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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Princess Galva, by David Whitelaw

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Title: The Princess Galva
       A Romance

Author: David Whitelaw

Release Date: October 25, 2010 [EBook #34130]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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[Illustration: Cover art]




[Frontispiece: Princess Galva]




THE

PRINCESS GALVA


_A ROMANCE_



BY

DAVID WHITELAW

AUTHOR OF "THE GANG," "MOON OF VALLEYS," ETC.




"Romance is what is round the next bend of the road and across the
horizon.  Yesterday is romantic and so is to-morrow."--_Professor
Raleigh, at the London Institution_.




TORONTO

THE COPP CLARKE CO. LIMITED

1911




TO

WILLIAM LE QUEUX

IN FRIENDSHIP


_Brighton, 1910._




_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_


MOON OF VALLEYS

"A novel of absorbing interest."--_Truth_.

"A live story."--_Sportsman_.

"A thrilling story."--_Daily Mirror_.

"Emphatically a lively book."--_Glasgow News_.


THE GANG

"It is remarkable that with so many incidents packed into the book the
author has managed to keep his head."--_Daily Telegraph_.

"Breaks new ground in fiction."--_Standard_.

"Essentially readable."--_Winning Post_.

"A merry tale ... amazing fertility of invention."--_Daily Express_.

"Deserves the encouragement of a large success."--_Morning Leader_.


MAC STODGER'S AFFINITY

"Thoroughly and genuinely funny."--_Sporting Life_.

"An exceedingly amusing story."--_Dundee Advertiser_.




CONTENTS


   CHAP.

      I  TOO OLD AT FORTY
     II  AT NO. 8, BELITHA VILLAS
    III  BORROWED PLUMAGE
     IV  A LETTER FROM NEW YORK
      V  AN ECHO OF A TRAGEDY AND THE DRAINAGE OF A COTTAGE
     VI  AT THE UNION HOTEL, PENZANCE
    VII  TREMOOR
   VIII  THE PANIC OF A CARPET MANUFACTURER
     IX  DUCAL ATTENTIONS
      X  THREE HANDS AT POKER
     XI  THE LIEUTENANT HONOURS GALVA
    XII  IN THE CATHEDRAL AT CORBO
   XIII  THE PLOT
    XIV  AT CASA LUZO
     XV  EDWARD SHOOTS AN ARROW INTO THE AIR
    XVI  THE GENTLEMAN IN THE TWEED SUIT
   XVII  MR. JASPER JARMAN RELIEVES HIS MIND
  XVIII  THE CAPTIVE
    XIX  TERESA
     XX  THE BOAT FROM THE MAINLAND
    XXI  EDWARD SEES COMPLICATIONS
   XXII  THE HEART OF GALVA
  XXIII  THE PASSING GUN
   XXIV  A BULLET IN THE GROUNDS
    XXV  IN THE DEATH CHAMBER
   XXVI  THE FUGITIVE
  XXVII  THE IMPOSTOR
 XXVIII  EDWARD DEPARTS
   XXIX  BLOOMSBURY
    XXX  REVENGE
   XXXI  A FINAL NOTE BY EDWARD POVEY




THE PRINCESS GALVA


CHAPTER I

TOO OLD AT FORTY

The waning light of an October evening shone on the reflectors outside
the windows of the basement counting-house, and the clerk at the corner
desk could barely discern that the clock on the green painted dusty
wall pointed to a quarter to six.

In fifteen minutes Edward Povey's twenty-two years of devoted service
in the interests of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company would come to an
end, and the desk in the corner to which he had been promoted fifteen
years ago would by the immutable law of evolution pass into the
possession of his junior.  Edward noticed this junior now and the
glances which that young man cast at the scratched and ink-stained slab
of mahogany that was to constitute his kingdom of the morrow.  Edward
wondered dully whether the young man was as full of hope as he himself
had been.  Perhaps he was waiting to be married even as he, Edward, had
waited fifteen years ago.  In those days the era of the Young Man had
not been so pronounced as it is to-day, and it had been death that had
removed his predecessor.

Even now he could remember the chastened sorrow with which he mounted
the high stool of his desire.  He had propped open the desk and
collected together the belongings of the deceased clerk, and posted
them with a little note of sympathy to his widow.  Some had seemed too
trivial to send, and of these a few still remained, a battered
soap-box, a small square of unframed looking-glass, its red back
scratched and scored.  These, together with the great ebony ruler, had
now outlasted his own reign and would pass to the new-comer.

And now the desk was propped open again, and it was his own belongings
that he was collecting into a heap.  The well-known odour of the wood
came to his nostrils and he sighed a little.  From shadowy and dusty
corners he got together the little trifles that had been part and
parcel of his life and arranged them in a neat pile beside him.

"If there's anything I can do for you----" began the junior, brushing
his hair in front of a little mirror and settling his purple tie
nervously.

"No, Joynings; nothing, I thank you.  I'm leaving you old Brown's
looking-glass and soap-box--they're fixtures, and go with the position."

The junior tittered a little at this and pulled down the front of his
fancy waistcoat, lit a cigarette, and took a pair of roller-skates from
the drawer of his desk.  He came over and held out his hand.

"Right, then I'll be popping along--good luck, old man, and all that.
You'll drop into something soon.  If I hear of anything----"

"Oh, I'll be all right," said Edward Povey.

There is always a certain fascination in change and elation in abnormal
conditions, even if those conditions constitute a misfortune.  Edward
Povey was surprised at his inner feelings as he left the portals of
Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company's offices.  In his own mind he knew
that he ought to be feeling depressed; but the fact remained that he
was feeling nothing of the kind, indeed he felt happier than he had
done for the past twenty-two years, except perhaps on that one evening
fifteen years ago.  Then he had been hurrying out to a small house in a
mean street in Barnsbury, to a little woman who was waiting for the
news that would enable her to become the wife of the man who brought
it.  Now he was going to another little house in a mean street, in
Clapham this time, to the same woman, but with how different tidings
and how differently they would be received.  Fifteen years ago the
future had looked very bright to the limited vision of Mr. Edward
Povey.  He had left the office after his marriage with a light step and
hurried across the bridge that would lead him to the villa he had
taken.  As the years passed, the light step had become a sedate walk,
and now it was hard to recognize in the little bowed figure that
shuffled each evening across London Bridge the Edward Povey of other
days.

But to-night, curiously enough, the step was not shuffling and the
little iron-grey head was more erect.  The blow that had fallen when
Mr. Schultz had given him the buff envelope which contained his salary
and his _conge_ had been deadening, and the feeling had numbed him for
the whole day.  Then had come the inevitable reaction, the need for
movement, for effort, and the heart of Edward Povey was responding
nobly to the call, the heart that had lain dormant since the early days
of his marriage.

For Charlotte Povey, estimable woman, cherished fondly the idea that
for fifteen years she had been moulding the life, the destinies, and
the character of her husband, and he, for the sake of peace, had given
himself unresistingly to the potter's thumb.  Charlotte's method,
however, left much to be desired.  With the laudable object of rousing
the soul of Edward to further action and endeavour, she let not a day
pass without comparing, much to his disparagement, his actions and even
his appearance with other men of their acquaintance.

But instead of this having the desired effect, Edward had gradually
come to believe it all; it had been so consistently impressed upon him
that he was a poor sort of a chap anyway, and the inevitable result
was--the envelope presented to him that morning by Mr. Schultz.

And now, on this calm autumn evening the chains of fifteen years fell
from him and the spirit of Edward Povey underwent a change.  He began
to think that it was a good, full world--a world in which there were
more things and higher possibilities than the evil-smelling
counting-house of Kyser, Schultz & Company.  He told himself that he
had wasted nearly a quarter of a century.

The city was settling to quietude under a pall of smoky opal.  The
warehouses and buildings stood out gaunt and grey.  The river flowing
under the railway arches up-stream was splashed with the glory of the
setting sun, little elusive reflections showing blood-red on the muddy
water.  Edward had crossed London Bridge for many years, but he did not
remember ever having seen a sunset there.

Clapham!  The world was bigger than Clapham.--Forty years of age!  Why,
it was the prime of a man's life, rather before the prime, in fact.
Edward stopped, there was no hurry to-night, and leant over the parapet
of the bridge.  Below him, on the wharf, they were unloading a tramp
steamer of boxes of fruit.  The men swarming like ants up the long
gangways were carrying on their backs light crates.  One of these boxes
had come apart and lay on the grimy deck shedding a little pool of
golden oranges.  The clatter of winches, the jangling of cranes, all
served to make up a picture of life and movement that appealed strongly
to the man who was leaning over the stone balustrade.  He could read
the name on the stern of the boat, "_Isabella--Barcelona_."

There were other boats too, and barges, huddling together as though for
warmth like little chickens in an incubator.  The bascules of the Tower
Bridge, showing dimly in the haze, were being raised to let a
white-funneled steamer that was cautiously sidling out into mid-stream
slip down to the sea.  Two men were working vigorously with long poles,
guiding a barge laden with straw out of her way.  Edward Povey watched
her, telling himself that in a few hours she would be making her way
down Channel or breasting the waves in the North Sea.  Later she would
be in some palm-fringed Southern port, or perhaps amid the romantic
islands and fjords of the North.

He wished that he, too, could go abroad, that he too could slide out of
London on the dingy bosom of Father Thames.  He longed to breathe the
large airs of the ocean, to feel the sting of the salt spray, and to
reach the places blazoned so bravely forth in gold letters upon the
sterns below him.  Barcelona, for instance, spoke of sunny skies and
indolence and romance, and he felt a great pity for the surging masses
of which he had so lately been one, who pushed past him with never a
glance for the river or the sunset, or for the _Isabella_ from
Barcelona.

A light tap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie, to see the
genial face of Mr. Kyser, the other partner of the firm to whom he had
been correspondence clerk for so many years.  Edward had never had much
to do with the junior partner, but what small relations they had had
seemed to be touched with more humanity than was the case with Mr.
Schultz.

"----and so you are leaving us, Mr. Povey?" Kyser was saying.

"Yes, sir, I----"

"Well, Povey, I'm sorry, yes, I'm sorry; but there, I can't interfere
with what Mr. Schultz does, it's his department, you know, but I didn't
want to pass you without a handshake.  Let me see, you live at Clapham,
don't you?"

Edward Povey nodded.

"We'll get a taxi, then--or, better still, come and have a chop with
me--I want a word with you."

Edward was delighted.  Surely things were far better than they had been
for a quarter of a century.  Yesterday this same man would have passed
him with perhaps a nod, perhaps not even that.

The change that had come over Edward since his release from bondage was
evidently being sustained by events.  For fifteen years he had passed
the spacious grill-room in Gracechurch Street, with its noble array of
chops and parsley in the window, in which he now found himself, on his
way to the little eating-house up the court where he had taken his
modest midday meal of sandwiches and stout.  There was a sense of
well-being about his present surroundings that gave him a feeling as
though he had set foot in a new world and that he meant to remain in
it.  The snowy linen, the silver and glass, the little green-curtained
alcoves, the obsequious waiters, the flickering and hissing of the
grill at the further end of the room, presided over by the white-clad
chef, all played their part in the awakening of Edward Povey.

"It's not much that I wanted to speak to you about, Povey, but I
thought you might help me.  You'll be looking round for another place,
I suppose, but if you can find time to run out to Bushey now and again,
you'll be obliging me--personally."

Edward Povey expressed his willingness to do all that lay in his power.

"It's only to have a look at my little cottage there, Povey; I've been
living there on and off, and now I'm off to Switzerland.  My man goes
with me, so I want you to run out and see that things are all right.
I'll give you the key.  Any letters that come you can keep for me until
my return.  I've got a few decent pictures at the cottage and some old
silver that I'm anxious not to leave altogether unattended.  Can I
count on you?"

Edward repeated his assurances, but a sense of disappointment had come
over him as Kyser had been speaking.  The adventure was not panning out
as he had hoped.  At the same time, he told himself that he would be
paid for his services, perhaps liberally, and it might prevent him
having to touch the little nest-egg in the Post Office Savings Bank.

When Edward parted with his late employer and left the grill-room it
was with the key of Adderbury Cottage, Bushey Heath, in his pocket, and
rather a feeling of resentment against Mr. Kyser and his firm, who did
not hesitate to use a servant of twenty-two years' standing as a mere
caretaker.

And resentment was a dangerous thing in the brain of the new Edward
Povey.




CHAPTER II

AT NO. 8, BELITHA VILLAS

It was nine o'clock when Edward Povey pushed open the little iron gate
of No. 8, Belitha Villas, Clapham, thereby announcing his return to the
other eleven villas in the same row.  For the twelve little iron gates
of Belitha Villas had each its own peculiar squeak and clang, a fact
that added considerably to the scandal-mongering of the little
community, and had caused a certain old reprobate at No. 3 to make
liberal use of the oil-can.

The master of No. 8 let himself in with his latch-key, and groping his
way down the dark and narrow passage pushed open the dining-room door.
The room was in darkness save for a little evil-smelling oil-lamp which
shed a dismal radiance upon a cloth spread half across the table.  An
unsympathetic slab of red topside of beef glared aggressively from a
dish in which the gravy had set to an unhealthy-looking fat-ringed
jelly.  This, flanked by the remains of a cottage loaf and a glass of
ale, constituted the meal that Charlotte had left for the refreshment
of her lord and master.  The ale had long been drawn, and stood dead
and listless, showing a surface destitute of foam.  Edward took one
sip, then sat down and lit a cigarette.

His gaze wandered round the little room, the corners of which were in a
dingy shadow, and contrasted it in his mind with the grill-room of the
Blue Dragon.  And then his eye lighted upon a letter propped up against
the brass lamp and put there evidently so that it should attract his
early attention.  He took it up and read it through, then with a few
uncomplimentary remarks he thrust it into his pocket and, taking up the
lamp, made his way up-stairs.  Another moment and he was back again,
holding the lamp above his head and searching the dim corners of the
room.

A large unwieldy form that had been stretched upon a sofa in the shadow
of the window recess roused itself and sat upright.  It was clad in a
shabby dressing-gown of some dark material and it had a stern eye.

"You're late, Edward."

"Yes, my dear, I am a little, I think.  I thought you were up-stairs or
had run along to have a chat with Mrs. Oakley.  I didn't see you in the
shadow there."

"I saw _you_, Edward, and I saw you read the letter, and I--I heard
what you called uncle, and I am not in the habit of running along and
having a chat with my neighbours in the middle of the night."

"Well, my dear woman, I didn't know you were there when I read his
letter or I wouldn't have said it,--and it's only nine o'clock."

"That's enough, Edward; you've said what you've said.  I'm astonished,
but it can't be mended; they say men speak their true thoughts when
they're in drink."

"I beg your pardon, Charlotte, I----"

"I'm not angry, Edward, but don't bang the lamp down like that, you'll
splash the oil out.  I repeat I'm not angry, only sorry.  When I see a
man come home at this hour and turn up his nose at a glass of good
honest ale I know what it means.  But that doesn't excuse what you said
about uncle."

"Well, he's a rotten nuisance.  I know as well as you do that we can't
afford to upset the old chap, but he shouldn't come down on us like
this, especially----"

"Especially what----?"

"----especially when it's--it's not convenient.  The fact is,
Charlotte, we'll have to draw in our horns a bit.  I've got the sack,
my dear, the push--the bullet--after twenty-two years--curse 'em."

"Edward, you forget you're speaking to me."

"Oh, no, I don't, my dear.  I'm talking exactly how I feel.  I'll get
even with 'em yet.  I'm going to draw some fresh beer."

When Edward returned, Charlotte had lit the hanging lamp with the green
shade over the centre of the table and had settled herself in the one
saddle-bag chair.  Her husband sat opposite to her on a shiny horsehair
stool and poured out a glass of foaming ale.

"Your health, my dear," he said, and drank deep.

"Umph! you seem to take it coolly, Edward; I suppose you think it's the
easiest thing in the world to get employment at your age.  Look at Mr.
Hardy at No. 4, out for fifteen months and speaks Portuguese, they say,
like a native----"

Edward held up a protesting hand.

"Mr. Hardy, my dear, doesn't enter into this.  What's happened to-day
has made me do a bit of hard thinking.  Forty's not old, Charlotte,
it's young.  I feel like a boy just let out of school.  I'll be full of
schemes in a day or two."

Mrs. Povey waved her hands unconvincedly.

"But the present," she remarked with a sinister sweetness.  "I suppose
that hasn't entered into your head, eh?  How about uncle? he's a
self-made man and thinks everyone should succeed.  When he hears you're
sacked he'll cut us off without the shilling.  He always says he's got
no use for failures."

Mrs. Povey paused, and getting no reply went on.

"Besides, I've written to Aunt Eliza plenty of times and said how well
we were doing; in fact, I'm afraid I've exaggerated, and now, here he
is coming to visit us.  I'm afraid he'll have a sort of awakening--and
so will we."

Sitting forward with his hands on his knees, Edward Povey was staring
into the little heap of cinders in the heart of which still glowed a
dull red.  His lips were parted and his eyes were dilated.  Mrs. Povey
leant over and shook him roughly by the shoulder.  Then she moved the
jug of beer out of his reach.

"Edward Povey, ain't you ashamed of yourself--the state you're in--go
to bed--you hear me?"

Her husband drew his eyes from the contemplation of the fire and
motioned to his wife to sit down.

"It's working out," he said, and stretched out his hand for the jug
that wasn't there.  Then he cleared his throat and told his wife about
his adventure of the evening.  Charlotte listened in a forbidding
silence, and when he had finished:

"I don't know what all this gallivanting about in restaurants has to do
with me," she said sharply, "a few shillings a week--it'll hardly pay
your fare."

"One moment, dear?  You say that uncle comes to us on Monday--you know
what his visits are, only business trips, and at the most he'll stay
two nights.  And, Charlotte, Mr. Kyser goes to Switzerland to-morrow
for a month--see?"

"See what?"

"My dear Charlotte, I've always thought that women as a class are
inferior to us men, but for sheer unadulterated stupidity and criminal
density commend me to Charlotte Povey."

"Edward--you dare to----"

"Dare, my dear, I dare anything.  Fifteen years of being compared to
Brown, Jones and Robinson and Hardy is enough, madam.  The men you have
thrown in my face are worms, Charlotte, _worms_.  I dare anything," he
repeated, and walked round the table and recovered the jug.

"Now listen, Charlotte," he went on more quietly, when he had reseated
himself.  "I said that uncle is coming to us on _Monday_, and that
Kyser goes to Switzerland or Sweden, or somewhere _to-morrow_."

Mrs. Povey was leaning back in her chair, her eyes closed to denote
that to her at least the proceedings had lost all interest.  Something,
however, in the tone of her husband's voice brought her sharply to
herself.

"Bushey is a fine place, nice and high, and healthy, Charlotte, and
will suit uncle down to the ground.  He'll find us living there in
style--it'll impress him--and----"

"Edward! are you mad?  Bushey--we don't live at Bushey."

Her husband smiled sarcastically.

"Don't we, my dear? really you surprise me--but we're going to,
Charlotte, we're going to--for two nights only, as the play-bills say.
We are going to _borrow_ Adderbury Cottage.  The firm owes me a bit,
and I'll take it out in Adderbury Cottages."

Charlotte was fully roused now.

"Edward Povey, I'll not do it."

Her husband brought his fist down on the table with a thump that
rattled the crockery and even infused a little flickering life into the
surface of the glass of dull supper beer.

"You'll do as I say, Charlotte; I'm master here now, and new brooms
sweep clean, you know.  Now, put some more coals on, and go to bed."

With a strange sense of awe Mrs. Povey, for the first time in her
married life, did as she was bid, and, with a look of wonderment on her
vacant face, glided slowly from the room.  For perhaps another hour
Edward sat over the replenished fire elaborating his scheme.  Really it
was absurdly simple; of risk there was none.  A kind fate had shown
them a simple way out of their difficulties, and it would be criminal
to ignore it.  He knew Uncle Jasper far too well to think of admitting
to him that he was a failure in the world.  He knew, too, that the old
man held him in some little contempt, and he welcomed this chance of
showing him his mistake.  As for Charlotte, she had evidently committed
herself pretty deeply in her correspondence with Aunt Eliza, and Edward
anticipated no sustained opposition from that quarter.

It was past midnight when Edward rose and opened the little fumed oak
bureau that stood in the recess by the fire-place, and taking a sheet
of the notepaper of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company, wrote to Mr.
Jasper Jarman telling him how glad Charlotte and himself were to hear
that he proposed paying them a visit.  He said that the firm for which
he had the honour to work had at last awakened to the value of his
services, and that a substantial increase of salary had given him the
opportunity to receive his dear wife's uncle in a manner more fitted to
his position, and that he remained with all good wishes, his uncle's
most affectionate nephew, Edward Povey.

The little iron gate creaked again that night, and as Edward dropped
the letter into the box at the corner of the terrace he told himself
that his new life promised infinitely more possibilities than that to
which he had been accustomed for the past fifteen years.




CHAPTER III

BORROWED PLUMAGE

The word _phew_ may have a somewhat indefinite position in the English
language, but there was no mistaking the tone in which Mr. Edward Povey
said it as he sank wearily into the depths of one of the handsome green
leather chairs that stood on either side of the fireplace in the
dining-room at Adderbury Cottage, Bushey Heath.  The tone of the
ejaculation plainly indicated escape, or at any rate temporary relief
from a severe nerve-racking strain.

At the further side of the table beneath the great crimson shaded lamp
sat Charlotte, her fingers drumming a nervous tattoo upon the polished
black oak beneath them.  She, too, like her husband showed signs of
severe nervous prostration.  She raised her head as though about to
answer Edward's ejaculation but sighed instead and fell again to her
incessant tapping.

"Do stop that infernal row, Charlotte; you sit there and tap, tap, tap,
as though--as though--well, give it a rest, it's getting nervy," then
after a pause, "where have you put them?"

"Them?"

"Yes,--our honoured guests--making themselves at home, aren't they?
Have you noticed, Charlotte, that there's been no mention of how long
they're going to stay?"

"I've put them in the room above this.  I expect it's old Kyser's room
when he's at home here, all chintz and Sheraton."

Edward Povey sat silent for a few moments, gazing stolidly into the
fire that was burning brightly in the old-fashioned fire-place.  Then
he got up and with hands thrust deep in his pockets strode up and down
the room, his steps making no sound on the rich turkey carpet.

"It's going to be rather a harder job than I thought, Charlotte," he
said at length, pausing in his walk and staring gloomily down at his
wife, "so many things have turned out differently to what we thought.
Why couldn't the old fool have said he was bringing Aunt Eliza? she's
never come before when he's paid us a visit.  I thought I should have
fainted dead off just now when the old fellow asked me to show him
which was the bath-room--he takes a cold tub every morning.  Fancy not
knowing where the bath-room is in one's own house.  I had to open every
door I came to and call out 'puss'--said I was looking for a kitten
we'd lost--until I came to the right one, the fifth door I opened I
think it was."

