes was unmistakable, and Vita, witnessing it, understood that it was real, genuine.
"Then listen," he cried. "Communication with your father will be simple and safe. We do not need his whereabouts. I will dictate a letter to you—a letter of our plans and instructions. We will beat Von Berger at his own game, and once we are in America we can snap our fingers at the whole race. I will tell you now Von Berger threatened me yesterday again. He it was who deprived me of my command at Borga. He it was who superseded me over here. He it is who has given me the life of a cur ever since. Now I shall pay him in a way he little suspects. I will dictate this letter for you, Vita, and when it is written you will address it to your father and enclose it under cover to Sir Andrew Farlow at Dorby Towers. He will see that it reaches your father. You will see how sure is my plan. No matter into whose hands that letter falls it cannot betray his whereabouts to any one."
And Vita was finally convinced. She was making her sacrifice for the life and liberty of her father, and through all the pains and hopelessness of yielding up her love for Ruxton she had the wholly inadequate assurance that, whatever it cost her, it was her simple duty for which even Ruxton himself would never blame her.