of Contents
“Get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower!”
It sounded like the raving of a dying man, and T.B. shook his head as, in the company of Van Ingen, he walked back to his chambers in the early hours of the morning.
Since the night of the assault, the young man had remained as Smith’s guest, at the latter’s express command.
“Not that I believe you stand in immediate danger of having your head broken again by those miscreants,” he said laughingly the next morning, “or that I could protect you if you didl But since you are in on this thing, and the enemy have got wind of it, it is as well to join forces. You can run errands, type my notes, and investigate obscure clues — in short, become a useful other self to me. In that way I double my efficiency, and can be in two places at once!”
And so Van Ingen, nothing loath, had sent for a few necessaries, and had taken up quarters with the detective.
At the suggestion of the latter, he had not acquainted Doris with his mishap, the injuries from which were, indeed, slight enough, consisting only of a bruise, the size of a walnut on the right side of his head, and an accompanying dizziness when, the next morning, he attempted to raise his head from the pillow.
He had scrawled a line to Doris therefore, reporting himself, per agreement, and inviting himself to tea, to discuss an important personal matter, the next afternoon at five.
To this he had received, late the same day, posted from Folkestone, the following reply:
“DEAR CORD :
“Owing to a sudden change of plans, we start for the Continent tonight, and, ‘ tomorrow at five,’ I shall be having my tea with Aunty in Paris — and thinking of you!
“We remain there only for a few days, then on to the Riviera, and eventually cross into Spain.
I had something to ask you last night, which escaped me in the pain of bidding you farewell — something you may do for me, which will add to the great debt of gratitude I already owe you — and crown it all! Abandon this investigation! By our dear friendship of many years, I ask it, — by the love which you profess for me. It will involve you in frightful consequences of which I do not dare to speak. Your bare connection with it fills me with anguish — I cannot sleep!… Thank you for the report of your health. I am nervous and unstrung these days, and filled with imaginary terrors.
In your note, you speak of ‘an important personal matter’ — may I interpret the phrase, candidly, and give you my answer? I esteem you too dear to entangle you in my own melancholy career. This decision is quite unalterable, and,, moreover, I am not free.
“There is nothing left to add. God bless you.
“DORIS.”
This missive Van Ingen did not show to Smith.
With a white bandage about his head, and looking, the detective declared, “pale and interesting,” he sat in an easychair before the open fire, and gloomily reviewed the situation.
She was not free. That meant Poltavo! Could it be true that in truth she loved him, then? For a while, he gave himself to the full bitterness of the idea. Before his mind there arose, vividly, the picture of the two at the opera — Poltavo, elegant, distinguished, speaking in low eager tones, and Doris bending toward him with parted lips, a divine light in her blue eyes. As he pondered all the recent circumstances, he felt the waters of despair pour over his soul. His head still throbbed from the bruise; he felt feverish and agitated, full of a burning turmoil, and a longing that knows but one solace.
Again he turned to the letter, seeking, unconsciously, for some word of comfort to his troubled spirit, and reread it, slowly.
This time her sweet sympathy shone out at him, like the sun behind storm-clouds. He remarked, also, the note of despairing sadness. She was not free! That hinted not of love, but of compulsion, of an iron necessity laid upon her soul. In a flash of intuition, the young man glimpsed the real situation. She had bound herself to the count, in order to save her father!
What had it not cost her to assume that heavy burden? For the first time he realised something of what the girl, with her high spirit, and her passionate adoration of her father, must have suffered at learning that he had perpetrated such a monstrous fraud on the public; that he was, in truth, a cheat, an outlaw, and a criminal. Was it any wonder that her cheeks had lost their colour, her eyes their light, and her figure its youthful buoyancy and charm? He recalled, with a sharp pang, the pitiful droop of the slender, black-robed figure when he had last seen her; her pallor, and the shadow which lay deep, in her eyes. Fear had looked out of those eyes, fear had trembled in her voice, as she bade him be careful!… And she had esteemed him too dear to entangle in her dark fate!… A flood of infinite tenderness welled up in his breast, a tenderness and an exquisite yearning which thrilled the young man’s soul to the point of pain. He burned with the desire to stand between her and her troubles, ta carry her off bodily from her enemies, to conquer a kingdom, or subdue a dragon — to do any wild, rash thing to prove his love.
Such moments rarely endure. They pass, these mountain-heights of exaltation and emotion, but to have experienced them however briefly, to have loved a woman with such passion and pure fervour, leaves no man as he was before.
Van Ingen returned to the problem. She had: bound herself to the count.
But Poltavo, according to the detective’s theory, was the master-mind of the conspiracy. How, then, had he tricked her so completely? How had he gulled them all, he wondered savagely. Even his chief, the American ambassador, and a judge of men, had been completely fascinated by the charm of his personality, and would not hear a word against him.
As for women — he knew the silly ardent creatures went down like nine-pins before the smiling glance of his eyes and the unfailing courtesy of his manners. There was Lady Angela, the Duke of Manchester’s daughter, a slender dryad-girl, with soft eyes and a halo of pale golden hair, whom the count had sketched upon a recent visit to their country-house, and whom, it was reported, he might have any day, for the asking.
“Why don’t he ask her, then?” he growled aloud.
The detective, who lounged opposite him, warm coils of smoke ascending from his briar pipe, regarded him with humorous eyes.
“I don’t follow you,” he said. He glanced down at the open letter, which Van Ingen still held tightly in his hand.
“Do you want him to marry her?”
Van Ingen reddened. “I — I beg your pardon!” he stammered. “I was thinking of Lady Angela.”
The detective smoked on tranquilly, though it was apparent he did not get the connection. Van Ingen, however, vouchsafed no further explanation, and presently the conversation fell upon other things.
The next morning Cord had awakened greatly refreshed, and with his resolve strengthened to continue the investigation. In company with Smith, he had interviewed Sir George Calliper, and seen the tragic end of Moss. As they walked homeward in the cold air of the early morning, Cord speculated upon the manner of man was this Count Poltavo. Beside him, the detective pondered, grimly, the same problem.
Hyatt — the man on the Eiffel Tower — the Wady Barrage — the mysterious bears — what connection was there one with another?
TO