Edward passed his handkerchief over his forehead, then resumed.

"I blame you, Charlotte, for the unfortunate affair of the photo album.
You should have put the book out of sight like you did the framed
photos.  I can't understand old Kyser keeping such a book full of
crocks anyway, I'd be frightened to death of blackmail.  You ought to
have known that albums are Aunt Eliza's special weakness.  She got hold
of it at once and made me go through all the lot and tell her who they
were and all about them."  Edward grew hot at the remembrance.  "It
isn't easy to invent names and plausible histories for an assorted lot
like that at a moment's notice--ugly lot of devils, too."

"The whole idea is yours remember, Edward."

"I know that, woman.  Do you think it makes it any easier for me?--you
shouldn't have let me--you----"

"You forget, Edward, you said that you were to be master in your own
house."

"This _isn't_ my own house, is it?  But look here, Charlotte, it's not
the least bit of good our arguing how we came to be here.  We are here,
and here we've got to stay and make the best of a bad job.  All we need
is a little bit of coaching in some of the minor details.  Come over
here."

Edward took up a richly chased candelabra and led the way to the
fire-place.  He removed the little paper shades and let the light fall
full upon the portrait of an aged and benevolent-looking gentleman in a
splendid old English gilt frame.

"See him, Charlotte; I thought all dinner time your uncle was going to
ask who he was.  He's sure to ask to-morrow, inquisitive old idiot, and
we've got to be prepared.  Listen.  This old chap here is a Mr. Tobias
Kenwick--that doesn't sound faked, does it?--not like Brown or Smith.
If uncle asks what he was, say he was an engineer and that he's now
retired and living in Peru.  This old lady over the sideboard," went on
Edward, crossing the room, "can be a friend of my mother's; say she's
been dead some years now and that you forget her name but think it was
Jane something.  Any other portraits he asks about say we picked them
up at a sale.  By the bye, I must congratulate you on your excuse for
the absence of the servant--the dying sister in the North of Scotland
was an inspiration.  I'd trot off to bed now, Charlotte my dear, if I
were you.  I'll be up presently.  I've got a bit of hard thinking to
get through here before _I_ think of sleep."

Left to himself Edward ruminated deeply on the situation in which he
had placed himself.  Things had not turned out at all as he had
expected and dilemmas had crowded thickly and fast upon him.  The
advent of Aunt Eliza had entirely unnerved him, and the amount of
luggage which he had helped to take up to the bedroom seemed to him to
be quite unnecessary for a short visit such as he had anticipated.
Hitherto the visits of Uncle Jasper had been always the same, a night
or two at the most and the days spent in business in London.  His
luggage had been invariably one suit case and a hatbox.  But the
present visit pointed more to a prolonged holiday than to a business
trip.  Edward tried to tell himself that there was nothing to fear,
that Kyser would not return for a month, and that the secluded position
of Adderbury Cottage was all in favour of the scheme; detection from
the outside was a very remote chance.

Edward Povey, however, had not reckoned upon keeping the deception up
for more than a few days at the most, neither had he reckoned upon the
nerve strain.  Tradesmen would be calling for orders--visitors, too,
might reasonably be expected.  A host of new possibilities arose before
the perplexed vision of Edward Povey.

He could, of course, tell all comers that Mr. Kyser had lent him the
house furnished.  It was merely a small place used at intervals only by
its wealthy owner.  What more reasonable than that he should place it
at the disposal of a friend?  If he were alone, the guarding of the
secret would be a simple matter, but there was Charlotte to complicate
matters--Charlotte, who would innocently enough, by a chance word,
upset his most carefully constructed fabrications.

From the hall came, the rich muffled chimes of a steel-faced Sheraton
clock.  It was midnight, and Edward rose, and crossing to the massive
sideboard poured himself out a liberal allowance of brandy, splashing
into the glass a little soda-water from a wired seltzogene.  Then he
proceeded to lock up.

Before barring the front door, he passed out on to the verandah-like
porch and running his fingers through his thinning hair let the cool
winds of the autumn night play upon the furnace of his forehead.  It
was very dark and the scene was desolate in the extreme.  A solitary
light twinkled out here and there from some window in the little
village that lay beneath him in the valley, and farther off the pale
radiance in the sky denoted the position of the town of Watford.  There
was a thick shrubbery encircling the house, and the masses of foliage
took weird shapes in the darkness, and from a clump of gaunt fir-trees
came the dismal note of an owl.

Edward Povey shivered a little, and, quietly closing the door, crept to
his bed.




CHAPTER IV

A LETTER FROM NEW YORK

Jasper Jarman was a self-made man, and, like many another self-made
man, had a very exalted opinion of his own handiwork.

During his early career Jasper had fought a bitter battle with the
world; by thirty-five he had conquered it, and now in the evening of
his days he was very averse to relinquishing any of the moral spoils of
his victory.  To thwart Jasper Jarman was to rouse to their uttermost
those fighting instincts that had given him the name of "Stone-wall
Jarman" in his younger days.

Another trait common to self-made men was possessed by Jasper, he was
an early riser.  On the morning following his arrival at Adderbury
Cottage he was abroad by seven, pacing up and down the trim
box-bordered walk that ran round two sides of the house.  He walked
with an assertive tread, his large square-toed boots crunching the
gravel rhythmically.  His hands were lightly clasped behind his back,
and with chest thrown well out he was inhaling the scented airs that
rose from the dew-drenched garden.  A blackbird strutted about the
little lawn, and a close observer would have noticed a certain
resemblance in the manners of man and bird.

From a little diamond-paned window a blind was drawn aside a few inches
and an eye peeped cautiously forth upon the world.  As the pompous
figure of Mr. Jasper Jarman rounded the corner of the house and came
into view, the blind was quickly dropped back into its place.

Five minutes later Edward Povey emerged from the front door, his
unbuttoned waistcoat and his vaguely tied cravat giving the lie direct
to the studied indifference of his walk.

His surprise at coming face to face with Mr. Jasper Jarman was quite an
admirable piece of acting.

"Good-morning, Uncle Jasper; up with the lark, eh! the early bird, you
know.  Slept well, I hope?"

"Ah, Edward, my boy, good-morning--slept like a top, thanks; capital
room Charlotte's given us.  I'm afraid we've turned you out."

"Oh not at all, uncle, pray don't mention it."

"Faces east, though; your aunt finds the morning sun rather trying.
She's going to turn the room out to-day and shift the bed to the other
wall."

"Turn out the room, uncle?"

"Yes, my boy; capital woman your aunt, never idle a moment, always up
and doing.  You won't know this house after she's been here a month."

Edward thought it far more probable that it was the house that wouldn't
know him by then, but, too taken aback to reply, he merely passed his
handkerchief over his dry lips and waited for Jasper to continue.

The old man paused in his walk and ran his eye critically over some
standard rose trees, that, each in its little island of mould, studded
the lawn.

"Yes, my boy, you'll find we're not drones.  We're busy bees, your aunt
and me; what she does to the house I do to the garden.  I'm never happy
unless I'm pottering about with a trowel.  I'll have this place," he
waved his arm comprehensively, "shipshape in no time.  I'll have those
roses up and put 'em in a row under the window, they're wasted where
they are, and we'll re-turf the lawn and make it big enough for
croquet."

Jasper looked at Edward Povey for approbation.  "Or even tennis," said
the latter, who felt he must say something.  Then he sat down on a
rustic garden seat and nervously rolled himself a cigarette.  Jasper,
leaning a fat elbow upon the stone sundial, went on.

"A nice little place all the same, yes, a nice little place.  Better
than Clapham, eh, Edward?"

"Much better, uncle Jasper."

"The firm seems to have found out your worth at last.  Well, I'm glad
of it.  Your aunt is always telling me that Charlotte married a
fool--no, don't get angry, that's only her way of putting it.  Been
here long?"

"Not very long, uncle.  You see, I've only got on lately.  I discovered
a scheme whereby my firm could save a small fortune in postage, and
they rewarded me liberally.  Then they found out I could correspond and
speak in French and Spanish, so they rewarded me again.  Oh!  They've
done me very well, I----  There's the gong for breakfast; we'll go in."

The meal was hardly a pleasant one.  Aunt Eliza, whose temper the
battle with the morning sun had not improved, munched her toast in
silence.  She was one of those individuals who appear to undergo a
refrigerating process during the night hours and to awake frost-bitten.
During the day she would gradually thaw.  The process was sometimes
rapid, but more often than not the midday dinner passed before Mrs.
Jasper Jarman was even commonly polite.  She had never been known to
smile before eleven.

At eight-thirty Edward prepared to leave the house, presumably for the
business offices of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company, in Eastcheap.  He
was glad to escape from the charged atmosphere of the Adderbury Cottage
dining-room, but he hated to leave Charlotte alone to play his game for
him.  To let Uncle Jasper suspect that he was not still in the service
of the firm would of course be fatal.  As he stood in the hall drawing
on his gloves he noticed that the postman had left in the box a blue
envelope.  Making sure he was alone, he drew it out.  It was, of
course, addressed to Mr. Kyser, and Edward was about to place it
unopened in his pocket, when his uncle's voice came from the stairs
above--

"That for me, Edward?"

"No, uncle; it's--mine."

Mr. Jasper Jarman was descending the stairs, and, acting upon impulse,
Edward inserted his thumb beneath the flap and slit open the envelope.
The action was quite unpremeditated, but he thought it might look
suspicious to place it in his pocket unopened when he had given Uncle
Jasper to believe it was his own.  He seemed to have an idea that his
uncle would ask to see it.

Edward glanced at the clock, and, with a hurried good-bye, flew down
the garden path, the open envelope still in his hand.  On turning a
bend of the road that hid him from view, he looked long and searchingly
at it.  It had been forwarded to Adderbury Cottage from Mr. Kyser's
town house in Grosvenor Square, and Edward thought it strange that that
should be so.  Surely his housekeeper in town knew that her master was
not at the cottage.  Altogether Kyser's departure was rather
suspicious.  Edward had heard Mr. Schultz speaking to his partner the
day he had left, had even heard them bid each other good-night, and
now, as he thought of it, he remembered Schultz making an appointment
for the next day.  Looking at the affair squarely, it came home to
Edward that Kyser's departure was hurried, not to say suspicious, and
was even unknown to his housekeeper and his partner.

Suppose the owner of Adderbury Cottage had committed some crime, the
police might even now be there after him.  Self-preservation told
Edward that he should read the contents of the envelope he held in his
hand.  Any information that showed light upon the situation it was
clearly to his interest to know.

By this time he was walking rapidly down Clay Hill leading to the
village of Bushey.  He passed through the straggling High Street, past
the old church, and descended the further hill into Watford.  He was
still holding in his hand the letter.  At eleven o'clock he entered the
smoking-room of the Rose and Crown, and having ordered a small Bass,
drew a sheet of paper from the envelope that had been forwarded to Mr.
Kyser from his town house in Grosvenor Square.


"19, WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET,
  "NEW YORK CITY,
    "U.S.A.

"_To Sydney Kyser, Esq._

"_MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,_

"_You will be surprised to hear from me again after so long a lapse,
but many things--ill-health among them--have prevented my travelling to
England, although I have promised myself the trip many times in the
past few years.  And now I feel that I shall never take it, and that
the doctor here, who gives me two weeks to live, speaks the truth.
Well, I've had a good innings, and, as they say over here, 'there's no
kick coming.'  I leave only one regret, and it is with regard to this
that I venture to write to you.  If you would do a dying man a
kindness, and at the same time right a wrong, the chance is now yours.
My state of health will not allow of my writing my request in full--and
I ask you to promise nothing until you know all.  This you can do by
calling upon Mr. Abraham Nixon,_ 5A, _St. Mary Axe, in the City of
London._

"_This gentleman will tell you a story so remarkable that it may seem
to you incredible._

"_But it is true every word of it.  You will then act as you see fit.
But I conjure you, by our past friendship, to do as Mr. Nixon asks._

"_Your_ bona fide _will consist of the crest torn from the head of this
notepaper, which please send in to Mr. Nixon with these words written
on it in red ink--_

  '_MR. SYDNEY_ re _GALVA_'


"_If you follow these instructions to the letter, Mr. Nixon will at
once put you in complete possession of all the facts of the case._

"_With my last breath I shall pray for you and the success of the
mission._

"_Yours,_
  "_HUBERT BAXENDALE._

"_P.S.--You will see that Mr. Nixon will know you as Mr. Sydney.  Not
knowing whether you would like to undertake what I ask in your own
name, I thought it wiser that in this matter you should be known simply
as 'Mr. Sydney.'_

"_H. B._"


Edward read the letter through many times before he finally folded it
and replaced it in its envelope.  Then he sat for a long time thinking
on what he had read.  There was no way of corresponding with Mr. Kyser
for a month, and by that time the wrong that the letter spoke of might
be past the righting.

Would it not be better if he were to act, as it were, for Mr. Kyser,
and, under the name of Sydney, gather what information he could from
Mr. Nixon?  He would then be able to judge more clearly what it were
best to do.

Of course, in his own mind, Edward knew well that to act as he
suggested to himself was taking a most unwarrantable liberty with
another's affairs; but he was hardly himself.  The excitement of the
last few days had had anything but a salutary effect upon his moral
balance; he had been living in a hot-bed of lies, and his
discriminating powers of right and wrong had deteriorated sadly.

Who could say but that in this letter was a way out of the hideous mess
he had made of things up at Adderbury Cottage?  There was nothing
against his going to St. Mary Axe.  The letter plainly showed that Mr.
Kyser and Mr. Nixon were unacquainted.  There would be nothing to tell
him from the real Mr. Sydney.  It would at least fill in the time
during which he must remain away from the cottage.

Edward Povey called the waiter and borrowed a time-table.  He consulted
this, then made his way to the writing-room, where he found a bottle of
red ink.  From the head of Mr. Baxendale's letter he tore the crest and
heading, and across it he wrote the words mentioned in the letter.
This he folded and placed in his pocket-book.

At half-past three the same afternoon Mr. Edward Povey, _alias_, for
the moment, Mr. Sydney, pushed open the swing doors of Mr. Abraham
Nixon's office in St. Mary Axe--and came to grips with Romance.




CHAPTER V

AN ECHO OF A TRAGEDY AND THE DRAINAGE OF A COTTAGE

As Edward was, after sending in his slip of paper, ushered into the
private office, a tall, gaunt man of unmistakable solicitor type rose
from his desk and crossed over to him with extended hand.  Edward put
his out also and winced somewhat as it was tightly engulfed by the bony
fingers of the solicitor.

"Mr. Sydney, I understand."

Edward Povey bowed, he had no great liking for telling lies and he
preferred to act them where possible.

Mr. Abraham Nixon handed a chair to his visitor, and, reseating himself
at his desk, picked up a telephone receiver and inquired for Mr.
Crooks, asking that gentleman to kindly be sure that they were not
disturbed for at least one hour.

At this Edward grew cold with apprehension.  It seemed to him that
there was something of an ordeal in front of him.  Mr. Nixon's first
words, however, somewhat reassured him.

"I understand from Mr. Baxendale that you are entirely ignorant of the
subject referred to in his letter, Mr. Sydney."

"Entirely, Mr. Nixon, and it is perhaps better to say at once that,
however much I desire to help my old friend and to fall in with his
wishes, I cannot hold myself liable in any way--cannot commit myself."

Mr. Nixon held up a thin hand.

"A very sensible remark, Mr. Sydney, and one that I should have made
myself had I been placed as you are.  You are not in any way bound by
what I am telling you except in the event of your refusal; in which
case I shall enjoin you to secrecy.  Pray excuse me a moment."

Selecting a flat key from a ring he took from his pocket, Mr. Nixon
left the room, returning in a few minutes with a small deed-box on
which was painted in white letters--

  GALVA--BAXENDALE

This, Mr. Nixon placed upon a small side table, and selecting a flat
key from the bunch on his ring inserted it in the lock.

"It is a curious story that I have to tell you, Mr. Sydney," he began
as he pushed open the creaking lid.  "I suppose I'm the only person to
whom Mr. Baxendale told it.  A very reserved and secretive man, Mr.
Sydney."

"Very," answered Edward Povey, much relieved to hear it.  Then he kept
silent as he watched the solicitor remove from the box a few small
articles, each carefully sealed up and docketed in a neat handwriting,
the purport of which Edward could not make out at the distance.  These
articles arranged in a row upon his desk, Mr. Nixon leant back in his
chair, and, placing the tips of his thin fingers together, began his
tale.

"Perhaps you will remember, Mr. Sydney, the era of bloodshed and murder
which attacked the little island kingdom of San Pietro some years back,
I think in the autumn of '93.  It was, in its way, as virulent as the
Paris revolution, but San Pietro is a small kingdom, and although quite
independent was not able to withstand the pressure of her more powerful
neighbours.  Spain, being the nearest, has always had a word to say in
the San Pietro politics.  The result was that the crisis was as
short-lived as it was terrible.  The reigning family had been put to
death at the outburst of the revolution.  The king, rather a
pleasure-loving sort of person, had enjoyed some popularity among his
subjects, but his marriage with an actress whom he had met in Vienna
inflamed the ladies of the court, and, through them, their husbands.

"Most of these were officers standing high at court or in the army, and
considering their wives insulted by the presence of an actress upon the
throne, planned the assassination under the cloak of politics.  The
result was the terrible doings at the Palace at Corbo on that night in
October.

"Baxendale, then a middle-aged man, traveling on business in Spain at
the time, took ship across to San Pietro, intending to send first-hand
news to a paper he was interested in in New York.  Once arrived,
however, he found more difficulty in returning.  The Dictator whom the
people had set up was very rigid in the matter of censorship, and not
only could poor Baxendale get no news through, but he himself was
politely but firmly told he could not leave the island.

"One afternoon about three or four days after the massacre he was
taking a walk through the Sebastin Park, which I understand is on the
edge of the capital, and merges from cultivation to the wild track of
forest land which lies to the north.  Baxendale had walked further than
he had intended and was surprised to find of a sudden that the sun was
sinking.  As he turned to retrace his steps a curious sound came to his
ears, that was for all the world like the cry of a child, The forest at
this place was very dense, the branches of the tall pines interlacing
overhead, whilst the undergrowth was thick enough to hide objects at a
few yards.

"Baxendale parted the bushes and forced a way through them in the
direction from which the cries seemed to come.  The wailing had
stopped, and he was telling himself that it was some forest beast he
had heard when it was again taken up, and now he made out the low
crooning of one who hushes and soothes a baby.  At this he moved
faster, and in a few moments came upon a tumble-down hut such as is
used by the charcoal-burners of the woods.

"He had not been heard, for the crooning still continued and was
evidently having the desired effect, as the child's cries had ceased.
His light tap at the crazy-hinged door was answered only by the sudden
cessation of the voice, and a dead silence.  Then he cautiously pushed
open the door.

"It was a poor enough place--indeed, little more than a ruin, and, in
the dim light, Baxendale told me he could not at first make out any
definite object.  As his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom,
however, he made out the figure of a woman.  She was standing facing
him; he could not see her face clearly, but her whole attitude was one
of defiance, and she seemed to be standing at bay, guarding something
behind her.  Baxendale could make out a bench on which were rolled a
few clothes.

"Just then a ray of the setting sun pierced the branches and
illuminated the interior of the hut.  On the heap of clothes was a
little baby girl about two years of age.  The red rays played round the
curly head, and Baxendale was smitten to the heart as he looked from
the sleeping babe to the woman, who, seeing in Baxendale a friend, had
sunk down on the earth floor and was silently weeping."

Mr. Nixon paused, and cleared his throat.  He looked at his listener
for signs of attention.  The latter, who had almost forgotten the part
he was playing, in his interest in the tale that was being told to him,
nodded his head and asked if Mr. Nixon objected to tobacco.  The two
men smoked for a few moments in silence, then the solicitor resumed the
tale.

"Beyond this I know very little and that little I will tell quickly.
Baxendale came into this office in the spring of '98 and told me all
this.  The little child on wakening had held up her arms to him and
smiled.  The good fellow could not withstand the mute appeal, and
resolved then and there that she should be his charge.  Afterwards,
when he had got them safely across to England, the woman who was the
child's nurse told him the history.  She had been afraid to do so
earlier for fear it would have altered Baxendale's intentions, and she
was too anxious to set her back to San Pietro to risk that.

"The baby girl was the Princess Miranda, only child of the ill-fated
king and queen of San Pietro.  On the fatal night, the nurse told
Baxendale, she had been in the night nursery with the princess and her
own niece, little Miranda's foster-sister, a child only a few months
older than the princess.  She told him of how she had seen the flare of
torches and heard the clamour, and how the distracted queen had rushed
in shrieking for her baby, and had caught up what she thought was her
little one, and with it under her robe had fled to what she fondly
considered was a place of safety.

"As events proved, there was no place of safety for that unhappy woman
that night, and when the next day the bodies were laid to rest in the
royal vault, a little dead child was buried with the queen, but it was
not the Princess Miranda, although the monument that was raised by the
tardy conscience of the San Pietro people is engraved with her name.

"Since the revolution, the political state of San Pietro has been
somewhat uncertain.  The people are simple and loyal folk at heart, and
it was not long before they discovered the real reason of the uprising.
Then they cried loudly for a king again, and Spain, who had only been
waiting for this, put Prince Enrico upon the throne.  You will have
heard of this man, whose follies and deviltries are the talk of Europe.
San Pietro tolerates him, for his court is brilliant, and has brought
much money to the place; in fact, the whole island, and more especially
the capital, is now one of the pleasure centres of Europe.  This has
had a most beneficent effect upon the fortunes of the island, but there
are still some of the more sedate families who deplore the loss of
dignity of their beloved land.

"The rightful heir is of course Miranda, the little princess with whom
the poor nurse sought refuge in the forest.

"She is now living in England, the nurse is still with her, and Miranda
has no idea of her high birth.  Baxendale never confided to me what his
projects were."

The solicitor leant over and picked up a letter which had been in the
deed-box and handed it over to Edward, who took it and sat with it
unopened in his hand waiting for Mr. Nixon to speak.

"You will read that when you leave here, Mr. Sydney, carefully, and I
shall expect to hear from you in the course of a few days.  There is
the matter of money to be considered.  My client has made adequate
provision"--Edward pricked up his ears at this--"for what he terms 'the
mission.'"

"In two days I will call on you again, Mr. Nixon.  Good-afternoon."

Povey stood in Leadenhall Street at the entrance to St. Mary Axe and
tried to think things over.  It seemed to him as though he had just
emerged from the gloom of romantic forests and the splendour of courts,
and the foggy atmosphere and hoard of hurrying clerks appeared to him
to be unreal.  Then he pulled himself together and strolled quietly
westward.

Along Leadenhall Street and through the market he walked deep in
thought, making his way from force of habit in the direction of London
Bridge.  It was not until the spars and masts of the shipping came in
sight that he remembered his changed conditions, when he hailed a
passing taxi and was driven to Euston.

He had not long to wait for a train to Bushey, and no sooner had it
left the platform than he had the letter out of his pocket and was
breaking the seal.  It was written on the paper of the Waldorf Hotel,
New York, and was dated at the beginning of the year.


"_MY DEAR SYDNEY,_

"_I am addressing you in this letter, as I hope and devoutly trust that
yours will be the hands into which it will fall.  My own health has
been so bad of late and has shown such unmistakable signs of breaking
up that I fear I must give up all hope of ever carrying out,
personally, my desires.  Next to myself, I would wish you to do so;
failing you, Mr. Nixon has his instructions what to do.  But you won't
fail me._

"_This gentleman will have told you the outlines of the history of the
Princess Miranda.  It has always been my desire that on her eighteenth
birthday she should be told the story of her high origin.  As this date
approaches--the_ 15_th of November--I feel that the seven or eight
months between us will see my finish, so while there is yet time I
write to you, my old friend, to act for me in this matter._

"_The Princess, I have named her Galva, after a carn in the vicinity of
her house, is at present living with her nurse at Tremoor, a few miles
from Penzance._

"_Mr. Nixon will give you, on your expressing your willingness to
undertake the mission, two or three objects which will prove beyond
doubt the claim of the dear girl to the throne of San Pietro.  You will
go to her and tell her everything; I would not feel I had done my duty
were I to keep her in ignorance, although it might be kinder to do so._

"_If, after hearing you out, she elects to remain in her quiet peaceful
life, she shall do so.  If, on the other hand, she decides on following
up her high destiny you will take her with her nurse to Corbo,
travelling as independent English tourists, and seek out Senor Luazo,
or his heir, at_ 66, _Calle Mendaro, and hand him a letter which Mr.
Nixon will give you.  After that I can safely leave you in his keeping._

"_My fortune, I have divided equally between the man who undertakes
this mission and Galva herself, with the exception of an annuity to
Senora Paluda, the nurse who has done so much and been so much to
little Galva._

"_I can easily throw my mind back to that day in the forest, and the
smiling babe holding up her little arms is a picture that will always
be with me even at the end.  Tell Galva that I will die thinking of her
and of all she has been to a lonely old bachelor._

"_When the end comes, too, I will think of you and of what you are
doing for me, and will bless you for it._

"_And now, my old friend, good-bye._

"_Yours ever,_
  _HUBERT BAXENDALE._"


Edward Povey folded up the letter carefully and placed it in his
pocket.  Then, leaning his head in his hand, gazed out at the flying
landscape and tried to think things out.  It took him some little time
to appreciate who he really was.

He had felt, ever since Mr. Nixon had mentioned the financial aspect of
the undertaking, that he would be more than foolish to let slip such a
providential way out of his sea of difficulties.  The moral side to the
question he was able to smooth over to his satisfaction.  He knew Mr.
Kyser, and Mr. Kyser's ways, and told himself that that gentleman would
not welcome, at his time of life, an adventure such as the one that the
solicitor had put before him that afternoon.  Again, he told himself
that it was not possible for him to communicate with Mr. Kyser until
the eighteenth birthday of the princess had passed.  He said it would
be wrong and unkind to let the poor lonely girl think that she was
forgotten.

Further self-discussion on the matter was taken out of his hands by a
watching Fate who suggested something refreshing as he breasted the
first part of the straggling hill that led from the railway station up
to Bushey Heath.  He paused at the Merry Month of May, then decided to
push on to a little hostelry that he had noticed on the way down that
morning.

He entered the door of the White Hart and turned to the right through
the tiny bar into the smoke-room.  Two tweed-clad artists from the
near-by studios lounged in more or less elegant poses at the
red-clothed table, they looked up and nodded as Edward entered, then
returned to the perusal of the evening papers which had evidently just
arrived.

The host of the inn came from the bar and attended to the new-comer's
wants, and Edward took from his pocket an _Evening News_ that he had
bought in town.  He read it listlessly for some minutes, then the two
bored-looking youths looked up suddenly as the man gave a gasp.  They
stared at him so curiously that he felt an explanation was necessary.

"Went the wrong way--gentlemen," he said, pointing to his glass of
beer--"windpipe, I think."

The elder of the two youths grunted and leaning back lit a cigarette.
He watched Edward, at first carelessly, but as he saw the man take out
a penknife and cut from the paper a paragraph, he grew more interested.
In a few moments Edward gulped down his beer, and, without a word, made
his way outside.

"Bertie," it was the elder artist who was speaking, "that chap saw
something in the paper that upset him a little--is that the _News_
you're reading?"

"Yes--why?"

"Look at page five, will you, the third paragraph from the bottom on
column two.  Read it out loud if you don't mind."

The paper rustled as the other young man turned to the desired portion,
then in a blase voice read:--


"MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARIS.

"A gentleman who arrived at the Hotel Meurice from London two days ago
has met with a fate such as is becoming more and more frequent in the
streets of Paris.  A gendarme passing down the Rue des Batignolles last
evening about ten o'clock, came upon the body of the unfortunate man
huddled into an angle of a doorway.  Assistance was forthcoming, but
was too late to be of any service to the victim, who had suffered
terrible injuries to the head, and to which he succumbed within an hour
after his admission to the hospital.  The outrage points undoubtedly to
being the work of the dreaded Apaches.  The deceased gentleman, who was
about fifty years of age, had registered under the name of Sydney
Kyser, but it has been impossible to trace among his belongings any
clue to his home address.  The French police, however, are in
communication with Scotland Yard, and are in the mean time actively
engaged in searching for the perpetrators of the outrage."


"Bet you that chap knew this Kyser, or whoever it is----" a yawn--"none
of our business, what!  See you in Peter's studio, there's a game of
bridge on, I think.  Ta-ta."

Meanwhile Edward Povey was walking up Clay Hill in a ferment of
thought.  It seemed ten years rather than one week since he had been on
his stool in the dingy Eastcheap counting-house.  He had hoped for a
little excitement to enter into his life, and he was getting excitement
to the full.  He had not looked upon the borrowing of Adderbury Cottage
as a crime; the advent of Uncle Jasper and Aunt Eliza was nothing more
than a farce--but now tragedy was playing a hand in the game in the
shape of a Parisian murder.

He stopped suddenly as a thought struck him.  It could not be long
before Mr. Kyser's business friends heard of his death, when visits
would be paid to his houses, to Grosvenor Square and to Adderbury
Cottage.  It was easy enough quietly to leave the place himself and to
take Charlotte; with Uncle and Aunt it was different.  Various schemes
entered into his head for effecting their departure, schemes that made
poor Edward think that given opportunities he would have made a
first-class criminal.

The ruse upon which he finally decided was an inspiration.  He laughed
to himself as the absurd simplicity of it all came home to him.

He retraced his steps to the village, this time choosing the Red Lion,
and engaged a fly to carry him down into Watford, where he entered the
same hotel that he had patronized in the morning.  He made straight for
the writing-room where he remembered having seen some headed
note-paper.  Then he wrote himself a letter, signing himself Henry
Birkett, Public Analyst for the County of Herts.  In the letter he said
that the sample of water submitted to him from Adderbury Cottage was of
a very dangerous description.  He said that any one living in the
afore-mentioned Adderbury Cottage was running a grave risk.  The place,
he added, must be in a deplorable sanitary condition, and that steps
must be taken at once to overhaul the drainage.

With this missive in his pocket, Edward Povey reached Adderbury Cottage
about eight o'clock.

The party were just sitting down to dinner, and were, with the
exception of Charlotte, in a genial mood.  Mrs. Povey, poor woman,
showed plainly the anxiety and strain of the time she had been through,
but Uncle Jasper was in fine form.  He had already started operations
on the garden, and was full of projects for the morrow.  Edward smiled
grimly as he listened to his talk of roses and cucumbers.

When dinner was over, the two men sat smoking and talking of various
things, still mostly gardens.  Aunt Eliza had gone to her re-arranged
bedroom, whilst Charlotte could be heard in the kitchen, to which place
the poor woman had flown many times in the course of the day as to a
harbour of refuge.

Purposely allowing his pipe to go out, Edward took from his pocket the
letter he had written to himself, and tearing off the blank sheet made
a spool with which he relit his pipe.  Then leaving the rest of the
letter on the table, he made some excuse and went from the room.  He
left the door ajar, and watched the reflection of his uncle in the
mirror of the sideboard.  In less than three minutes he found that his
faith in the inquisitiveness of his uncle had not been misplaced.

Edward Povey tiptoed to the kitchen, and, hastily warning his wife,
awaited developments.  They were not long in coming.

A chair was thrust hastily back and agitated steps left the dining-room
and creaked upstairs.  Voices in discussion were heard above.  Then
Uncle Jasper came down.  He was boiling over with wrath as he entered
the kitchen, and to Edward, who knew the circumstances, the old man's
efforts to disguise his feelings were not without their humour.  The
old man felt at that moment that he would have given half his fortune
to tell the pair before him what he thought of them.  But for once in
his life Jasper Jarman had met his match.  To admit that he had read
another man's letter was not to be thought of.  Equally impossible was
it for his wife and himself to remain another night in the pestilential
atmosphere of Adderbury Cottage.  He made a gurgling noise in his
throat, then:

"I'm sorry, Edward, but I had forgotten this is the 3rd.  I have to be
in Kidderminster by twelve o'clock to-morrow--I--I--it means thousands
to me."

He glared at them in impotent rage for a moment, then went on.

"You must get us a cab, Edward--now.  There's only one way, and that is
to drive into Watford and stay there and catch the early train to
Birmingham in the morning."

"But surely, uncle----" Charlotte began.

"The only way, Charlotte, my dear, I assure you.  Edward, there is a
cab to be had, I suppose?"  The old fellow was clenching and
unclenching his hands, his eyes were round with anger.

"If you must, uncle, you must.  I know what business is.  Charlotte,
give me my boots, I'll get a conveyance here in half-an-hour."

Charlotte never could tell how she got through that dreadful half-hour.
Uncle Jasper, muffled in his coat, was treading the gravel of the path
furiously.  Aunt Eliza, her lips a thin thread, was seated on her box
in the porch.  From time to time they addressed a few words to their
hostess, the very forced civility of which was obvious from the way
they were jerked out.  Then, at last, a rattling old landau appeared,
and the last scene of Uncle Jasper's visit to Adderbury Cottage was
reached.

As the vehicle rattled away Edward heard the explosion of his uncle's
wrath and the restraining _hssh_ of Aunt Eliza.

At seven the next morning Edward Povey borrowed a farm cart from an
adjacent cottager and sent on their things to Harrow Station.  It being
a fine morning, they elected to walk.

At ten-thirty the representatives of the late Mr. Sydney Kyser paid a
visit to Adderbury Cottage and made an inventory of the contents of
that desirable residence.




CHAPTER VI

AT THE UNION HOTEL, PENZANCE

There was a quietude about the little front dining-room in Belitha
Villas that was very soothing to the somewhat strained nervous systems
of Mr. and Mrs. Povey.  Each in their accustomed positions and chairs
they gazed into the small fire that was burning brightly in the grate.
Upon the table were the remains of lunch.  Charlotte's expression was
one of repose, but her husband's brows were contracted as he puffed at
his pipe, which was not to be wondered at considering he was turning
over in his mind how he was to acquaint Mrs. Povey with his intended
departure.

"I am expecting, Charlotte," he began at last, his eyes fixed
meditatively upon a hissing jet of gas that was escaping from the coal,
"to be leaving the country shortly on business."

Mrs. Povey, who during the last three days had ceased to show or even
feel surprise at anything her husband said, merely remarked, "Oh!"
dully.

"Yes, my dear, and I want you to shut up the house--I have my
reasons--and take rooms at Abbot's Hotel during my absence."

At this the lady became rather sarcastic.

"Or the Ritz, Edward, it seems to me that----"

Mr. Povey held up a silencing hand.

"I don't want to hear what it seems to you, my dear, I want you to go
up to Abbot's and take a suite this afternoon.  I intend to allow
you--er--five pounds a week, Charlotte; I think that should be
sufficient."

The surprise that the good lady would not allow herself to show had at
least the effect of keeping her silent.  Her husband rose and went out
into the hall, returning immediately with his hat in his hand.

"I am going out, my dear, and will call back in an hour with a cab.
You needn't unpack the things, we'll take them with us."

For fully ten minutes after Edward's departure Charlotte sat in thought
before the fire, and then rose to take a look round the house before
leaving it.  It was strange for this woman to be thus doing the bidding
of a man for whom she had hitherto had such scant respect.  The change
that opportunity had worked in her husband would not have been welcome
to her but for the promise of better times that his words and actions
suggested.  She could not but look forward to the suite at Abbot's, the
hotel in Bloomsbury at which they had dined two or three times during
their married life.

As she walked slowly from room to room she found herself picturing the
glories that were to be hers, the lofty dining-room with its pillars of
marble and the windows with the long red curtains.  Then her thoughts
ran to the five weekly pounds that were to be hers also, and she
wondered if Edward meant her to pay for the suite out of them.

She dressed herself in the best that her wardrobe afforded and gathered
together a few personal belongings into a small hand-bag, which,
together with the trunk and portmanteau they had that morning brought
from Bushey, she placed in the hall to await her husband's return.  It
was four o'clock when Edward softly closed the front door of No. 8,
Belitha Villas, and with Charlotte and the luggage clattered away in
the decrepit old four-wheeler which he had fetched from the rank.

As they turned the corner, Edward, who had been idly gazing from the
window, drew back sharply into the shadows of the vehicle.  He
signalled the driver to stop, and getting out, walked carefully back to
the corner, where, with his eyes, he followed the movements of two men
who were looking up at the numbers of the houses.  They paused at No.
8, and pushing open the gate marched up to the door.  Edward saw one of
them knock, then he hurried back to the cab.

"Just in time--I thought so," he muttered.

He then told the cabman to drive to King's Cross station.  Arriving
there he dismissed him, and taking another cab deposited his silent but
wondering wife at the door of Abbot's Hotel.

Then, after booking the suite of rooms, he left her, and entering a
passing taxi was driven to St. Mary Axe.

      *      *      *      *      *

A few days following the hurried and undignified evacuation of No. 8,
Belitha Villas, a smart and exceedingly well-groomed little man was
contentedly sitting in a front private room of the Union Hotel at
Penzance.

The intervening days had been very busy ones indeed for Mr. Edward
Povey, and ever since the Cornish Riviera train had set him down on the
shores of Mount's Bay he had considered that a complete rest was due to
him.  Besides, he told himself that it wanted two days yet till the
15th of November, and until that date he had no need to pay his visit
to the heiress to the throne of San Pietro.

He had seen her once driving a smart little governess cart through the
quaint and steep streets of the Cornish town, and he had found out her
identity from the unsolicited testimony of the aged waiter who had
noticed him looking at her.

"There she goes, bless her, the best little woman and the best heart in
the Duchy," he had said, crossing the room to the window and letting
his eyes follow the dainty little lady as she leant out of her trap to
give an order to the grocer who had left his shop and stood rubbing his
hands together on the curb.  Edward had asked who she was.

"That's Miss Baxendale, sir, her who lives out to Tremoor Churchtown;
not a man in West Cornwall who doesn't worship the ground she drives
over--no, nor a woman either, which is saying a goodish deal.  When my
wife was down with sciatic, sir, she didn't want for naught, she----"

But Edward was not listening, he was gazing spell-bound at the object
of the old man's talk.  And a picture she made well worth the regard.

Miss Baxendale had now descended from the "jingle" and was standing
chatting to the grocer in his doorway.  Edward Povey looked in
admiration at the trim little figure clad in its well-made white
mackintosh that reached almost to the heels of the tiny brown walking
boots.  Her face was turned three-quarters towards him, and for the
first time he began to doubt his wisdom in entering upon the adventure.

Curiously enough the personality of the Princess had not entered into
his calculations, he had looked upon her merely as a unit in the scheme
as a whole, a spoke in the wheel of the undertaking.

Now he asked himself what he was to do with this perfect creature, a
very queen among girls, a being whose every look and gesture spoke of
the highest breeding and culture, a girl in whose presence he could not
but feel awkward and ill at ease.  He had half an idea then and there
of abandoning the whole affair, and going back to London, but second
thoughts brought back memories of two deserted houses and pointed out
to him that he had gone too far to retreat.  It was a momentary return
of the Edward Povey of a few weeks ago, of the personality he had
striven to put behind him.

He alone of all people knew the history of this lovely girl, and in his
possession were the papers and trinkets given him in his final
interview with Mr. Nixon, all the evidence which proved the high
descent of the Princess.  In his hands alone was her future.  He
remembered, too, the generous balance now standing to the credit of
himself, Mr. Sydney, in the Royal Bank of Spain.  To this, as he was
pleased to read Mr. Baxendale's letter, he felt himself quite entitled,
as the one who had undertaken the mission.  Before leaving London he
had burnt his boats beyond redemption, and to give in now would not
only mean a return to the old hated life, but he feared he had laid
himself open to criminal proceedings.

Charlotte he had provided for and had left that estimable lady in a
state of delighted bewilderment at Abbot's Hotel, and the thought of
returning to her, for both their sakes, was distasteful to him in the
extreme.

After all, why should he not go on with the matter to which he had put
his hand?  Although a clerk, Edward Povey was one of those
quiet-mannered men who can pass muster anywhere and in any society can
hold their own by reason of their ability to efface themselves when
necessary.  He had been well educated and was possessed of a soft and
careful diction.  Also he was endowed with the most valuable knack of
adapting himself to circumstances.

As he turned from the window he caught the reflection of himself in the
large gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantelpiece, and although
he had seen the same reflection but a few minutes previously it now
took on a new significance.  If anything had been needed to endorse his
decision to go on with what he had begun he found it in the picture,
for he was confronted with a vastly different aspect of himself to that
he had been used to as shown by the little cracked looking-glass in the
counting-house of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company in Eastcheap.

He saw a trim, dapper little person, looking not a day older than
thirty-eight, with a keen, clean-shaven face that bordered on
intellectuality.  The gold-rimmed spectacles which framed his mild blue
eyes together with his thinning hair gave him even a scholarly aspect.
Edward had made good use of his newly acquired cheque-book, and he
noted with satisfaction that the dark grey suit he had bought in Jermyn
Street fitted him to a nicety.  His linen was spotless, and a small
black pearl showed with a dull richness in his dark blue tie.  A thin
gold chain across his waistcoat and a signet ring with a deep
claret-coloured stone gave a touch of well-being to his appearance.
His glance left the mirror and travelled down to his well-cut trousers,
thence to his brown brogued shoes.  Yes, he was eminently presentable,
and as he turned again to his easy chair and his paper, he laughed at
the recent doubts that had assailed him and which now were falling from
him like water from the proverbial duck.

It was a local journal of little interest and he read on for some
moments listlessly, then with a smothered cry of astonishment he turned
the paper more to the light and his listlessness gave place to
concentration.  There under the heading of London Topics was something
which set the blood racing through his veins.


  THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARIS
  REMARKABLE SEQUEL TO THE MURDER OF MR. KYSER
  THE MYSTERY OF THE BUSHEY COTTAGE

(_Special to the "Evening Post"_)

"It will be remembered that the _Post_ was the first to report, a few
days ago, the mysterious death in Paris of Mr. Sydney Kyser, a partner
in the great firm of Spanish Bankers and Merchants of Eastcheap.  Our
reporter in an interview with Mr. Schultz has discovered that there
seems to be far more beneath the mystery than was at first supposed.

"It appears that the deceased gentleman's departure from London was
unknown to any one, not excepting Mr. Schultz himself, and as a meeting
between the partners, to go through the scrip of certain Spanish bonds
in the possession of the firm, had been fixed for the following day,
Mr. Schultz was naturally astonished at the non-appearance of his
partner.  This astonishment gave place to consternation when it was
discovered that the safe containing the bonds, of which only himself
and Mr. Kyser knew the lock combination, had been rifled.

"Enquiries at Mr. Kyser's house in Grosvenor Square elicited the fact
that the housekeeper in charge was also unaware of her master's absence
from England, taking for granted that he was at his cottage at Bushey
Heath, a little property at which Mr. Kyser was fond of spending a few
days from time to time.

"Mr. Schultz thereupon dispatched two of his trusted clerks to make
enquiries.  Their report is disquieting in the extreme.  Adderbury
Cottage had certainly been in occupation since Mr. Kyser's death.  This
fact was evident from a fire still burning in the grate in the
dining-room and from the remains of breakfast upon the table.  The only
people near were the representatives of Mr. Kyser's solicitors, who had
evidently read in the _Post_ of their client's death.  These gentlemen,
together with Mr. Schultz's two clerks, made a thorough search of the
cottage.  On all hands was evidence that the occupants, whoever they
were, had made a very hasty departure.

"A clue, however, was obtained by one of the solicitor's men who made a
tour of the near-by cab yards.  He elicited the fact that a vehicle had
been hastily ordered from one of them on the previous evening, and that
the cabman had driven an elderly lady and gentleman to Bushey station.
His fares seemed to him to be in a very disturbed state of mind, the
gentleman especially so.  The cabman thought that they were man and
wife because he swore so.

"This couple leaving so hurriedly on the evening on which Mr. Kyser's
death was reported in the _Post_ is, to say the least of it,
suspicious, and they have been traced to some extent.  They took
first-class tickets for Euston, travelling by the 9.49 train.  In
London all trace was lost of them, but a porter states that they were
seen again early the next morning entering the 7.10 for Birmingham.
Here the scent is lost for the present, though from the minute
descriptions furnished by the different railway officials and the
cabman of Bushey, the suspected man bears a great resemblance to a
well-known manufacturer in the Midlands.  It seems, however, absurd to
identify this prosperous and much-respected man with Mr. Kyser and his
affairs.

"Another matter which causes some speculation is the fact that the
caretaker of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company's offices asserts that he
saw his master in company with a clerk who had that day been dismissed,
enter a grill-room in Gracechurch Street.  The two representatives of
the firm after leaving Bushey called at this clerk's address in
Clapham, only to find that this house, too, had evidently been hastily
vacated in much the same manner as Adderbury Cottage.

"There, for the present, the mystery rests.  The police, who have been
communicated with, are, in the mean time, doing their utmost to trace
the elderly gentleman and lady who took the train to Birmingham."


Mr. Povey put down the paper and whistled softly to himself.  Then as
he thought of poor Uncle Jasper and Aunt Eliza, the mirthful side of
the affair took him and he laughed for ten minutes.

He rang the bell and told the waiter that he thought he would take a
Scotch whisky and a small Apollinaris.




CHAPTER VII

TREMOOR

The morning of November the fifteenth dawned full of promise.  For
three days previously the toe of Cornwall had been victimized by
sea-mists, accompanied by a lashing rain from the south-west, and the
time had hung heavily upon the hands of Mr. Povey.  He appreciated now
to the full how he had cut himself adrift from his whole past, and the
knowledge that even his address was known to no living soul gave him a
curious and chilling sense of isolation.

He took moody walks about the straggling town or along the deserted
promenade to the fishy but artistic Newlyn, where he would stroll
aimlessly through the steep and narrow streets or stand and gaze out
over the froth-capped waves of the bay to where St. Michael's Mount
rose a gaunt, grey silhouette in the prevailing gloom.  The evenings he
spent in the cosy little bar at the back of the hotel.

The papers, which he devoured greedily, were silent on the Kyser
mystery, and Edward could only speculate on the way things were going,
and he smiled as he wondered if they had arrested Uncle Jasper yet.

He had written a long and comprehensive letter to the Princess,
acquainting her with all the facts of her birth and the tragedy which
had followed it, and of his mission.  It had seemed to him a far easier
course than telling her all the details personally.  He referred her to
her nurse for all particulars, and he told her that it was in deference
to Mr. Baxendale's wish that he was deferring the pleasure of calling
upon her until the actual day of her birthday.

Edward admitted to himself that there was a suggestion of nervousness
in his manner as he made a more than usually studied toilet.  He took
simplicity and dignity as the keynotes of his attire, choosing a black
cravat and black _suede_ gloves as a mark of respect for the tragedy in
the case.  This he looked upon as an inspiration and one calculated to
make a good impression upon the Princess.  His brown shoes, too, he
discarded for a serviceable pair of black walking boots, it being his
intention to walk the three or four miles to Tremoor.  He stopped at a
florist's and purchased a little bouquet of white roses.

The promise of the early morning had been duly fulfilled, and the sun
shone a glorious augury on the undertaking, as at ten-thirty he left
the hotel.

The road he took was one to the north-west, and, after leaving the town
behind, it led him into a treeless, desolated district of wild moors
and granite-strewn carns.  Villages of a few houses, scattered here and
there, showed white-washed walls and grey lichen-patched roofs against
the golden glory of the bracken.  Across the moor broken stone hedges
straggled out at odd angles, and buildings falling into decay, roofless
and with floorings of rank vegetation, spoke of the time when this
district was populated by men engaged in wresting the wealth of tin
from its fastnesses in Mother Earth.  A cluster of dead mine buildings
showed gauntly upon the horizon, their tall chimneys and ruined
engine-houses crumbling into decay--a very Pompeii of Industry.  From
the high ground the sea could be seen on two sides--facing him to the
north the Atlantic, whilst to the south the waters of Mount's Bay
reflected the blue of the cloudless sky.

Tremoor Churchtown lay in a valley between two rugged carns, a valley
which, if followed, would lead to some rocky cove whose silver-sanded
beach gave upon the broad Atlantic.  As Edward topped the rise and
stood looking down upon the peaceful hamlet with its square church
tower, he asked himself whether Baxendale had been wise to wish to
destroy the bliss of the Princess's ignorance--whether it had not been
better that she should know nothing of the stress of power, but that
she should spend her life doing good to those in the little village at
his feet.

Then Edward Povey shook himself, and with a firm tread picked his way
between the gorse bushes and the ivy-covered boulders down to a trim
little house that stood at the edge of the cluster of white-washed
cottages that comprised the village of Tremoor.

As he paused at the little green gate let in the rough stone wall, the
door opened and the Princess came smilingly down the path to meet him.
She walked with the springy step of youth and health, and held out her
hand with an engaging frankness.

A little below the medium height, the Princess made up in dignity what
she lacked in inches.  Never had Edward seen such a perfectly
proportioned little figure, nor such a graceful carriage.  She was
dressed in a tailor-made gown of dark blue cloth, and in her chestnut
hair she had threaded a black ribbon.

Her face was rather round than oval and the chin was dimpled.  The
mouth, too, when she smiled caused other dimples to leap into play, and
one could easily imagine that she very often _did_ smile.  The eyes,
large and dark, laughed and danced beneath a pair of perfectly drawn
brows, fairly thick and arching, and tapering down to a point that
looked like a single hair at their ends.  Her cheeks, tanned a
delicious brown by the Cornish sun, were a little flushed with
excitement.

"Mr. Sydney, is it not?"

Edward bowed and raised his hat.

"And you are the Princess Miranda," he said.

The girl put a finger to her smiling lips.

"Not that here, Mr. Sydney--here, in Tremoor, I am Miss Galva
Baxendale--my friends would not know me by any name but that."

She turned as she spoke and preceded him up the little path, bordered
by clumps of hydrangea, veronica and fuchsia, to the house.  The garden
on either side of the shingle path, a curious mixture of vegetables and
flowers, glowed with all the tints of autumn.

At the door of the house a lady was awaiting them, a white-haired woman
of some fifty years of age, tall, and with the most piercing black eyes
Edward had ever seen.  She received him graciously, and led the way
into a room to the right of the little passage.  It was an apartment
larger than one would have looked for in a house of the size, and was
low-ceilinged and lighted by two diamond-paned windows which looked
over the moor.

The walls, papered a dull grey-green, were wainscoted to the height of
an elbow with dark oak, and were hung with etchings and engravings,
mostly of local scenery, in narrow black frames.  The table laid for
luncheon was tastefully decorated with little silver pots containing
slender ferns, and in the centre a tall glass held a sheaf of late
campions.

Edward felt at ease immediately with his two hostesses, and he
appreciated to the full the well-served meal.  The subject of the
"mission" of Mr. Sydney was not touched upon until coffee had been
brought, then--

"And what is it you are going to do with me, Mr. Sydney?" the girl
laughed across the table.

"I--I hardly know, Miss Baxendale; the matter rests more with you, I
think, than with me.  I'm merely here if I'm wanted, as it were."  He
turned to the elder lady.  "There is, I suppose, no two questions on
the matter--I mean on the matter of our journey?"

For a moment there was silence between the three.  When Miranda spoke,
a suggestion of sadness had come into her voice.  She rose and put her
arms round her foster-mother's neck.

"_You_ want to go to San Pietro, Anna," she said, "for all these years
you have been away from your native land.  There must be many things
that you pine for over there, many friends you will want to see."

Anna Paluda raised her fine eyes to the girl's face.

"Yes, Galva, my dear, there are many things I want to see."

She spoke sadly, and Edward turned in his chair and gazed out over the
wild waste of heath aglow with its tints of cinnamon and mauve.  A
kestrel wheeled slowly across his vision uttering its dismal cry.

His thoughts were of the sad-voiced, white-haired lady--and again a
unit in the adventure took individuality.

For the first time he thought of what the enterprise meant for Anna
Paluda.  Away in the vaulted splendour of the cathedral at Corbo, her
baby had been sleeping unavenged for fifteen years, sleeping on a royal
breast in a tomb emblazoned with the arms of the Estratos.  What had
been the anguish of this mother's heart, who, for the sake of her
secret, had been forced to nurse her grief alone?  What a cruel
scourging of the old wound the return would mean to her.

When Edward turned again, Galva had resumed her seat.  He drew up to
the table and took from his pocket the things that Mr. Nixon had given
him, a few articles of jewellery, and a letter.  The girl opened the
letter.  It was addressed to

SENOR LUAZO,
  _Calle Mendaro_, 66,
    _Corbo_,

and set out at full length the history of Mr. Baxendale's find in the
wood.  Not an item of evidence had been overlooked that could prove the
truth of Miranda's parentage.  The jewellery comprised two or three
rings and a brooch, engraved with the royal arms.  These Anna had
snatched up in their hurried flight from the palace.

The princess read to the end, but there was nothing that she had not
already learnt from her foster-mother.  On the arrival of Edward's
letter, two days previous, Anna had told her charge the whole history.
To her mind, the evidence was not as complete as she might have wished.
She tried to look at it with the eyes of strangers, to whom the story
of the substitution of the children might suggest a plot.

They discussed the matter in all its bearings.  The love of adventure
and the call of romance appealed strongly to the eighteen-year-old
girl, and made the suggested journey a very desirable thing.  They
would go to Senor Luazo in the Calle Mendaro, and place the whole facts
of the affair before him.  There could be no harm in that.  They would
travel under the names of Mr. Sydney and Miss Baxendale, his ward, and,
with the money at their disposal, could stay in Corbo and see how the
land lay.  There would be nothing in their appearance or manner to
single them out from the other families who wintered in the little
white villas that bordered the beautiful bay of Lucana, which was fast
rivalling Monte Carlo as a pleasure resort.  The names Galva and
Baxendale would suggest nothing.  The girl had dropped her real name of
Miranda for so long; she could do so for a few months more.

The cottage in Cornwall need not be given up; some woman in the village
could easily be found to look after it during their absence.  In the
mean time, Mr. Sydney (as Edward must now be called) must bring his
traps from Penzance and stay with them at Morna Cottage.

      *      *      *      *      *

It was late afternoon, and the two women were taking a last walk on the
carn above the house in which they had lived so long.  The scene around
them was magnificent in the extreme.  Away to the west sea and sky were
stained with the afterglow of the setting sun.  Around them the
desolate moors stretched out in gentle undulations, shadowy and
mysterious.  In the clear twilight the lights of the coast shone out;
below them, the four flashes of Pendeen, and, further up the shore,
Godrevy and Trevose flickered uncertainly to the distant sight.  In a
little while it would be dark enough to make out the light on the
Scilly Islands, blinking like a great red eye over the Atlantic.

The village in the valley was fast merging into the dusk; here and
there a yellow light twinkled from a window.  Miranda grew sad as she
looked.

"It is all so beautiful, Anna, and I have been so happy here.  I fear
sometimes at the journey we are taking--perhaps we will never see all
this again, and I love every stone of Tremoor."

Anna Paluda placed her arm tenderly round the young shoulders.

"There are fine sights, too, in San Pietro, Miranda--_our_ land.  I can
remember now the colours that the Yeldo hills take in the evening; the
sea, too, is beautiful in the bay, and we also have the storms that you
love to watch so much.

"Besides," she went on, "you may return, but I--never.  I, too, had a
'mission'; it is nearly over now, and I must stay with my child.
No--don't pity me, Miranda; the time of tears is long past, but the
grief is here still.  But we won't talk of my mission.  This is not the
time for troubling your royal little head over the long-ago affairs of
an old woman."

With arms linked affectionately they walked down to the house.




CHAPTER VIII

THE PANIC OF A CARPET MANUFACTURER

In the spacious library of Mr. Jasper Jarman's house, "Holmstrand," in
a respectable suburb of Kidderminster, the wealthy carpet manufacturer
was sitting at his ease.  On a tiny table drawn up to the fire stood a
silver coffee service and a small decanter of brandy.  Across his knee
lay the unopened copy of the _Midland Echo_ which had just been
delivered.

Indifferently he took it up and turned to the market reports, reading
the comments from the London correspondent through carefully.  Then he
read half a report of a divorce case, then--he read the paragraph that
had caused his nephew by marriage to laugh for ten minutes in the Union
Hotel at Penzance.

But the news that the flower of Scotland Yard were following up with a
keen interest the movements of himself, Jasper Jarman, and his wife
since their eventful departure from Adderbury Cottage was not
calculated to draw a like explosion of mirth from the elderly gentleman
taking his after-dinner ease in his library at "Holmstrand."  Perhaps
Mr. Jasper Jarman was deficient in his sense of humour.

He skimmed through the account hurriedly, then starting up from his
leather arm-chair he walked to the door and turned the key.  For some
reason for which he would have found it difficult to account he walked
on tiptoe.  Then he took the paper, and standing under the cluster of
electric bulbs that hung from the centre of the ceiling, he read the
report again, carefully this time, assimilating every point.

Then he put the _Midland Echo_ on the fire and watched it crumble away
into ashes, continuing to stand there upon the hearthrug deep in
thought.

There were many aspects of the position in which he found himself that
he alone could see.  At first it seemed best to him that he should go
to the police and explain to them fully the part he had taken in the
affair.  But then it was hardly creditable for him to associate himself
in so scandalous a matter or to admit such a person as Edward Povey,
who to his mind was clearly a guilty person, as a relative.  Besides,
his story might not be believed.

Inspector Melton, too, would make it as hot as he could for him.  He
was not likely to forget that Councillor Jarman had voted against the
proposed increase of salary for the hard-worked police official.  He
grew cold and hot by turns, too, as he thought of the handle he was
giving to his opponent in the forthcoming parliamentary election, in
which he, Jasper Jarman, had been persuaded to stand in the interests
of Free Trade.

He remembered with a pang the affair of a fire which had taken place at
his warehouse a year since.  The insurance company involved had been
introduced to him by his nephew, and had been curiously unenthusiastic
in settling his claim.

To be mixed up in any police court affair with Povey would be to open
the question again.  The company had been hard hit and had refused to
renew his policy, and Jasper felt sure they would not let pass any
chance to get even with him.

There were also some things in the past life of the carpet manufacturer
which caused him to shun any chance of cross-examination.  There was a
man who had invented a new shuttle (a machine from which Jasper had
made thousands), who was now living in poverty in the slums of
Kidderminster, swearing revenge against the man who had sucked his
brain and reaped the reward of his labours.

The more he thought, the more a blind and unreasoning panic seized the
soul of the carpet manufacturer.  Any connection with Povey would cause
much dirty water to be stirred up.  Better far, he told himself, to
leave the country until the affair had blown over or had been
satisfactorily explained.  He would have it given out that his health
had broken down.

He took an "ABC Guide" from the top of a revolving bookcase and opened
it at random: Draycot (Derby)--Draycot (Somerset)--Drayton
(Norfolk)--147-1/2 miles from King's Cross--Population 486--Ah! that
ought to suit in the mean time.  He moved cautiously to the door.  For
a moment he stood in an attitude of listening, then unlocked it.  The
whole framework of nerve which had made Jasper Jarman what he was,
seemed to break and crumble away before the panic which had seized him.

On second thoughts, however, perhaps it were better to bury himself in
the heart of London, in the network of the metropolis where it is so
easy to lie hidden.  He wrote a letter to his wife, who was spending a
few days in Birmingham, telling her the fiction of his health, then he
rang the bell for the servant.

As the man entered the room and stood awaiting his orders, his master
scanned him narrowly.  The man seemed quite normal.

Jasper, controlling his voice with an effort, ordered the car to be
brought round for him in a quarter of an hour, and after the man had
left the room, he took a bunch of keys, and, selecting one, opened a
drawer in his bureau.  From it he took a small fortune in notes and
gold, and going to his bedroom he changed his evening clothes for a
blue serge suit and put on a heavy travelling ulster.  As he made his
way down-stairs he heard the throbbing of the engine at the door.

At half-past eight that evening Jasper Jarman slid out of Kidderminster
in his Napier car, and in a wonderfully short space of time pulled up
at the Warwick Arms Hotel at Warwick.  Here he dismissed the car, and
after a light supper took train to London.

From a paper he bought at Euston he learnt nothing further relating to
his case, but after a day or two spent in London, he read the tidings
that his identity had been established, and that an officer who had
been dispatched to interview him, not finding him at his house, had
applied for a warrant for his apprehension.

On the shattered brain of the poor man this news had a terrible effect.
He saw at once that his flight would be looked upon as a sign of his
guilt, and he racked his brain for the name of some country where the
laws of extradition were lax.  The Argentine rose to his mind, but he
had no idea of going so far from England unless it were absolutely
necessary.  He preferred somewhere where the living would be more or
less civilized and where he could be handy for return when
circumstances permitted.

Spain he had heard of, but that was some time ago and there might be
new laws now.  Then the fate that has the moving of the pieces in
life's chessboard whispered in his ear--San Pietro.

Even at this late hour he told himself that it were better for him to
face the music, but the good common sense of Stone-wall Jarman was in a
state of complete disorganization, and to his panic-distorted brain
flight seemed the only thing possible.

His wife would be interrogated, but he was convinced that the machinery
of the law could not touch her.  For himself, on the other hand, there
was a definite issue: if he returned it would be undoubtedly to stand
his trial, and he knew what that meant even if he was acquitted, which
he was not at all sure would be the case.  In any event he said he
would be ruined beyond redemption, and his reputation would become the
legitimate sport of his many enemies, political and social, in
Kidderminster.  The fact would remain that he, Jasper Jarman, had stood
in the dock beside a man like Povey, who had claimed him as a relative!
Far rather would he spend the rest of his days in exile; it would mean
leaving the country in any case, and by doing it now he would escape
the ordeal that he feared.  "DO IT NOW"--that's what was on a little
printed card in his office--and he had made it his motto.

Again, how could he hope to explain his hurried and agitated flight
from Adderbury Cottage, taking place as it did immediately after the
publication in the _Evening News_ of Kyser's death?  People would never
believe the evidence of the bad drainage if Povey liked to deny it--as
he doubtless would.  Edward Povey to Jasper's mind was a guilty man,
and he attributed to him all the motives and actions of the most
hardened of criminals; he would only be too glad to whitewash himself
at the expense of his uncle.

The morning after Mr. Jarman's arrival in London, he had called on his
bank and drawn a considerable sum of money in cash.  It was not without
fear and trepidation that he had done this, but he had told himself
that it was then or never, and the hue and cry had not really begun.
The manager had met him, and there was no suspicion in his manner.
This important point settled, Jasper Jarman had made all haste to shake
the dust of his native country from the soles of his "sensible shape"
boots.

It was a dull, dripping evening when the carpet manufacturer stood on
Paddington platform, waiting for the through express for Cardiff.  He
was rather a different man to the Jasper Jarman who had only a few
nights previously been reading in his library at "Holmstrand."  He had
shaved off his moustache and side-whiskers, and his iron-grey hair he
had attempted to dye black, in which endeavour he had been
successful--in patches--and to hide this piebald appearance he had
taken to a larger brimmed soft hat.  He was buttoned up to the chin in
his heavy ulster, and a muffler covered his mouth.  He looked for all
the world what he was--a disguised man.  Had there been a detective
watching for him on that train--which there was not--Jasper would have
been the first man to merit his attention.  His manner, too, was
furtive and full of suspicion as he glanced from under the brim of his
hat at each passer-by.

He had the carriage to himself, and he gave a sigh of relief as the
train slid out of the station on its non-stop run to the western
seaport.

With an excess of cunning he disposed of his broad-brimmed hat, by
dropping it out of the window as the train crawled through the Severn
Tunnel, replacing it with a cloth travelling hat, which he took from
his bag.

It was past eleven when he arrived, and the hotel clerk looked
curiously at the figure in the ulster who asked for a room.
Remembering the looks which the Paddington passengers had given him, he
resolved upon a further modification in his attire, and the man who for
the next few days lounged about the Bute Dock on the look-out for an
unassuming-looking boat to take him as near San Pietro as possible was
by no means such a conspicuous figure.

He was successful, after many days, in bribing a passage to Bilbao on a
tramp steamer that was about to leave, and without loss of time Jasper
transferred his portmanteau, his ulster, and himself on board.

      *      *      *      *      *

And so it came about that at the same time that Edward Povey Sydney was
travelling in luxury with his two lady companions between Calais and
Paris (which latter city had been decided upon as the first
stopping-place in their journey), his unfortunate relative by marriage
was passing the great red light on the Scilly Isles in a rousing
south-wester, a gale which sported with the poor little _Bella_ as with
a cork.

Thus does necessity play games with the best of us, even with Jasper
Jarman, who, poor fellow, could not cross the straits of Dover without
the most acute bodily suffering.




CHAPTER IX

DUCAL ATTENTIONS

The Duc Armand de Choleaux Lasuer opened one eye and then the other.
Then he shut them quickly and called for his _valet de chambre_, whom
he cursed roundly for not seeing that there was a gap between the
silken curtains of his bedroom window, a little space of which the
winter sun had taken full advantage.

His grace yawned and smothered an exclamation.  Then he watched with a
lazy interest the sedate and black-garbed figure of his servant as he
went about his duties.  The brows of the duke were contracted as though
in pain, which was not to be wondered at considering the time at which
his grace had gone to bed.  To be precise, the duke had a shocking head.

"Remy."

"Yes, your grace."

"What o'clock is it?"

"A quarter to one, your grace."

"Then bring my letters and chocolate at a quarter past, Remy."

Left to himself, the nobleman turned his pillow over and rested his
aching head on the cool freshness and slept fitfully, until Remy woke
him and placed a little table containing a silver chocolate service by
his elbow.  He then pulled up the blinds, lit the fire, and entered the
adjacent room to prepare his master's bath.

Duke Armand tumbled out of bed and thrust his feet into a pair of
Turkish slippers and himself into a Japanese dressing-gown, and drew up
a commodious arm-chair to the fire.  Remy, hearing the movement,
followed noiselessly with the chocolate, beside which he now placed an
ivory box of cigarettes and a spirit-lamp.

It was one of Remy's duties, previous to brushing and folding his
master's evening clothes each night, to empty the pockets _en masse_
into a small drawer in the dressing-table.  The duke was thereby
enabled to piece together, by the evidence of the articles, the hazy
threads of the previous evening's doings.  He now drew out this drawer
and emptied the assorted collection in the lap of his barbaric
dressing-gown.

A bunch of keys, a menu from Maxim's on the margin of which were
pencilled two ladies' names--some loose gold and silver--a pair of
white kid gloves torn to ribbons, and a little gold-chain lady's bag.
This latter he held up and tried to think how it came into his
possession.

All the time that he was in Remy's hands he thought and thought, but to
no purpose.  He had a hazy kind of recollection of having seen it
before, that was all.  It contained a little lace handkerchief and a
twenty-franc gold piece, but no initial or other mark of identification
could be found.

When his toilet was complete, the young Duc de Choleaux Lasuer stood
before the cheval glass in his room whilst he sprinkled a suspicion of
Jockey Club upon his handkerchief.

He saw the reflection of a well set up, clean-limbed man of
twenty-five, with crisp hair of a dark brown, almost black, curling
back from an intellectual brow.  The skin was of that olive tint that
sets off dark eyes so well.

The duke was dressed in a grey lounge suit with a waistcoat of some
dark material sprigged with tiny violet flowers.  His cravat, tied in
the latest mode, was held in position by a pin surmounted by a large
blood-red ruby.  The hands were rather large, but with tapering
fingers; the feet, in their patent leather boots with _suede_ cloth
uppers, were long and thin.  An aristocrat every inch of him, and a
dandy withal, but yet with a suggested air of strength and manliness.
In short, his Grace the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer was a very presentable
person indeed.  So had thought the Princess Galva when she had caught
sight of him in the corridors or in the Palm Court of their hotel.

The duke slowly made his way down the wide carpeted staircase, pausing
in the foyer to light a cigarette.  Then he crossed to the board
containing letters and telegrams and glanced idly over them.  It was
here that he read a notice that any one finding a small gold chain-bag
should communicate with the office clerk of the hotel.

In a flash it came to him that he had picked up the dainty little
trifle as he went to his room the night before.  His friend, the
Viscount Mersac, had been with him.  What a night it had been, to be
sure!  The duke smiled at the recollections.

As he approached the office a little man in a dark grey suit and with
gold-rimmed spectacles was interviewing the clerk in charge.  He turned
as the duke approached, and caught sight of the bag in his hand.

"Ah!" he said.  "You have found it?"

The clerk looked up.  "Your Grace," he said, "this is the gentleman who
has advertised.  It is his ward who has lost it--the little purse."

It was a trivial incident in itself, yet it was the means of an
acquaintance of sorts springing up between the duke and Mr. Edward
Sydney, an acquaintance which permitted a whisky and soda together in
the buffet and a word or two when they met in the foyer.

The introduction to Galva took place after dinner one night, when
Edward was leaving the hotel with the ladies for the opera.  The duke's
large white motor-car had refused to budge from in front of the
entrance, and the girl and her foster-mother had had to walk round it
to their waiting fiacre.  The duke had apologized very prettily, and
Galva's already favourable impression of him suffered nothing from the
meeting--rather the reverse.

From that time the young people seemed to be always crossing the foyer
at the same time, and once Galva and Edward had accepted the duke's
invitation to join him in a spin in the lovely car to Barbizon.  It was
when he was driving his engine that the duke showed to his best
advantage and told clearly that under the dandified exterior was a
nerve of iron.  To see his capable hands grip the steering-wheel was in
itself enough to inspire the utmost confidence.

Galva never forgot that ride and the other rides that followed hard
upon it.  During her stay in England she had hardly seen a car--the
roads round Tremoor were not ideal for the sport, and the novelty of it
all was, to her, wonderful.  The long, straight, white roads fringed
with tall poplars, and the absence of speed-limit, showed her motoring
at its best, and she would return to the hotel with cheeks aglow and
with fascinating tendrils of hair escaping from the dainty motor-bonnet
she had bought in the Magasin du Louvre.

It seemed nearly every day that the great white car sped away from the
hotel with the duke at the wheel and the little fur-clad figure of Miss
Baxendale tucked up cosily by his side.  Edward, who invariably sat
with the chauffeur in the tonneau, enjoyed these exhilarating spins as
much as any one, but he began to wonder where it would all end, and to
ask himself whether he was doing his duty in the sphere to which he had
called himself.

He indirectly tackled the girl on the subject one day as they sat after
tea in their private drawing-room.  Anna was writing in her own room,
and the opportunity was too good to be missed.  Edward cleared his
throat, and started the subject by saying--

"I have been looking out the trains, Galva.  We will go through to
Madrid, I think.  It is a little out of our way, but it will be
interesting."

"Why, guardy, you don't want to leave Paris, surely.  It's grand here,
and old Spain can wait.  When I get to San Pietro there'll be a lot of
horrid things to think about and to worry us.  I love Paris."

"Is it only Paris you are so loath to leave, Galva?"

The princess blushed a delicious pink that did not pass unnoticed by
her self-appointed guardian.  He rose and straightened himself
importantly, pulling down his waistcoat with a tug.

"You seem to take a great delight in the company of the duke," he began.

For a moment a look of resentment came into the girl's eyes, but she
rose and put a warm arm round Edward's shoulders.

"Surely you can have no objection to him, guardy.  I--I--_do_ like him;
but I like you, too, and I wouldn't care to do anything you would not
wish me to do."

"My dear child"--Edward was quite paternal--"I think it would be best
to see how things are in your country.  A duke is a good match for Miss
Baxendale--but perhaps not so suitable for the Queen of San Pietro."

Galva made no answer, but stood looking out from one of the long
windows at the twilight settling down over the gardens of the Louvre.
Edward went on--

"Besides, we know nothing of the duke.  Titles on the continent are
hardly the same as in England.  I don't want to hurt your feelings,
Galva, but the young man keeps shocking hours.  I saw him come in at
three this morning.  I don't think he was quite sober; he insisted on
giving champagne to all the hall porters and taking two huge motor
lamps to light his way up-stairs."

"Why, guardy! weren't _you_ in bed at three?"

Edward gave a little cough.

"Well--it may have been earlier.  I--I--had been sitting up reading.  I
don't sleep very well, Galva.  I think it's the change of scene."

The princess turned away so that he should not see her smile.

"I don't expect he's a saint, guardy, but he's most attentive, polite
and--nice."

"That's not every thing in a husband, Galva, let alone a consort for a
queen.  You see, I have to look after your destiny--it's my
mission--and I feel we ought to be on our way."

"At once?"

"Well--say the day after to-morrow.  Tell the duke if he wants to know
your movements that you will be here at this hotel at the same time
next year.  We ought to be able to manage it by that time, whatever
happens.  I must ask you not to tell him where we are going.  We don't
know how the land lies over there at San Pietro, and we don't want any
love-sick dukes monkeying round and getting in the way.  You don't mind
doing as I ask you, do you?"

"My dear guardy, I am in your hands entirely.  I wouldn't like to think
that I will never see Armand--I mean the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer again,
but I'll do as you say, I know you are right, but I--I think he likes
me."

"So I think, Galva.  Really I have been afraid to be left alone with
him for a week past.  It would be a nice way to carry out my duty to
Mr. Baxendale to give you to the first man we meet, even if he is a
duke.  Besides, if he means anything, he'll wait a year,--don't forget
we're dining early, Galva, as we're going to the Porte Saint Martin."

Edward held the door open for her to pass out, then he turned and
walked to the fireplace.  For some moments he stood, his legs well
apart and his back to the fire, communing with himself on his
importance.

Then a half smile spread itself over his features as he took his mind
back a few weeks to a dejected little bowed figure shuffling its way
over London Bridge, and as he glanced round the sumptuous furnishings
of the room he now found himself in and compared it to Belitha Villas,
the smile broadened out and he rolled on the brocaded sofa in
uncontrollable mirth.  Then he sat up and drove his fist into a cushion
of yellow satin.

"How _dare_ I!" he cried to himself, "how _dare_ I!--Edward Povey,
you've made strides with a vengeance from the time when you were a poor
little clerk at forty-five bob a week, when you can forbid a queen to
marry a duke!  Oh, what _would_ Charlotte say?"

And the little man composed himself and went to his room to dress for
dinner.

      *      *      *      *      *

In a somewhat secluded corner of the Palm Court two young people were
sitting.  One of them, a young man of twenty-five was moodily stirring
his spoon round and round in a tiny cup of tea.  In his other hand he
held the fingers of Miss Galva Baxendale.

"A year's a long time," he was saying.

"But you've only known me a few days, and----"

The Duc de Choleaux Lasuer turned to her.

"Nearly a fortnight, Galva, and in knowing you I have known myself.
I've been a bit of a 'rotter' as you English call it, but things are
going to be different now.  I'll turn teetotaler--and learn a trade."

"And get to bed without the aid of two Bleriot lamps?"

The duke drove the spoon through the bottom of the dainty cup.

"Now come, Galva, that's hardly fair; they told me about it in the
morning.  I didn't know it was the talk of the hotel.  You know when it
happened?"

"No--why?"

"It was after you had refused to come to the Opera with me, that's
when, how, and why it happened."

"In that case I suppose I am an accessory before the fact or
something--look, there's Mr. Sydney dressed; we're dining early."

Galva rose.

"You'll not forget to-morrow?"

"No, of course I'll not forget to-morrow, duke--it's our last spin."

Remy could never understand why it was that the duke was so
bad-tempered that night as he dressed him for dinner.  But then Remy
was not paid to understand the moods of so exalted a personage as the
Duc de Choleaux Lasuer.




CHAPTER X

THREE HANDS AT POKER

"I remember seeing in a Club I visited last year in Buda, some framed
hands of cards--remarkable hands that had occurred in the play there.
It is a pretty custom.  I have often since wished to start a similar
collection.  Permit me."

And Senor Gabriel Dasso screwed a monocle into a cold and calculating
eye and crossed over to the card table.

"May I take them?--thanks.  Most extraordinary.  And how much did you
win, Lieutenant Mozara, on your four kings?"

The young officer addressed nicked the ash from his cigarette and
glanced carelessly over the pile of notes and gold before him.

"Oh, about four hundred crowns--thereabouts," he answered carelessly.

"Then the fair Julie of the _Casino_ has a rosy future before her
for--shall we say nearly a week?"

At this a laugh came from the Lieutenant's two opponents, and Dasso
continued, gathering up the cards as he spoke--

"You're sure, gentlemen, you don't mind.  I'll have them framed with a
little brass plate with all the particulars.  Let me see, Count, you,
was it not, who held the full house, aces high too--and you, Captain
Olalla, the flush--am I right?"

He went over to where a handsome inlaid writing table stood near the
window and returned with three envelopes.  The players watched idly
whilst he put five cards into each; afterwards placing the three in a
larger envelope, which latter he stuck down.  Then, taking a tiny
fountain pen from the pocket of his white vest, he wrote:--


_Three hands at Poker, held by Count Petola, Captain Olalla, and
Lieutenant Mozara--Friday the fifteenth of January_ 1908.


"Many thanks, gentlemen, and a thousand apologies for interrupting your
game."

Senor Dasso returned to his position by the fire, one arm resting on
the high mantleboard and letting his monocle fall with a little tinkle
against his shirt front.  The men at the table tore open another pack
of cards and resumed their game.

But it was late, and the play became desultory.  Following such an
exciting hand, the cards ran badly, and after the next "jackpot" the
Count and Captain Olalla took their leave.

Lieutenant Mozara carried his glass over and joined Dasso, who still
maintained his position by the fireplace.  He made way for the younger
man, and--

"A good evening's play, eh, Mozara?"

"So so, but I say, Dasso, was it hardly playing the game to drag Julie
into it?  I don't like being laughed at."

"Oh, a little chaff is the least one has to pay for one's gallantries."

"I expect you did the same, at my age."

Senor Dasso turned and contemplated his handsome face with its
iron-grey imperial in the pier-glass before replying.

"Worse, my dear boy, far worse.  San Pietro was not then what it is
now, but Paris was--Paris--and so was Vienna."

There was silence for a moment, and it was Mozara who first broke it.

"Rather childish isn't it--to keep those cards?  They weren't so
wonderful, after all; you'll see better at the Club almost any night."

"Possibly--but not so _interesting_."

Something in the elder man's voice made the other look up sharply.  His
eyes narrowed in his head.

"What do you mean, Dasso--more interesting?"

For answer, Senor Dasso drew up a little table in front of the fire,
and taking the envelope from his pocket, handed his fountain pen to the
Lieutenant.

"I don't understand this, Senor."

"It means, my dear lieutenant, that the record I have written is not
yet complete.  You will finish it to my dictation."

"If this is a joke, Senor----"

"Pardon me, it is no joke.  You will write at my dictation."

"I'm damned if I will--you forget, Senor Dasso, that you----"

"I forget nothing.  I know that I am a guest in your uncle's house.
Senor Luazo is the soul of honour, and his sister's child should--but
never mind.  Again I say you will write at my dictation--or you will
blow out your brains here and now--Oh, no, you don't."

For with a snarling sound the young man had made a dash at the packet,
but before it could reach the flames a hand closed like steel over his
wrist.

"You understand me now--eh?"

"Yes, damn you, I understand that you, a guest of my uncle's, dares to
spy upon me.  I understand that."

"Is there, then, so little difference between a spy and--a cheat?"

Lieutenant Mozara sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands
for a moment, then he reached out for the pen.

"What is it you want me to write?"

The other thought for a moment, drumming his fingers upon the polished
surface of the little table.  "How does it end--yes--'_on the fifteenth
of January_ 1908,' now add--'_The hands were dealt by me, Gaspar
Mozara.  The cards were provided by me--and I won four hundred crowns.
God be merciful to me a sinner_.'"

With an oath the young man rose, throwing over the table in his
agitation.

"I'll see you in he----"

He stopped and gave a little cry as he saw the shining barrel of a
small revolver pointed at him.

"You--you would murder me, then?"

"Morally, yes, but not physically unless you drive me to it.  I would
say you shot yourself at being found out.  This," and he tapped the
little package, "would prove everything; marked cards are the finest of
evidence."

Then the boy--he was hardly more--was on his knees.  "Why are you doing
this, Senor Dasso?" he pleaded.  "Before God it's the first time.  You
knew my mother--I've never harmed you.  I will return the money
to-morrow.  I--I--wanted it for Julie."

"Yes, I know that, bless her.  It isn't the first time that a woman has
played my game for me.  There is no mercy in ambition, and _I want
you_.  I can make use of you.  Oh, your secret is safe with me,
provided you write as I say."

"And place my honour and my life in your hands for ever."

"Precisely, that is all I want."

Tremblingly the boy looked past the muzzle to the steady hand and up to
the cruel, thin face.  Then he righted the table, and whilst Dasso held
the package he wrote.

"And your seal," said his tormentor, when the lieutenant had signed his
name, and he fetched a stick of black wax from the writing table.  Then
after Mozara had sealed it with his signet ring, Dasso placed the
envelope in his pocket and leant back with a half smile.

"And now, my dear lieutenant, for my motive.  Believe me I like you,
and I have no personal objection to your method of playing poker.  I
can be frank with you now that I have this," and he tapped the pocket
over the cards.

"You know what they say here in Corbo, that it was I who engineered the
affair of fifteen years ago.  They even hint that I took an active part
in the doings at the palace on that night.  Well, they are not far
wrong.  It was I who did the majority of the work, seeing that my
followers faltered at the last moment.  I had too much at stake to risk
failure.  I had worked hard, believing that the choice of the people
would fall on me, failing a direct heir.  It did; I was made Dictator,
and for a few brief weeks I tasted the fruits of power.

"But Spain was stronger than I, and my crime--my political crime--went
for nothing.  Enrico was placed where I would sit, and now he is at
last paying the penalty of his licentious and foolish mode of life.
The King is dying."

For a moment the lieutenant was interested in spite of himself.

"But his nephew will----"

Senor Dasso rose and snapped his fingers.

"That for him.  What do the people think or even know of him, a man who
has hardly been seen by them, a man who hates San Pietro and all in
it--including his uncle?  I understand he is in Africa shooting lions
at this present moment.  When he hears of his uncle's death it will be
too late."

"But Spain?"

"Spain has her own troubles now, and I have information that a little
diplomacy is all that is needed.  It is my hour and I will want help--I
will want dirty work done.  To-night I saw my chance when I noticed
that your cards were marked.  I took it, as I take all chances."

"What is it you want of me?"

"There will be many things.  First I want you to watch and tell me all
about these English people, Miss Bax--Baxendale and her Mr. Sydney.  I
want you to----"

"I will not play the spy in my uncle's house--he has been a father to
me--more than a father."

"But you _play_--in your uncle's house--how you play is known only to
you and me--so far.  It's not much I'm asking of you, but much or
little you'll have to do it.  They visit here a great deal, and your
task will be easy--and I'll help you with Julie.  Half-past one; I'll
go now--you'll remember."

Gabriel Dasso descended the broad stairway of Senor Luazo's mansion,
and was helped into his sable overcoat by the sleepy man-servant at the
door.  In the courtyard his motor was waiting, but instructing the
chauffeur to keep him in sight Dasso turned up the collar of his coat
and stepped out briskly.

It was a lovely night, and the Bay of Lucana gleamed silver beneath the
moon.  The boulevard that terraced above the beach lay white under the
cold glare of the arc lamps which threw a delicate tracery of shadow
from the acacia trees.

The town of Corbo was built on a cliff, or rather a series of little
cliffs that rose in terraces, upon the highest of which stood the royal
palace.  Under the gay reign of Enrico I, Corbo had prospered
exceedingly, and there was but little remaining of the old and quaint
town of a decade ago.  Modern hotels, rivalling the palace in splendour
and far exceeding it in comfort, lined the lower boulevard, and the
Casino lying back in its palm gardens had been erected by a syndicate
of Russian Jews and had cost a fabulous amount of money.

The lights were still blazing from its myriad windows as Senor Dasso
made his way along the broad pavement, followed at a respectful
distance by his car.  There was a slight wind off-shore and little
bursts of melody came to him at intervals, of a popular waltz played by
a string band.

For perhaps half-an-hour the man continued to walk up and down, his
chin sunk deep in his collar, then he raised his hand and the watching
chauffeur slid noiselessly up to him.

Leaving the lighted thoroughfare the car made its way to the eastern
end of the town, which lay in darkness.  It was here, in a part that
still contained some of the buildings of the old town, that Dasso's
home lay.  It was a large mediaeval-looking structure, more of a castle
than a house.  When first it had been erected it stood alone, but with
the growth of the town it had been surrounded, and portions of its
grounds taken in till now it had the appearance of a giant being
elbowed and crowded out by pigmies.

Before the massive old gateway the car drew up, and at the sound of the
brakes the oak doors opened.  Senor Dasso passed in between the two
footmen, one of whom relieved him of his coat and hat, whilst the other
shot home the great bolts behind him.

"I'll want nothing more," he said shortly, and crossing the hall
entered a room on the left.  On the table stood a decanter and a
syphon.  He mixed himself a drink, then selecting a key from the bunch
on his chain inserted it in the lock of a small but massive safe that
was let into the wall by the fireplace.  He took from it a portfolio of
black leather, and, seating himself near the lights of a branch
candelabra, unfastened the little strap.

It contained a varied assortment of papers, and Dasso ran through them
hurriedly until he came to a card bearing a photograph.  This he held
close to the light and scanned narrowly.

He saw an old silver print of a young and beautiful woman in royal
robes.  Tall, and of a commanding carriage that savoured somewhat of
arrogance, the late Queen of San Pietro looked out from the faded
picture.  For some minutes Senor Dasso gazed at the eyes, looking away
now and again as though conjuring up some picture to his mind.  Then he
spoke murmuringly to himself, his eyes fixed on the portrait he held in
his hand.

"I who knew you better than the others--_I who saw you last of
all_--can perhaps see more than the others now.  Yes, Queen Elene, your
eyes have looked at me again to-night--in the flesh"--he laughed
shortly--"but I did not flinch, Elene; the nerves of Gabriel Dasso are
as firm to-day as they were fifteen years ago."

For a little while longer he looked, a half smile curling his cruel
mouth, then he replaced the photograph in the portfolio, putting with
it the three poker hands of Lieutenant Mozara, and again locked it in
the safe.

Then taking the candelabra, he ascended the wide oak staircase to his
chamber.




CHAPTER XI

THE LIEUTENANT HONOURS GALVA

The residence which Edward Povey Sydney had chosen for his party
occupied a central position overlooking the blue waters of the
Mediterranean, and embracing a fine view of the Bay of Lucana from the
verdure-clad heights of the western arm to the tiny white lighthouse
that stood sentinel on the spur of rock to the eastward.

The house itself was modern, having been built five years before
Edward's arrival by a Cornhill financier, to whom the extradition laws
of San Pietro offered as much inducement as the climate.  But at the
end of his first year's residence the call of the joys of London proved
too strong for the poor man of finance, and the change from the luxury
of Venta Villa to the hardships of a cell at Dartmoor had been as
unpleasant as it had been swift.

Whatever may have been the failings of the poor gentleman--and
doubtless they were many and varied--he had shown a pretty taste in the
designing and building of Venta Villa and a wise expenditure of his--or
rather other people's--money.  The house stood high, having the
appearance of being propped up by a series of little lawns and white
terraces.  The steps leading from the front portico, widening out as
they descended, gave upon a square courtyard in which played
curiously-carved little fountains.  Palms in green tubs lined this
pathway of steps, and the banks of the lawns were gay with flowering
shrubs.

Miss Baxendale, looking adorable in an old rose, tailor-made gown, that
set off the slender lines of her little figure to perfection, stood on
the top step debating how and where to spend the hour or so before
_dejeuner_.

It was a glorious morning in late January, and the girl's eyes and
cheeks glowed with health as she drank in the delicious morning air.
Below her the promenade was bright with a happy, well-dressed crowd,
the sprinkling of uniforms adding greatly to the gaiety of the scene.
Slender victorias and smart dog-carts trotted up and down under the
acacias, and shapely motors threaded their noiseless way in and out of
the slower traffic, the sun glinting bravely upon their polished brass
and silver.

So occupied was the little lady with the novelty and beauty of her
surroundings, that she did not at first notice the scarlet and black
figure which had detached itself from the crowd of promenaders and now
stood trying to attract her attention at the gateway of the lower
courtyard.  When she did so, she smiled, and waving her long white
gloves, ran lightly down to him.

It cannot be said that she was in any way attracted to Lieutenant
Gaspar Mozara, in fact, had she asked herself the question, she would
have said that she disliked him, but she was gracious to the young
soldier from a sense of duty to his uncle, for since presenting Mr.
Baxendale's letter to Senor Luazo, the old aristocrat had done
everything in his power to make their stay on the island a pleasant one.

As to the true object of their coming to San Pietro, Galva had been
willing, as in Paris, to let things in the mean time shape themselves.
Senor Luazo also, when put in possession of all the facts, advised
caution.

There seemed to her something horrible in the thought of "plotting" in
this gay little kingdom.  To her the name of "plot" meant bloodshed and
hardships, and the world in all its beauty was so new, and seemed so
good to her, that she was loath to endanger her newly-acquired
paradise.  She had even told Edward that she had no immediate desire to
be a queen of anywhere, let alone San Pietro--life in the little villa,
overlooking the bay, seemed to her far more desirable than existence in
the rather ugly royal palace on the hills behind the town--the palace
with its long rows of square windows, that reminded her of a workhouse.
And in her own heart she was looking forward to the visit to Paris in a
year, and her thoughts ran on the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer more often
than Mr. Sydney or Anna suspected.  She told herself that she did not
want to take that journey as a queen, with a crowd of irritating
courtiers and maids-of-honour.

"I suppose this is the height of the season, Lieutenant Mozara," she
said, indicating the butterfly throng moving round them as they made
their way along the boulevard; "how happy and gay they all seem, and
what a happy and gay little kingdom you have here--laughter, laughter
everywhere."

"Yes, Miss Baxendale, it is the season--we have a long one.  We are
always happy here; it is only in the height of summer that it is quiet,
and then there's nobody here to see it.  All these villas are empty
then, and everybody who is anybody is in London or Paris.  When the
king dies, however----"

"Why, is King Enrico very ill?"

"Surely you have heard, Miss Baxendale, that it is only a matter of
months, perhaps weeks.  There will be trouble then, I'm afraid.  You
see, the heir-apparent is not popular.  It will be the chance for a
strong man then."

"But this heir--is he here, in Corbo?"

"Here?  he's never here.  It's little he troubles about San Pietro.
They say he's in Africa now, shooting lions or something silly.  The
man who keeps his throne warm for him will hardly welcome him when he
does come back."

"And who will this man be--this man who keeps his throne warm?"

The young soldier turned and pointed with his cane to where Senor
Dasso's house rose, gaunt and forbidding, above the roofs and gables of
the old town.

"Dasso, undoubtedly--and with him will rise others.  I am a friend of
Dasso's," he added meaningly.

"Which means----?"

The lieutenant made an expressive gesture with his shoulders.

"Who knows?  A dukedom perhaps"; then, as he looked at her, "I shall
have to be looking out for a duchess."

The girl laughed, and gazed out over the sea.

"She will be a lucky woman," she said carelessly.

For a little while the smart figure in its astrakhan tunic and scarlet
riding-breeches walked on beside Galva in silence.  During the two
months of their acquaintance, Lieutenant Mozara had found himself
irresistibly attracted by this beautiful girl from England, and the
task imposed upon him during the last week by Senor Dasso had been
irksome and distasteful in the extreme.  Since the eventful night of
the marked cards the two men had not met, but Dasso would soon be
getting impatient, and Mozara had during the last few days learnt much
respecting Miss Baxendale's presence in San Pietro, and he suspected
more.

He found himself between two stools, his fear of Dasso and the
unbounded ambition that his suspicions of Galva's parentage had roused
in him.  As the accepted suitor of the girl by his side he would be in
a strong position--strong enough, perhaps, to defy his enemy.  But he
told himself he must speak before her secret was known, it would be
impossible after.

These thoughts ran quickly through his brain as they walked along the
crowded promenade.  Then, impetuous as ever, he bent his head until his
lips all but touched a tendril of dark hair that had strayed from under
the fascinating toque that Galva wore.

"You think so, really, Miss Baxendale, that she will be a lucky woman.
Will _you_ be she?"

In a moment the little face became white and set.

"Lieutenant Mozara!"

"Is it so strange, then, that I should have learnt to love you?  We of
the South do not hesitate to speak where our hearts are concerned.  I
ask you, is it strange?"

"I--I--don't know how to answer you, lieutenant, I only know
that--that----Oh!  I didn't expect this."

"Do you dislike me, Miss Baxendale?"

"Dislike--oh no, but I do not love you."

"And you could never do so?"

The girl paused in her walk and faced the young soldier.  "This
conversation is distasteful to me, Lieutenant Mozara.  If you will have
an answer, it is that I could never look upon you except as a friend."

A look of anger came into Mozara's narrow eyes.

"That sounds final," he said rather nastily; "there is some one else,
then?"

"You have no right to say that," and Galva thought again of a certain
nobleman and of delightful rides in the glades of Fontainebleu.

"Pardon me, Miss Baxendale, I have offended you."

"Offended--no, but I am afraid you have put a stop to a very pleasant
friendship.  These walks will be impossible now, won't they?"

The girl smiled a sad little smile and went on: "I have some shopping
to do, lieutenant, and that street up there looks promising.  Do you
know, a woman can tell a shop miles away."

She held out her hand, and in a moment she was gone, leaving Lieutenant
Gaspar Mozara with anger in his heart.

"So it must be the other way, my lady; Gaspar Mozara does not ask
twice."  He said this between set teeth, and hailing a passing fiacre,
gave the direction of Senor Dasso's house in the old town.

      *      *      *      *      *

Dasso was sitting reading in the oak-panelled library.  It was a
dignified apartment, low ceilinged and sombre in colouring.  The
firelight played richly on the dark red hangings and on the pewter
which stood on the low bookcases.  In shadowy corners stood suits of
armour, with here and there a choice bronze statue.

The ex-Dictator put aside the book and rose as the lieutenant was
announced, and held out his hand with a show of greeting.

"I have been expecting you," he said.

Gaspar Mozara drew a chair up to face his host, and threw himself into
it with an oath.  Dasso looked his inquiries.

"Expecting me, have you?  It was useless my worrying you, senor, until
I had news."

Senor Dasso rose and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Now look here, Gaspar, there's no need for you to be surly.  There are
times ahead in San Pietro, and you should be honoured to think that I
have chosen you to work with me.  Oh, I know you are thinking of those
cards--they are just my safeguard, nothing more, against treachery.  A
hand such as I am playing does not allow of throwing away a single
trick, of missing a single chance.  Work with me, Gaspar, and forget
that you ever played poker."

A manservant entered and placed refreshment on the table and
noiselessly withdrew.

Dasso poured out Madeira into two thin goblets of Venetian glass and
handed one to the young man, who stood looking into the fire, seeing in
the glowing coals the disdainful face of Galva Baxendale.  He stood up
with a clanking of spurs on the polished oak floor and took the glass.

"To Dasso," he said, with a reckless laugh; "To King Gabriel the First."

He drained the goblet, then: "You may burn the cards, Dasso, as I have
burned my boats.  Heart and soul I am with you, and any work in your
cause I will do, for it is my cause, too, now.  And the more devilish
the work the better I shall like it.  My fiacre is outside, Dasso; I
will come again this evening.  My news can hold till then; I am taking
Julie to lunch at Amato's."




CHAPTER XII

IN THE CATHEDRAL AT CORBO

Shopping was very far from the thoughts of Galva Baxendale as she made
her way up the street that ran at right angles to the promenade.
Tumultuous thoughts they were, in which the figures of Lieutenant
Mozara and the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer played important parts.

She must have walked a considerable distance, for when she glanced at
the tiny watch at her wrist she saw that it was eleven o'clock.  At the
same moment the sonorous chimes of a clock reached her, and glancing up
she saw, between the gables of the houses at the end of the street, the
white facade of Corbo Cathedral showing brightly in the sunlight.

It had been her first thought on arriving in San Pietro to pay a visit
to the tombs of her ill-fated father and mother.  Never having known
them, she could not be expected to feel a very poignant or present
grief, but the sadness of the story made a deep impression, and at
times she tried to tell herself that within the storehouse of her
memory there was a corner in which a black-bearded man, a-glitter with
scarlet and gold, had place.  A fancy, doubtless, and one that would
have had no existence had she never left her Cornish home.  But the
knowledge that she had been born in the palace behind the town, helped
the illusion, an illusion of a father, and she grappled it to her soul
with all the strength of her loving nature.

Edward Sydney had, however, reasoning with the brain of your true
conspirator, been firm.  There was, to his mind, a grave risk to the
living in a too demonstrative reverence for the dead.  It is true he
had agreed to one visit to the tombs, as ordinary tourists, and Galva
gave a little shudder at the recollection.

She had looked through tear-dimmed eyes at the marble effigies of the
monarchs, at the stern cameo of her father, and the cold beauty of her
mother.  In the latter figure the sculptor had with a cunning hand
suggested the form of a little child beneath the drapery at the
breasts.  Galva had listened as in a dream to the little black-robed
sacristan, whose duty it was to show the burial-place to visitors, as
he had gabbled through the history of the tragedy.  He described
minutely the attack upon the palace and told of how the king and queen
met their deaths.  The baby princess Miranda had her share, too, in the
history, and it was evident that no suspicion had ever come into the
mind of the little sacristan that the body of the princess had not
indeed been buried with the mother.

Galva noticed that the narrator carefully avoided mentioning the names
of any who had taken part in the attack, and she found it hard to
believe that such scenes could have ever taken place in this kingdom of
gaiety and pleasure.  There would have been a grim humour almost in
this listening to the details of her own death when an infant, were the
circumstances less pitiful.  She had dropped a gold piece into the box
for the masses for the dead, which the sacristan noticed, and he looked
curiously at this pretty little tourist who gave so generously.

Then, there had been nothing to tell them from the ordinary
sight-seers, and it was the only visit that Edward had thought
expedient.  And now, finding herself alone, she felt an uncontrollable
desire to enter the cathedral and pray for a little while.  She would
not go against her guardian's wish, but would be content to kneel in
the great nave and look through the oak screen that divided the
mausoleum of the Estratos from the main body of the church.

The cathedral stood on the edge of the old part of the town, and Galva
was struck by the difference in her surroundings.  Apart from a group
of green-veiled American tourists, who, guide-book in hand, were gazing
up at the famous rose window over the central porch, she seemed alone
with the natives of San Pietro.  She looked in astonishment at the poor
houses, with their broken roofs, and their windows stuffed with rags
and brown paper, at the mean little shops and at the dirtiness and
poverty-stricken look of the people.  Little dark-eyed urchins, filthy
in the extreme, rolled and played in the gutters unchecked by the
untidy women who idled and gossiped in the doorways.  The men loafing
at the street corners were a lazy-looking set of ruffians, and the
whole aspect was most depressing.

As Galva ascended the steps of the building between the rows of ragged
and crippled beggars who daily congregated there to expose their
miseries to the charitably inclined, a conviction came to her that all
this hopeless poverty was the real result of the rule of the dissipated
old monarch who lay dying up at the Palace.  The new town of Corbo with
its palatial hotels and wide boulevards was a whited sepulchre, behind
which the sores of the true San Pietro festered in hiding.

As she walked slowly up the high-roofed nave she told herself that she
was doing wrong to shirk her destiny, and that in the joys of Paris and
Corbo she was apt to forget that she was God's anointed, and that these
people were hers.  The royal blood of the Estratos leaped in her veins
as her duty was so plainly shown to her, and she took from her little
handbag a rosary--for Galva had been brought up by Anna Paluda in the
true Catholic faith--and registered a vow that with the Blessed
Virgin's help she would be the salvation of her people, and would act
to the utmost in her power in the high position to which she had been
called.

She was in an ecstasy as she stood before the oak screen and let the
ivory and rosewood beads slip through her little fingers.  The sunlight
pierced the emblazonry of the window set high above the tombs, and
threw a pure orange stream of radiance upon the sculptured image of the
babe at the breast, and the girl watching with parted lips took it for
an omen.

Then as her sight grew more accustomed to the vague dimness of the
cathedral she started and gazed into the gloom at the foot of her
mother's sarcophagus.  Dimly outlined against the tesselated pavement
knelt the black-robed figure of a woman, a woman who, as she watched,
rose to her feet and looking round timidly placed a spray of white
blossoms full in the orange light.

With compressed lips and a heart bursting with compassion Galva drew
back into the shadow of a little chapel as Anna Paluda, walking with
bowed head, passed her and left the cathedral.

      *      *      *      *      *

It had been arranged that Senor Luazo and his nephew should dine that
evening at Venta Villa, and Galva looked forward with no little
trepidation to re-encountering the amorous lieutenant.

As she entered the drawing-room where Edward and Anna awaited the
coming of their guests, the long mirror facing the door and between the
two French windows showed her a picture of a radiant girl in a simple
robe of a soft clinging blue material and with dark hair coiled
turban-wise around a shapely head.

Edward looked up as she entered and smiled his admiration.  He was fast
growing accustomed to his changed mode of life, and he was beginning to
take as a matter of course things which a few months ago he scarcely
knew existed.

It was very pleasant to be standing there on the white bearskin rug in
front of the fire waiting to extend the hand of welcome to Senor Luazo
and Lieutenant Mozara.  He smiled to himself grimly as he thought what
either of these distinguished personages would think if they could look
back a while and see a bowed little figure shuffling across London
Bridge.

Seated in a low wicker chair Anna Paluda was watching with folded hands
the flickering of the firelight on the Dutch tiles of the hearth.  She
looked very dignified in her black silk dress--Anna never wore
colours--relieved by a touch of Honiton lace at throat and wrists.

The room was small, cosily so.  The carpets and curtains were of a rich
terra-cotta and the furniture was brocaded in a dull yellow.  Delicate
china showed richly in the shadowy recesses of a cabinet, and the
little cluster of electric bulbs shaded in yellow silk gave a soft
light.  The two long windows, reaching to the floor, looked like panels
of blue-black velvet in which the lights of the yachts anchored in the
bay gleamed like diamonds.  One could catch a glimpse also of a balcony
on which were pots of shrubs and little green painted tables.

Galva was relieved to find that Mozara greeted her as usual.  In fact,
he was so attentive to her during dinner that she found herself
wondering if she had not taken his remarks of the morning too
seriously, and whether he had not been in fun half the time.

The dinner, well served and admirably cooked, was a success, and it was
about ten o'clock when Mozara made an excuse to leave them, pleading
another appointment.  Galva had hoped that he wished the episode of the
morning to be forgotten, but as she stood by the drawing-room door
bidding him "good-night" he touched on the subject.

"Did you find the shop you wanted, Miss Baxendale?"

She felt the colour come to her cheeks, but the soldier was waiting for
an answer.

"No, I'm afraid not--it was rather a disappointing morning."

"It was to me," he said; "but we are friends, I hope, Miss Baxendale,
eh?  Our appointment for to-morrow holds good, I hope?"  And Galva had
looked serious for a moment, then smiled sunnily in answer.

Once clear of Venta Villa, the lieutenant turned, and the arc lamps
showed the cunning ferocity of his sallow face as he shook his fist at
the house he had just left.

"_Friends_!" he hissed.  "Yes, my work will be easier if we are
friends."

Then he hurried on to keep his appointment with Dasso.

      *      *      *      *      *

After Galva and Anna had retired, Edward sat smoking with his guest in
the little library of the villa.  He thought it a good opportunity to
talk over the state of affairs, and he opened by remarking on the
rumours of the king's health that had been rife in Corbo the last few
days.

The old gentleman stroked his long white beard meditatively for a
moment.

"It cannot be long now," he said at last; "the good God ease his
passing.  The princess must hold herself in readiness, for at the
moment the breath leaves the body of Enrico, Dasso, who has many
friends in the army, will hasten to the Palace, and will cause himself
to be proclaimed king.  I know that, in this, he has a secret
understanding with Spain herself.  Miranda--I mean Galva--must be there
also, Mr. Sydney; the people must choose."

"And what will Spain say to that?"

"Spain, my dear sir, is powerless where an Estrato is concerned.
Enrico's nephew even must bow to her claim.  Believe me there will be
no difficulty; but it is better to be in time and not to allow Dasso to
mount the throne at all.  It might be harder to dislodge him once
there, than we imagine."

The old man paused for a moment and drew his chair nearer to Edward.

"I saw him look at her very hard that evening they met at my house.
They say," his voice sank to a whisper, "that Gabriel Dasso's was the
hand that struck down the royal victims that night fifteen years ago.
It is said that he and one other alone of all the band of conspirators
went right through with it.  That other, a Senor Orates, shot himself
within a week."

"And the people--do they know this?"

Senor Luazo made an expressive gesture with his hands.

"Fifteen years is a long time, Mr. Sydney, and the people of San Pietro
have a short memory.  There are a few of us old ones, we who knew the
king and his queen, who do not forget.  We have been unconsciously
awaiting this day for fifteen years.  I wonder if Dasso saw any
likeness when he looked at her?  There _is_ a likeness, elusive indeed,
but at times I see the eyes of Queen Elene as I have seen them look on
those she liked.  If Dasso saw it too, he will be dangerous.  I would
like to come to an issue with Gabriel; regicide that he is, he is
received everywhere.  His crime has never been brought home to him, and
in any case is regarded as a political one.  It has made my blood boil,
senor, to see him at my table."

Long after Senor Luazo had left, Edward sat gazing into the dying fire.
The windows of the library looked inland, and by turning his head he
could see the row of lights in the Palace windows.  He thought of the
dying king and of how the affair that looked at first like being a
comedy, might at any moment now develop into a tragedy.




CHAPTER XIII

THE PLOT

The doorway of Gabriel Dasso's house stood open and the gleam of yellow
light that cut into the darkness showed old Pieto the groom holding by
the bridle a horse that seemed by its steaming hide to have been hard
ridden and but newly arrived.  Lieutenant Mozaro slackened his steps as
he mounted the hill, asking himself what visitor this could be that
rode in haste to Dasso at so late an hour.

Remembering the business of his own visit he drew back into the shadow
of the stable yard of a little _posada_ that stood nearly opposite.  It
was striking eleven down in the town and the inn had done its business
of the day, and, save for a little square of light in an upper storey,
was in darkness.  Gaspar leant against the gate-post and watched the
horse standing with outstretched neck and drooping head, and the form
of the groom silhouetted against the glow of the hall.  Old Pieto
looked now and again, with a show of impatience, within the house,
thinking, no doubt, of the interrupted supper awaiting him below stairs.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed--it seemed longer to the man
waiting in the stable yard--when the booted and spurred figure of a
young man came out upon the doorstep.  He stood there a moment drawing
on his riding-gloves, and turned and spoke to the master of the house
who stood behind him, just within the hall.  The young rider took the
reins from old Pieto and swung himself gracefully into the saddle.  He
bent down for a final word or two, then brought his horse sharply round
and with a dig of the heels set him at the hill that led inland.

Mozaro was about to leave his retreat when he heard the window of the
inn open.  From his point of vantage in the shadow, he saw a head
emerge--a round bullet-shaped head that took the attitude of listening.
It remained motionless until the clatter of the horse's hoofs upon the
cobbled street died away, then it turned a face full upon the spot
where he stood, and Mozaro gave a start as he remembered that he had
not put out his cigar.  The face was a strange one to him, and he knew
that Detti, the host of the Three Lilies, did not entertain many
guests.  Moreover, it was not the face of a native of San Pietro.  A
moment the stranger regarded him fixedly, then with a muttering in a
language that was certainly not Spanish, but was undoubtedly a curse,
the window was slammed shut and the light extinguished.

The lieutenant turned towards the house opposite.  Old Pieto had
disappeared, but Dasso still stood upon the doorstep looking anxiously
along the road towards the town.  As Mozaro came out of the shadow he
gave a start, then greeted him eagerly.  He drew him inside and closed
the stout oaken door.

"There has been great news to-night," he said, and led the way to the
library.

The two men seated themselves at the table on which was strewn a few
official-looking papers.

"Enrico is worse, Gaspar; I have just heard from the Palace that he may
go at any time.  The doctors wonder at his vitality."

"Threatened men live long."

"Yes, and there's another proverb, I believe, about it being hard to
kill a weed--Enrico may laugh at the doctors yet.  But," went on Dasso,
"we must be in readiness.  Miss Baxendale must be secured or silenced."

Lieutenant Mozara looked straight in the elder man's eyes.

"You mean the Princess Miranda, Dasso."

The other looked up quickly.

"Ah, then you have heard?"

"I have heard enough to know that.  I have played the spy well," and
the sallow face lit up with an evil grin.  "I have suspected the facts
for two days now."

He drew his chair closer to Dasso's.

"And what is more, they are waiting for the same signal as you are.
When the guns at the Palace boom out the death--well--it'll be the
devil take the hindmost."

Gabriel Dasso rose and paced nervously up and down the room, biting his
moustache.  It seemed to him that here was a grave danger, and he
cursed the luck that had brought Miranda to life at the time when his
plans seemed so prosperous--when success seemed assured.  Then a
thought occurred to him and he pulled up sharp before the man who was
sitting drumming his fingers on the table.

"It seems to me, Gaspar, that you have taken up my cudgels very
thoroughly.  Your expression when you spoke of her Royal Highness
wasn't a very pretty one.  You don't like the lady, eh?"

"No, curse her--I don't."

"So.  That's how the land lies.  That accounts for your keeping your
suspicions to yourself for two days.  It seems to me," and his voice
grew hard, "that Lieutenant Gaspar Mozara has had a fish of his own to
fry."

"You can keep your taunts, Gabriel.  I neither understand them nor
appreciate them.  I am with you in this matter, body and soul--does not
that suffice?"

"It is everything, my dear boy.  We won't quarrel.  Hate is a good
weapon.  I hope you have not put the princess out of temper with you?"

"Miranda and I are the best of _friends_.  I thought it better that we
should be.  We motor together to-morrow morning.  Doesn't that suggest
anything to you, Gabriel?"

"My dear Gaspar, it suggests so many things that I'm bewildered."

"Will the news of Enrico's relapse reach the town to-night?"

"It's hardly likely--my source of information is a private one."

"I'm calling for the lady at nine.  The news mustn't reach Venta Villa
before then, or she will be kept in readiness."

For some little time neither of the men spoke, then Dasso leant over
and whispered the plot that had occurred to his fertile and evil brain.

"You will call with the car at nine, as arranged.  After a spin twice
past the villa to allay any suspicion of the girl being long away, you
will suggest a run to Alcador.  The road is a good one, and you can
open out to any speed.  About ten miles out you will see--no doubt you
know it--a castle, one tower of which shows up from a little forest of
pines.

"You will here pretend that something is amiss with the engine.  You
will descend, and while she is watching you at the bonnet, a man will
enter the tonneau from behind.  A chloroform pad will do the rest.
Pieto and his wife will be at the castle, which belongs to a distant
relative of mine, to receive the guest."

"An excellent plan, senor, but what will they say to me?"

"That's only the first half of the plan.  You will turn the car and run
back to where four miles from here the road winds ledgewise, round the
western spur of the Yeldo hills.  There is a low stone wall here, and
the curves are dangerous.  You will stop here and alight, and set the
empty car at full speed at this wall.  It will give way easily, and the
river, which runs at this spot in a series of falls and rapids, will do
all that is needed in the way of evidence."

Mozara opened his mouth to speak, but Dasso held up a silencing hand,
and went on: "You will then throw over the cloak and hat that the girl
was wearing, and walk on to a cottage which you will see a little
nearer the town.  Here you will be met by a friend of mine who will
transfigure you.  Immediately afterwards a cart will leave the cottage
containing poor Lieutenant Mozara.  His arm will be in plaster of
Paris, and his clothing will be torn to ribbons and blood-stained.  A
bandage will be wound around his poor head."  Senor Dasso laughed.
"His will have been a narrow escape.

"Search will be made and the wrecked car discovered.  Sympathy will go
out to the friends of the late Miss Baxendale, whose body will be
stated to be in one of the deep holes which abound in the River
Ardentella.  And so for the second time this person's death will be
announced."

"And what will you do with her ultimately?"

"In that we must be guided by circumstances.  I see no reason why, if
the lady be reasonable, she should not in the long run go free, if
not--" he shrugged his shoulders--"I would be generous to her in the
way of money, and once on the throne I fear nothing.  Spain will see to
that."

"And what of her friends?"

"I'll find a way to crush that worm Sydney, while as for the woman--I
don't know who she is, a paid companion, no doubt--I don't think she
counts."

To Mozara the scheme sounded good.  He was not at all anxious to play
the part of invalid for long, but, as Dasso pointed out, his injuries
could turn out less serious than was at first supposed.  Again, he did
not like losing the car.  But it was revenge that smoothed the way for
him.  He thought of the proud disdain that had shown in Miranda's face
that morning, and it was enough.

An hour later old Pieto and a sour-looking woman, who, by the
discourtesy he showed her, was presumably his wife, set out in a
covered cart and made their way inland.  Again, a little later, two men
who had spent an hour with Senor Dasso left and took the same road.




CHAPTER XIV

AT CASA LUZO

Leading out of the town of Corbo, the Alcador road ascends steeply to
the Palace Square, where, leaving the royal residence on its left, it
winds away over a stretch of desolate brown moorland and cuts its way
through the Yeldo Hills at the Quinlon Pass.  Once through, the red
fluted roofs of Alcador and the yellow belfry of its church lie spread
out before one.

And all the way to the hills the road has for its constant companion
the blue Ardentella, running first this side and then that.  The many
bridges where the road crosses the river are quaint old structures, the
architecture of which plainly points to their origin being Moorish.

The casual traveller journeying on this road would pass the Casa Luzo
without being aware of its existence.  At one time the tower showed
above the trees, a landmark for miles around, but that was long ago,
and, as the stout stonework had crumbled into ruin, so had the forest
spread in density, so that there was now little likelihood of the
jagged tower that mingled with the tree tops being noted.  True, there
was a gateway, but there were no gates hanging on its hinges; only two
gaunt pillars of stone, their bases hidden in a rank mass of herbage.

Count Ribero, in whose family the castle had been since Alfonso VI
reigned over Spain, never visited his ancestral home, the gay young
nobleman preferring the little villa on the shore at San Sebastian
which had come to him from his mother.  Dasso, therefore, by his
distant cousin's invitation made free with the place for all purposes
without compunction.

At his own expense he had made a few rooms inhabitable, and the hunting
parties and carousals which he had held there had been until lately
very popular amongst the gilded youth of the San Pietro army.

But of late years Dasso's orgies had been less frequent.  Political
ambitions had taken up the time of that enterprising gentleman, and the
rooms were beginning to show the effects of non-usage.  Large patches
of damp were making their appearance on walls and ceilings, and the
somewhat gaudy hangings and furniture were fast becoming the happy
hunting ground of moth.

Old Pieto felt a thrill of superstitious awe as he turned the key in
the massive lock.  A chill wind pierced him as he threw open the great
door and stepped into the gloomy hall.  The lantern he carried threw
shaking patches of ochre light on the flagged floor, and an army of
rats and spiders scampered away at the approach of this intruder in
their domains.  One great fellow stood his ground, regarding the
intruder with beady black eyes in which the rays of the lantern touched
little pin points of flame.  With a cry old Pieto flung the heavy
door-key, and, squeaking, old King Rat disappeared.

A woman with a thin wrinkled face had been peering over the old man's
shoulder, and now she followed him timidly into the hall, holding her
skirts well above her ankles and looking fearsomely at the desolation
around her.  On her arm she carried a large basket, which she now set
down at the foot of the staircase.

Old Pieto remembered the last occasion when he had been there, some two
months ago, when a supper had been organized by Dasso to celebrate the
benefit of La Belle Espanzo at the Casino, and as he opened the door of
the dining-hall the scene came back to him in full force.

The long oaken table from which the cloth had been half snatched was
still littered with the _debris_ of the feast.  The old manservant knew
that he ought to have cleared it away, but it was a long journey from
Corbo, and it had been put off.  A tall epergne in the centre of the
table had been overturned, and flowers, yellow and brittle, were
tumbled together with the wrinkled mummies of fruit, and lay in a
scattered heap on the oak floor.  He remembered how the young bloods
had toasted the lovely dancer, drinking champagne from her slipper.
The little high-heeled satin drinking vessel still lay on the table,
shapeless now and stained with wine.  Pieto noticed that a giant spider
web stretched from the dainty rosette of the shoe to the back of one of
the carved chairs.

The sight of the disarray of wine bottles suggested the cellar to the
old man, and, still carrying the lantern, he descended the broken stone
steps at the end of the passage, reappearing almost immediately with a
couple of tall thin-necked flasks.

He called his wife and bade her make a fire in the open grate, and soon
the blaze shone merrily on the tarnished silver and glass on the table
and threw weird and flickering shadows into the corners of the dark
panelled walls.

The worthy couple, with chairs drawn up to the genial warmth, attacked
the bottles gratefully.  It was no joke for the master to pack them off
to this spot in the dead of night.  The journey had been a long and
wearisome one, they had had to walk the last quarter of a mile, and it
had rained a little as they came through the forest.

But there was work to do and to do quickly.  Pieto was content to
superintend operations, and he issued orders from his armchair, while
Teresa cleared the _debris_ from the table.  The old fellow, warmed by
the wine he had taken, entertained his wife with reminiscences of the
feast.  He rubbed his skinny hands together as he talked.

"Ah, that was a night, Teresa--the wine flowed like water--the best in
the cellars, too.  And the beautiful Espanzo--divine!" the old
reprobate kissed the grimy tips of his fingers, "blue-black hair, and a
mouth like a splash of wine--and--her eyes as she danced!"

The old woman seemed not to hear him, working steadily, piling the
broken glass and fruit into the table-cloth and tying up the four
corners.  Her husband looked shrewdly at her from beneath his shaggy
brows and rambled on.

"On the table, too, she danced, all among the wine and the flowers--and
me, too.  The gentlemen made me, old Pieto, dance with her, and, as we
danced, she sang the tune--how did it go?--yes," and the ancient broke
out into a wheezing treble of a weird and sensuous melody, ending in a
harsh chuckle as his wife left the room, taking her bundle with her.

Candles had been set upright in the sconces and shed a soft light on
the handsome old apartment, to which duster and broom soon gave a look
of respectability.  The old woman paused and surveyed her work.

"And where is she to be put?" she asked the figure by the fire, who,
with goblet in hand, had fallen again to his humming.

"Eh--oh," and he pointed to the ceiling.  "Above here, I suppose, for
the present--the Duchess room.  Hurry, Teresa, it'll be daylight soon.
Put a fire up there, the room will be damp--ugh!"

"Ah, you can shiver, Pieto.  Why don't you work and get warmth into
your old blood?  Get me a few logs from the outhouse, won't you?  I
don't like rats."

"Ay, I'll do that for you.  Get you upstairs.  I'll bring them up."

Pieto relit the lantern, and his shuffling footsteps died away down the
stone passage.  There was a creak of rusty bolts and a gust of the
chill air that comes before the dawn flickered the candles in the
dining-room.

Outside, the old man made his way across a paved court-yard, the stones
of which were worn and cracked with age, and little blades of tender
green showed between the crevices.  One side of the yard was
colonnaded, and the moonlight cut clear designs of shadow among the
lichen-covered pillars.  On the other three sides a high stone wall
separated the house and yard from the forest.  Pieto could see the
sharp silhouettes of the tall pine tops against the star-strewn sky.
The rain had ceased, and there was a delicious freshness in the air,
and the woodland was alive with the tiny noises of the night.

A bat zigzagged before the man's eyes, and he hurried on his errand.
He collected an armful of logs from a shed in the corner and hastened
back to the fire.  He did not forget to pay another visit to the cellar
on his way.

By the time Teresa's labours were finished birds were calling to their
mates, and the higher branches of the trees were flushed with the dawn.
The dining-room showed ghostly as she entered it.  Her husband was
still before the nearly dead fire, his arms hanging inertly on either
side, the finger-tips touching the floor.  A broken glass lay at his
feet, and the red wine had run into a little pool.  The rays of the
newly-risen sun struggled through the escutcheoned panes and cast a
variegated sheen over all, and a candle which had outlasted its fellows
shone with a pale sickly light.  Teresa laid a heavy hand on the
shoulder of her sleeping lord.

"Pig," she said.

A snore was strangled at its birth, and Pieto sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"I've been asleep," he said, as though the fact were one that called
for amazement.

"You've been drunk, you mean.  Get out to the yard, man, and to the
pump, and go and lie down on the bed up-stairs.  A nice thing," she
went on, "if our visitor arrives and those who bring her find you like
this.  I still have work to do."

The old man looked sullen but did not answer.  He ran his tongue round
his parched mouth and did as he was bid, while his wife, upon whom this
unwonted night-work seemed to have little or no effect, busied herself
in the kitchen.

It was about mid-day when a cautious tap at the window brought her
hastily to the front of the building.  Lieutenant Mozara, his face
white and drawn, stood leaning against one of the stone pillars that
supported the portico.

"Is all ready?  Where's Pieto?"

Murmuring some answer, Teresa ran back into the house, and in a moment
returned with her husband.  He was but half-awake, but at the sight of
the lieutenant he pulled himself together.  He saluted the officer, and
together the two men ran through the belt of woodland which lay between
the house and the road.

Gaspar had done his work well.  The figure of Galva Baxendale lay
stretched out on the little ribbon of grass that ran beside the road.
The car stood vibrating beside her, and with an oath Gaspar ran to it
and shut off the engine.  Then without further delay the men lifted the
unconscious girl and made their way back to the house.

The lieutenant waited only long enough to drain the glass of wine
Teresa had poured out for him.  His hand shook so that the liquor
splashed upon the door-stone, and the glass rattled against his teeth
as he drank.

It was evident that the old couple had had their instructions, for
hardly a word passed between Mozara and them during the whole time.  In
the rest of the programme Pieto and his wife knew their parts.

When the captive was safely locked away in the room above, they set
about making preparations for the meals of the day.  Now and again the
woman ascended the creaking stairs and listened at the door of the
Duchess room.  They had been given to understand that the effect of the
chloroform would take some few hours to wear off, but dusk fell and
still the victim gave no sign.  Then night came down on the castle, and
in the dining-room the candles were lit and shone on the sallow faces
of the two old people who, with ears nervously strained, still waited
and listened.

A night bird screamed in the forest behind them, echoing eerily around
the still castle.




CHAPTER XV

EDWARD SHOOTS AN ARROW INTO THE AIR

In a state of the deepest dejection Edward Povey listened to the story.
At times during its recital he would raise his head and look at Gaspar
Mozara.  The lieutenant, when Edward's head was bent again, eyed his
hearer narrowly.

He had told his tale well--circumstantially and yet with the feeling
that Anna Paluda, who, sitting rigidly in her chair, never once removed
her doubting eyes from his face, did not believe a word he was saying.
He found it increasingly difficult to marshal his facts under the fire
of those steady watching eyes.  Hitherto, this grim lady in black had
held no importance for him, but now, as he looked at her and felt her
presence, she took on a new individuality.  To Mozara it seemed as
though an unconsidered pawn belonging to an opponent had crept
unobserved up the chess-board of his plans and had become suddenly a
force to be reckoned with.

The lieutenant was between two stools.  He had told his tale, and was
now anxious to be gone, but he felt that no sooner did he leave, so
surely some piece of evidence, some vital point in the scheme would
occur to him as having been left unsaid.

He had made his way to the little villa as soon as the third-rate
medical man, whom Dasso had pressed into the plot, had given the
lieutenant permission to get up, a sorrowful figure in deep mourning.
His right arm was suspended in a sling of black silk and was tightly
swathed in surgical bandages.  He had sunk in well-simulated exhaustion
into the big chintz-covered arm-chair in the drawing-room facing the
sea, and had laid an ebony crutch beside him on the carpet.  One leg
had been carefully stretched out stiffly before him.

Edward, all unsuspecting, had assisted him in his movements and had
opened the windows, letting in the bracing breeze that blew up from the
bay.  Anna Paluda, however, had merely inclined her head.  When the
lieutenant entered she had felt only a dull anger against the author of
her poor Galva's death.  It was only as his story progressed that she
grew to doubt the truth of what she was listening to.  Gaspar had begun
with well-acted expressions of sympathy and with carefully considered
phrases of self-condemnation.  He told them that the blame of the
accident had been entirely his in agreeing to Miss Baxendale's demands
for increased speed.  The road was one on which he had seldom travelled
and they had rounded the spur of the hillside before he was aware of
their danger.  He had applied the brakes and turned the wheel to keep
in the middle of the narrow road but the impetus had been too great.
There had been a hideous skid as the car crashed almost broadside into
the old and crumbling wall.

The lieutenant had remembered no more until he had come to his senses
to find that he was being carried along on some kind of rough litter.
The pain and the jolting had caused him again to lose consciousness,
and when next he awoke he was in his uncle's house.

There had been no questions from his hearers.  Anna had sat rigidly as
before, and Edward, his head between his hands, rocked himself gently
to and fro.  From time to time he gave a little moan.

Gaspar had fixed his eyes on the centre of a rose pattern in the
carpet, and had resumed his tale in a low, hopeless voice.

"My first thoughts were of Miss Baxendale and of how she had fared.
For two days they would tell me nothing except that she was slightly
hurt.  I only heard yesterday the true state of affairs, how her cloak
and hat had been found in the ravine near the Wrecked car.  The river,
they tell me, is deep here and weed-grown and there are great rocky
holes.  I----"

The lieutenant had risen with a choking sound in his throat as he
recited these details.  He leant heavily on his crutch, standing before
Anna and Edward.

"This is as painful to me--as to you.  I--I--can say no more."  He
advanced to the little bowed figure before him and held out a
hesitating left hand.

"I would like to hear you say one word, sir.  This affair will be with
me to the day of my death.  I am beyond the reach of Miss Baxendale's
pardon, but not of yours.  You will perhaps be leaving San Pietro and I
would like a word to remember and look back on.  It would be one spot
of brightness in the darkness of my future."

Edward had taken the proffered hand and the lieutenant had bent low
over it, pressing it to his lips.  Then he turned for the harder task
of facing Anna Paluda.  But that lady had taken advantage of his back
being turned to slip unnoticed away.  Gaspar's relief at being spared
the leave-taking was mixed with a disquieting feeling of a pending
misfortune.  He told himself that it would be long before he could
forget the eyes of the lady in black.

Painfully, and with dragging step, Mozara left the house and made his
way down the path to the boulevard.  The fiacre which had been waiting
for him was drawn up at the curb, and into it the wounded officer was
helped by the driver, who, mounting his box, turned his horse and drove
off in the direction of the Old Town.

Edward had sat where his visitor had left him, the prey to the most
poignant sorrow and agony of mind.  To his own rash and criminal act in
personating another man all this tragedy was due.  Although he had, at
times, told himself that Miranda would not be seated upon a throne
without some opposition, he had never imagined that danger threatened
the girl herself.  She was so beautiful and tender-hearted, so
delightfully modern, that the idea of her being the centre of a plot of
scheming scoundrels had barely occurred to him.  That an accident
should have been the cause of her death was a stunning blow to the
little man who sat in the sunlit drawing-room, gazing blankly at the
wall before him.

He rose at last with a sigh, and passed out through the French windows
on to the balcony.  Below him rolled the carriages and motors of the
fashionable world of Corbo; from the smart cafe a little up the
boulevard came the sound of strings of a gipsy orchestra and the
laughter and chatter of the crowd of loungers who were taking their
absinthe.  Edward told himself that in the whole of San Pietro there
was no house afflicted as was Venta Villa.  The flowering shrubs on the
balcony on which he stood, the gaudy red-striped awning over his head
seemed to mock him, and he turned from the gay scene with a little sob.
It was then that he saw Anna Paluda.  She was sitting in a low wicker
chair, and like him had been gazing out upon the boulevard and on to
the blue of the bay beyond.

She beckoned Edward to come to her side, and standing there, one hand
resting on the little iron railing, he listened while the lady told him
of her disbelief in no undecided voice.

Edward's expression changed as he drank in her words, and the hand on
the railing tightened its hold till the knuckles showed white patches
of skin.  The suggestion of doubt on what he had looked upon as an
accepted tragedy was acting as balm upon his spirits, and all the
hidden power of his brain was responding to the call and demanding
action--deeds.

"And you say you watched him?"

"Yes, from this balcony.  As he was getting into the cab, the driver
who was helping him stumbled a little.  I distinctly saw Senor Mozara
put out his _right_ hand and grasp the back of the hood.  I had doubted
before in my own mind, but this is certain.  The lieutenant's right arm
is as sound as his left, for all his surgical bandages.  Again, why
should so important a personage as the nephew of Senor Luazo call in
the services of an unknown medical man, instead of the family
practitioner?"

The lady paused for a moment, then went on fiercely--

"Oh!  I can see it all now.  Dasso, the cursed regicide, is at the
bottom of this.  I, who have suspected the man, have watched his
friends.  I have seen meaning looks, glances pass from evil eye to evil
eye.  Mr. Sydney--you will understand that I, too, have a quarrel with
Dasso.  The hand that struck down Queen Elene struck down my child--the
baby at whose tomb I, her mother, have to sorrow in secret----"

Edward laid a hand lightly on the weeping woman's shoulder.

"And my sorrow, Anna, my anguish!  Have you thought of that, of what it
means to me, who have indirectly brought Miranda to this?"

Anna took his hand between both of hers and looked up at him through
her tears.

"You have been kindness itself, Mr. Sydney.  You had your duty to Mr.
Baxendale and you have done it nobly."

The man turned away and thought of Kyser.  Anna's trust in his
integrity was almost too much for him to bear.  Rapidly the little
devils of pro and con invaded his conscience.  Then and there he
registered a silent vow that come what might he would go through with
it.  There was no turning back now; he would not add cowardice to his
crime.  If Miranda were still in the land of the living, his would be
the hand that would save her and deal vengeance where it was due.  He
hoped that, if need be, he might die in the doing.  He went into his
bedroom and took from his trunk a leather writing-case, and from one of
its pockets a letter.  It had been handed to him as they left the hotel
in Paris, and was from the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer.  He had laughed as
he read it and put it away in his case.  Now he read it with all
seriousness.  It was merely a short note, in which the writer had set
down boyishly his admiration for Miss Baxendale.  He had heroically
demanded that should that lady ever be in trouble, he should be called
upon to come to her assistance.  A letter addressed under cover to M.
de Brea, the manager of the hotel, would always find the duke.

It was a letter breathing the spirit of knight errantry, such a letter
as a love-sick boy of twenty would write.  And yet, as Edward read the
words under the changed conditions, they seemed to hold a deal of truth
and manliness.  The duke was a high-spirited young man, a little
addicted, as Edward had seen, to the vices of his class, but he had
liked and admired him in many ways.

There could be no harm, he told himself, in writing to him.  Perhaps
his grace had already forgotten that he had written such a letter; but
Edward rather thought otherwise.

That evening after dinner he took a letter out and posted it himself.
The outer envelope was addressed to--

  M. de Brea,
    Manager,
      Ruttez Hotel,
        Rue Scribe, Paris;

the inner merely to--

  His Grace le Duc de Choleaux Lasuer
    (by the courtesy of M. de Brea).




CHAPTER XVI

THE GENTLEMAN IN THE TWEED SUIT

It was nine o'clock when Mr. Povey left the little modern red-brick
post-office situated in one of the principal thoroughfares, that ran
steeply inland from the boulevard, and made his way down the hill.

Nine o'clock was an important hour of the twenty-four to the
inhabitants of Corbo, for it was then that the late edition of _El
Imparcial de Corbo_ made its appearance.  The editor and proprietor of
that enterprising journal had an arrangement by which the latest
European news was sent to him direct from a relative employed on the
staff of one of the great Parisian papers.  There was another paper
published in Corbo, but it was not one that appealed to the
sensation-loving San Pietrians.  _El Dia_ was a heavy mass of stodgy
reading matter, that was run, only too evidently, for political reasons
and in the interests of Spain.  It is little wonder, then, that as nine
o'clock approached a little flutter of excitement and anticipation
manifested itself in the crowds that thronged the cafes and boulevards.

Edward called to a little bare-footed, black-eyed urchin, who was
calling his papers, and bought a copy.  He had no desire, in his
present state, nor did he think it a correct thing, to be seen at any
of the fashionable haunts facing the gaily lighted promenade, and he
turned and walked slowly up the street, keeping his eye open for a
place where he could take his refreshment and read his paper in peace.

He decided upon a corner cafe that did not seem to be too well
patronized, and made his way to one of the little round marble-topped
tables sheltered by the glass wind-screen, by which the proprietor
protected his guests from the sharp gusts which at times beat through
the narrow streets of this part of the town.

Calling a waiter, Edward ordered a coffee and cognac, and, lighting a
cigar, opened his paper.  It was a badly printed sheet, still damp from
the press, and smelling evilly of inferior printers' ink.  As he gazed
idly down the columns, Edward could well understand the popularity of
the wretched rag.  Sensation was evidently the keynote of its
policy--that and scare and scandal.  To the editor of the _Impartial de
Corbo_ nothing was sacred.  Povey read first a long leader on the
career of King Enrico, of whose health the reports had the last few
days been again more favourable.  The tone of the article plainly
showed that the editor resented this temporary recovery of a monarch
whom he evidently considered to be of more worth dead than on the
throne of San Pietro.  It mattered nothing to him that the Royal victim
of his pen lay dying within a mile of his printing press.  Ruthlessly
the ruler of San Pietro was attacked--virulently and viciously.  His
mode of legislature, his family quarrels, his private morals, all came
under the lash of the pen.  On the question of morals the writer,
scenting something to whet the appetite of his readers, had let himself
go with a vengeance.

The useful relative in Paris had kept him well supplied with anecdotes
and paragraphs relating to Enrico's frequent visits to the French
capital.  These, while the king had been in good health, he had not
dared to publish; but now, when any moment might be the last, he was
drawing on the stores of his pigeon-holes, with the result that the
cafe loungers of Corbo were given something to talk about.

Edward put down the paper in disgust.  It seemed to his English way of
thinking, a poor thing, this attacking of a dying man, who, if report
spoke true, must be having a bad enough passing as it was.

He looked up to where, between the gables of the opposite houses, the
palace rose up gaunt and sombre above the town.  The portion of the
building which came within his vision was in darkness, save where in
the eastern wing a short row of windows showed little patches of yellow
light.  It was in those rooms that he understood the dying king lay.

Edward pictured the scene behind those windows, the evil-living man
helplessly waiting for what he must hope would be annihilation.  He
imagined the men round the bed, men intent on plunder, and who could
barely wait until the breath left their royal master's body.  He
wondered what visions were disturbing the king's last hours, and he
thought of the many things he had heard of the monarch's past life.

He remembered the tales of murdered and mutilated natives in the rubber
plantations of the tiny colony in West Africa which was under the rule
of San Pietro.  He thought of Enrico's sisters and brothers, all of
whom had put their relative out of their lives--and of the heir,
travelling where no one knew.  The death couch of the King of San
Pietro must be an uneasy one indeed.

The words of Fagin ran through his mind as he watched the windows; how
did they go--"_as it came on dark, he began to think of all the men he
had known who had died....  They rose up in quick succession, that he
could hardly count them_."--Yes, Enrico's last hours must be very like
those spent by the old Jew in his Newgate cell.

Edward shuddered a little and took a sip of cognac.  Then he picked up
the paper again idly and turned to the home news.  There were the usual
amusement notes and the statistics of play at the tables in the Casino.
He read with little interest how a wealthy Austrian nobleman had had a
successive run of seventeen on the black, and how he had been forced to
have the assistance of one of the attendants to carry the spoil to the
hotel.

He looked in vain for an account of the accident on the Alcador road.
Galva's death had been soon forgotten, the readers of _El Imparcial de
Corbo_ were no more interested in it than in the suicide two days
previously of the young American, a ruined gambler, who had thrown
himself into the sea from the rocks east of the bay.

As he rose to pay his bill, voices at a near table arrested him, and he
sat down again and lit the stump of his cigar.  Two men, of the middle
class, were discussing the motor-car fatality.  One of them had
remarked how Lieutenant Mozara should have known that road better than
to have had such an accident.  The speaker himself had seen him often
start out that way, and he had a sister, the wife of an innkeeper at
Alcador, who had told him that the lieutenant seldom missed the
bull-fights that took place periodically in the Plaza of that town.
Edward, with his eyes glued to the paper he held before him, drank in
every word.  It seemed to him corroboration of Anna Paluda's doubts.
There was only one direct road to Alcador, and it was difficult to
imagine for one moment that such an experienced driver as Lieutenant
Mozara undoubtedly was would forget the dangerous bend that wound above
the Ardentella rapids.

And yet he said to himself that Gaspar Mozara was scarcely the man to
take the risk of the fall.  He would be running the same danger as
Miranda, and yet here he was in Corbo, to the best of Edward's belief,
unhurt.  The next words from the adjoining table made matters a little
clearer.  It was the other man who was speaking now.

"----I was on the road when they were getting the wrecked car out of
the water.  I gave them a hand, and, although the machine was badly
smashed, one thing struck me as very curious.  The brakes had not been
applied--whatever happened, the car had gone through the wall at full
speed."

The lieutenant's words of the afternoon returned to the man who was
listening behind the newspaper, how he had put on the brakes when he
had seen the danger.  Edward was now convinced that Mozara was lying,
but even then he was no nearer the solution of the mystery.  Perhaps,
after all, Miranda had been in the car, but Edward would not allow
himself to think that.

He felt sure that some sign further than the hat and cloak would have
been found.  It was barely possible that the girl's body would be so
separated from the car as to leave a hat and cloak only.  It was all
but a certainty that she would have been pinned beneath the wreckage.
The dainty motor bonnet, too, tied tightly, as he remembered, beneath
the chin--how could that have become detached?

No, the more Edward Povey thought of the affair the more certain he
became that the girl was being held prisoner by some one who suspected
her identity.  The lieutenant was, no doubt, acting under the orders of
others, and she would be kept in captivity until Dasso, after the
king's death, was secure on the throne.  Her's was too valuable a life
to dispose of, unless it were absolutely necessary.

All these things passed through Edward's mind as he made his way in the
direction of Venta Villa.  The boulevard was crowded with its usual
throng of pleasure seekers.  From the interior of the cafe came the
clattering of dishes and the laughter of those who were drinking or
supping.  Each place, too, had its little orchestra, the uniforms
showing hazily through the smoke-laden atmosphere.

As Povey passed the Cafe de l'Europe, the largest and most fashionable
in Corbo, he ran his eyes over the people seated at the little tables.
Gaily dressed women smoked cigarettes and drank tiny liqueurs as they
joked with bored-looking men in evening attire.  Here and there the
gorgeous uniform of the King's Own Hussars splashed a note of barbaric
colour over the scene.

With a little catch of the breath, Edward suddenly pulled up short and
slipped back into the shadow of a newspaper kiosk.  From behind this he
peeped cautiously at the figure of an elderly gentleman who was seated
alone before a table on which stood a stone tankard of Pilsener.  Then
he passed hastily up the little avenue between the crowded tables and
entered the main body of the Cafe de l'Europe.

Here were blotters containing paper and envelopes, and he drew a sheet
towards him and wrote a short note.  Then, calling a waiter, he asked
him to hand it to the gentleman in the tweed suit who was drinking beer
outside.  He also, ascertaining that this particular waiter spoke a
little English, told the man to tell the gentleman in the tweed suit
that the writer of the note would be glad of a word with him in
private.  Then he leaned back and watched through the large plate-glass
windows.

      *      *      *      *      *

Mr. Jasper Jarman, as the waiter touched him on the shoulder and handed
him the note, started violently.  For him a touch on the shoulder meant
but the one thing, in fact he had been dreaming night and day, ever
since his arrival on the island, of touches upon the shoulder.

"Ze gentleman, sir, he speak with m'sieu."

"The devil he will."  Jasper Jarman rose hastily and grabbed up his hat
and umbrella.  "I don't know a soul in the dam island, waiter, and I
don't want to.  You have made a mistake, my good man."

Jasper unfolded the note as he spoke, and his eye travelled to the
signature.  He gave a gasp and turned again to the waiter.

"Where is he?"

The man bowed, and pointed to the interior of the cafe.

"I will show m'sieu."

Edward, however, had risen, and he met his uncle as he edged his way
between the crowded tables.

"Not a word here," he said, and, taking the old man's arm, he led him
out of the sight of the people, some of whom he noticed were already
giving them their attention.

They crossed the crowded pavement and the road to the other side of the
promenade.  This part, bordered as it was by a low sea wall, and
without shops or cafes, was practically deserted, and the two men made
their way eastward until they came to a flight of a few shallow steps
leading down to the well-kept gardens that were the pride of Corbo.

Edward, still with his hand affectionately linked in his uncle's arm,
led the way through shrub-bordered paths to a stone seat that, half
hidden in a mass of palm foliage, faced the sea.  Here it was quiet,
the sound of the promenaders reaching them only in a confused murmur.
Little lights gleamed here and there from the yachts anchored in the
bay.

"So, uncle, there you are," began Edward, unconsciously quoting Hamlet.

"Yes, Edward Povey, I'm here, through your rotten criminal acts,
you--you--jail-bird, you----"

"There is no need, I assure you, my dear Uncle Jasper, to be
offensive," said Edward Povey.




CHAPTER XVII

MR. JASPER JARMAN RELIEVES HIS MIND

There was silence for a few moments.  Edward Povey nervously poked
little holes in the gravel path with the ferrule of his walking-stick.

"Don't you think, uncle, that we had better discuss the situation
without personalities--or rudeness?"

Mr. Jasper Jarman's answer was a grunt.

"You see, uncle, I feel that I owe you some sort of apology, or at any
rate an explanation.  I read what they said in the papers about you.  I
laughed for ten minutes."

"You did, eh!  Well, I read the same as you did, and I didn't laugh for
ten seconds."

"But I didn't take it seriously.  I thought you would explain easily."

"Yes, and be convicted as an accessory--as one of the gang."

"Accessory to what?"

"To the theft of the bonds--you did well out of that, it seems."
Jasper's eyes took in his nephew's attire, the well-cut dark suit, the
gleaming jewel in the cravat.  "I suppose you decided on San Pietro for
the same reason as I did."

"My dear uncle, I was never more astonished in my life than when I saw
you sitting there, outside the Cafe de l'Europe."

"Not more than I was to see you, Mr. Povey."

Edward sat for a moment gazing out over the sea.

"What I'm wondering at is that a clever business man like you should
run away from a shadow."

"Yes, the shadow of a jail--what."

"Not at all, uncle.  I read in the Paris _Daily Mail_ weeks ago that
the bonds had been recovered and that the matter was ended.  Why don't
you go back, now?"

"The fact that the bonds are safe does not explain my presence at
Adderbury Cottage.  I'd have to say I was visiting you--and admit you
as my nephew."

"And you wouldn't like that?"

"It's not a relationship that I'm proud of, Edward."

Edward looked at his uncle.  "As I remarked before, there's no need to
be rude," he said.

"I'm only stating facts, Edward.  Remember, I go by what I have seen.
What were _you_ doing at Bushey, and, for the matter of that, what are
you doing here in San Pietro?"

Edward Povey rose and took a turn or two up and down the path.  He had
asked himself at first whether he had been wise to attract his uncle's
attention.  But he well knew that until he had found out the reason of
the old man's presence on the island, he would know no peace.  He was
more than relieved to discover the true state of things and that his
uncle knew nothing of the Baxendale affair.  The best thing to do now
was to get the old man back to Kidderminster as soon as possible.
There was nothing to associate Edward in his uncle's mind with the Mr.
Sydney who lived at Venta Villa, even if, as was hardly probable, that
gentleman's name were known to the carpet manufacturer.  He pulled up
suddenly in his walk as a scheme suggested itself, and stood looking
down on Mr. Jarman.

"I really think, uncle, you had better go back and face the music--it's
a bit late, I'll admit, but it's your best move."

"And face the scandal too.  Not me."

"There won't be any scandal if you do as I say.  Write a letter to the
editor of your local paper--_The Kidderminster Shuttle_, isn't it?
Tell him that you have been on a long sea voyage by your doctor's
orders and that you haven't been able to write or receive letters for
weeks.  Say that you have just read in an old number of the _Daily
Telegraph_ that you have been 'wanted.'  Work up the indignation hot
and strong--say that you are hastening home to take proceedings for
libel against any one who has said a word against you.  You must, also,
say that Kyser was a friend of yours and that he had lent you the
cottage at Bushey, and that when Aunt Eliza heard he was murdered, she
was frightened of ghosts and that is why you left so hurriedly.  Say
she wouldn't sleep another night in the place for a fortune."

Edward paused and wiped the perspiration from his face.  Jasper, who
had been looking glum enough when his nephew had begun to speak, now
raised his head with a little smile.

"You're a magnificent liar, Edward--same time I rather like your
idea--I believe you possess the elements of sense."

Edward smiled his acknowledgments, then went on--

"But I have a favour to ask, uncle.  Forget you've seen me.  I'm here
on business--secret political business."

"I shan't say a word.  Get me out of this benighted place and I'll do
anything you like.  Now come on with me to my hotel and I'll write that
letter."

The two men left the gardens and walked up towards the Old Town.

"I'm staying at The Three Lilies, a comfortable old place--nothing
grand and smart like these"--Jasper waved to the great hotels on the
front,--"but I wanted somewhere quiet, you see."

"The Three Lilies?  Is that the little inn that faces an old castle
sort of a place--just on the edge of the Old Town?"

"Yes--why?"

"Oh, nothing.  I'm only wondering if you have noticed anything strange
about that old place opposite."

"Well--they seem rather a queer lot.  Men--mostly soldiers--come pretty
often to see the man who lives there.  They come secretly too; there
was one the other night who hid in the yard under my window.  I heard
something and looked out; you can understand the fright I got when I
saw the tip of a man's cigar."

"What kind of a man was he?  Can you describe him?"

"I watched after I had put the light out.  There was a horse standing
at the door opposite and the owner of the place came and saw a
man--another soldier--off the premises.  When the sound of the horse
had died away in the distance, the man under my window crossed over.
I've often seen him."

"Sallow face, eh?  Thin?"

"That fits him.  He's been in the wars, however.  I saw him to-day and
he walks with a crutch and carries his arm in a sling.  Why?  Do you
know the Johnny who lives in the castle?"

Edward did not answer; he was thinking deeply.  These clandestine
meetings between Mozara and Dasso were only in accordance with the
suspicions that crowded his mind of a plot.  A great joy filled his
heart as he told himself that Miranda was alive.  He was glad he had
written to the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, a strong arm to lean on would be
useful in the work Edward Povey had in hand.

It was late when they reached The Three Lilies and the house opposite
was in darkness.  Edward accompanied his uncle to his room and together
they wrote their letter to _The Kidderminster Shuttle_.  This done, the
younger man took his departure.  He made an appointment with his uncle
at the stone seat in the gardens for eleven o'clock the next morning.
He was rather sorry he had advised the old man to hurry away; he would
have been useful as an informant, living as he did with the enemy under
his eye.

Any schemes such as these, however, were doomed to have a very rude
awakening.  Edward arrived at the stone seat early and gave himself up
to his thoughts.  His original misdemeanour in assuming the name and
personality of Mr. Kyser was all but forgotten in the light of later
events, and the plans for the location and rescue of Galva Baxendale.
In his own mind he was rather more than half a hero already, and the
shock which he received at five minutes past eleven was a sharp one,
and coming, as it did, hard upon his self-adulation seemed to him
unmerited and unfair.

As steps approached he looked up expecting to see the portly figure of
Mr. Jasper Jarman.  Instead, he made out a lean and hungry looking
Corbian who, when he saw the figure on the seat, advanced, and
snatching off his greasy cap handed a letter to Edward.

"Meester Povee?"

Edward took the envelope and opening it drew out a sheet of paper.  It
was dated at nine o'clock in the morning and was headed with the device
THE THREE LILIES.


"_EDWARD POVEY,_

"_Please accept my very best thanks for the advice you gave me
yesterday evening.  You have in some measure atoned for the harm you
have done.  On your head and yours alone rests the onus of my shattered
reputation, the anguish of your Aunt Eliza and the possible downfall of
one of the largest carpet factories in the Midlands._

"_Last night circumstances made it expedient that I should dissemble
and show you a tolerance I was far from feeling.  You are a liar and I
do not doubt for one moment but that you are a thief.  It was to avoid
the possible trial with such a scoundrel beside me in the dock that I
left England.  When you get this I shall have departed from the cursed
island of San Pietro by the boat that leaves for Spain at ten.  You did
not mention your poor wife to me.  I do not expect I will run across
her, it being more than probable that you have murdered the poor woman
and buried her in the garden at Adderbury Cottage.  If I do see her,
however, I will consider it my duty to acquaint her with the evil life
of self-indulgence and ease you are living in Corbo._

"_The messenger who brings you this is the son of the landlord of The
Three Lilies.  I have told him that you will reward him--you can afford
it._

"_JASPER JARMAN_"


Edward tore the letter into little pieces and swore softly to himself.
It was a rude awakening to his dreams of rescuing distressed damsels.
Then he took a silver coin from his pocket and handed it to the son of
the landlord of The Three Lilies.

"There's no answer," he said shortly, and turned and walked up to the
bustling life of the boulevard.  He had entered the gardens with the
feelings of Sir Galahad, he left them with those of Charles Peace.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE CAPTIVE

In the early part of the seventeenth century a certain noble duchess,
taking a journey through the kingdom of San Pietro, paid a visit to her
old and valued friend the Countess Ribero, and the guest-chamber in
which the august lady spent two nights has since been called the
Duchess Room, and it was upon the faded glories of this distinguished
apartment that the bewildered eyes of poor Galva Baxendale looked when
she came out of her insensibility.

The moon shining obliquely in at the long windows flooded parts of the
room in a white light, mercilessly picking out the threadbare patches
in the ragged tapestries and in the faded embroideries of the
chair-backs.  A fire burning brightly in the grate somewhat relieved
the cold splendour of the moonbeams.

Galva was, for a few moments, oblivious to her surroundings.  Her head
throbbed and ached distractingly, and she gazed with unseeing eyes at
the carved oaken pillars of the four-post bed on which she was lying,
and on the heavy curtains and fringes which hemmed her in.  Her first
distinct impression was one of suffocation.  She had that horror, so
common to those who have lived in and love the open air, of all
enclosed spaces and smothering draperies.

She raised herself slowly, and leaning her head on her hand, took a
survey of the surrounding objects.  The room was a large one, and was
lighted by two windows, reaching nearly to the ground, and composed of
many small square panes.  On the walls the tarnished frames of
pictures, mostly portraits, caught the firelight.  Facing her was a
large tapestry on which were depicted the figures of three huntsmen,
with very thin legs, who, accompanied by prancing dogs, were presumably
chasing a stag, which was conveniently silhouetted on the top of a
symmetrical mountain.

As Galva put her foot to the ground the ludicrous figures seemed to
take life and accompany the furniture and the bed in a whirling,
fantastic dance, and the girl felt her senses again leaving her.  But
she must have tottered somehow to the window, for the next she
remembered was the cool night breezes of the forest, pine-scented and
invigorating, playing upon her forehead.  With each inhalation Galva
felt her strength coming back to her, and the memory of all that had
happened returned to her in every detail.

She remembered Mozara and the car, and how, much against her will, he
had insisted on running her out to see the Falls on the Ardentella.
She had known that it was a very different thing the journey inland,
without a chaperone, to the quiet gliding up and down the promenade at
Corbo.  She knew also that her guardian did not altogether approve of
even this latter, and as the powerful car had bounded on past the
palace, she had implored the lieutenant to take her back.

But the young man would not believe she was serious and had laughed at
her fears.  They would be back in an hour, he had told her, and so,
helpless, she had made the best of it, promising herself a sharp
retaliation on her escort when she was safely home again.

Galva remembered stopping at a lonely spot where two gate-posts stood
sentinel by the side of the road.  There was a wood, too, comprised, as
far as she could recollect, of pine-trees.  Mozara had here alighted to
attend to his engine, and after propping open the bonnet had gone back
to the tonneau, saying he wanted to get a spanner from the tool-bag he
kept there.  There was a confused memory after that of a cloth being
swathed about her head and the sickly sweet smell of chloroform.  Then
nothing more--until she had come to herself in this old-world room.

She raised her head in the act of listening and tiptoed to the door.
She could detect stealthy movements on the landing outside, and through
a little crack in the oaken panel came the gleam of a light.

Galva was no coward.  She had the heart of the Estratos and a line of
ancestors whose deeds of bravery were chronicled back to the dim ages.
But there was something uncanny in this weird room, with the flickering
firelight the cold moon and the unknown silent watchers on the landing.
Then she heard the footsteps creep away, and, unable to bear the
suspense longer, the girl seized the handle of the door and shook it
furiously.  She tried to call out, to ask who was there, but her tongue
seemed a useless lump in her dry mouth, and sound would not come.

The footsteps outside stopped at the first sound of the rattled door,
and Galva heard whispered voices.  Then a key grated in the lock, and
the girl retreated to the farther end of the room.  At the first sound
she had taken from her pocket a tiny revolver, hardly more than a toy,
which Edward, not knowing what was in store for them in San Pietro, had
bought for her in Paris.  She saw the door slowly opened and an old man
enter.  Behind him Teresa carried a tray on which were a flask of wine
and some covered dishes.

"You are ready for supper, senorita?"

Galva gazed wonderingly at them.  All fear had left her now, and she
fingered her revolver confidently.  The firelight glinted on the little
plated barrel and threw gigantic shadows of the old couple on the
yellow ceiling.  She was speaking in a low voice which she would hardly
have recognized as her own.

"Put the tray down," every word came distinctly, "and then stand over
there--where I can see you both.  Then tell me what this all means."

Pieto looked at his wife hesitatingly, and pointed to the tray.  Teresa
set it down.

"Now," went on the girl, "I want a full explanation--where is
Lieutenant Mozara?  I don't think I know either of you--do I?"

"The lieutenant has left the castle."

"It seems that the lieutenant has played a trick on me--a trick that
will cost him dear--and," meaningly, "those who are with him in it."

The old people stood with bowed heads and the man mumbled something
below his breath.

"Speak up, man."

Pieto raised palsied finger-tips to his mouth.  "We are not the
servants of Lieutenant Mozara," he said.

Galva stamped her little shoe.

"Then go to the man who is your master, whoever he is, and tell him to
come to me here.  If either of you two enter this room again without my
full permission I will shoot you down like I would a couple of
dangerous dogs--now go."

Taking up the lantern which he had set down on the floor on entering
the room, the old man made for the door, forcing himself in front of
his wife in his anxiety to get clear of the little vixen who could hold
a revolver so straight and steady.  Teresa gave Galva a long and
searching look, then she too followed her craven lord and master.

And Galva gave a little laugh as she found herself alone again.  She
took the cover from one of the dishes and bent her head over the
contents.  Whatever could be said of the old dame downstairs Galva
noticed with satisfaction that she was no amateur in the art of the
kitchen, and the dainty meal was soon eaten with the relish of a
healthy fourteen-hour hunger.  For the captive told herself that
everything depended upon her having the strength to seize any advantage
in her position that might occur.

She went again to the open window and looking out judged that she was
some twenty-five feet above the ground level, but that below that again
ran a moat-like trench, dug perhaps to allow light to the cellars.  She
thought of the curtains, estimating their length with her eye; they
might perhaps reach the twenty-five feet, but there was no way of
crossing the trench.  True, the portico of the building was only
perhaps fifteen feet below her, but it lay some distance to the left
and was quite inaccessible.

Galva glanced at the little strap watch on her wrist and saw that it
was past ten.  From below stairs there came no sound, and she told
herself that her jailers had retired for the night, and, again with the
view of husbanding her strength, the prisoner prepared to follow their
example.

While at supper she had heard the stealthy footsteps again outside her
door and the grating of bolts hastily shot into their sockets.  It was
evident that escape was not to be thought of that night.

The glass of excellent Chianti that she had taken with her meal had
quite restored her courage and spirits, and she began to look upon the
adventure as rather interesting.  It seemed clear to her that whoever
was responsible for the outrage meant her no immediate harm, and she
had no fear whatever of the old couple down below.

With some little difficulty she piled three of the heavy oak chairs by
the door as a precaution against a midnight surprise, and taking off
only her outer garments and her shoes, slipped in between the sheets.
The fire, which she had replenished from the heap of logs in the grate,
shone dully on the rich old furnishings of the room and gave a sense of
drowsy comfort and well-being.  Candles and matches she found on a
little table which she pushed up near the bed.  The revolver lay handy
underneath her pillow.  Miss Galva, in fact, was very comfortable
indeed, and had it not been for the thought of her guardian and Anna
Paluda and the anxiety they must be feeling, she would have been really
happy.

It was broad day when she awoke and the birds in the forest were making
merry music.  The sun shone in at the windows and gave life to the
somewhat sombre apartment.  Galva's watch told her it was nine o'clock.

She was feeling remarkably well, her headache had entirely left her,
and she was ravenously hungry again.  A sound outside the window caused
her to slip on her garments and look out.  Beneath her the little patch
of poor soil that lay between the house and the trees had been, at
parts, coaxed into a cultivation of sorts, and the old woman who the
night before had brought her supper was gathering some kind of green
stuff, putting it into the basket that she carried slung over her arm.
From her window, too, the girl could see over the trees to the country
beyond--an arid rock-strewn waste and here and there patches of forest
land.  Away in the distance the range of the Yeldo hills showed a
delicate mauve against the morning sky.

Galva watched the old woman for a moment in silence, then--

"Good-morning, Teresa."  The girl had heard the name the evening
before, and on the old woman looking up, she nodded brightly.  "Is
breakfast ready, Teresa?" she went on.

The old woman dipped her head sourly.

"Pieto shall bring it up to you," she said.

"Thanks, so much--but, by the way, tell him to take great care how he
does it.  Listen.  He is to bring it in on a tray which he will set
down on the little table here.  Then he will hold up his hands, both of
them, over his head and walk out backwards."

Teresa was making her way slowly towards the house, giving scant
attention to the voice above her.  Galva raised her voice.

"You understand, don't you, Teresa?  Because if your husband doesn't do
as he's told, I'll have to shoot him."

The woman in the garden stopped at this and looked up.

"You would shoot my Pieto?"

"Oh, don't be afraid, Teresa; I'd only shoot him in the leg.  Then
you'd have to nurse him, you know, and that would be a pity, wouldn't
it?  Think of keeping an eye on a prisoner and an invalid at the same
time."

Galva never forgot the pantomime of the next few minutes.  Covered by
the revolver, the old man shuffled unsteadily into the room with the
tray, splashing the white cloth with the contents of the coffee pot.
Then, after putting it down where Galva bid him, he began his retreat,
backwards, hands held high over his head.  Near the door he came to
grief with a crash over one of the chairs his prisoner had used as a
barricade the night before.  The old man remembered to keep his hands
up, and the species of contortions, reminiscent of Swedish exercises,
with, which he tried to regain his feet brought tears of laughter into
Galva's eyes.  He was successful at last, and the girl heard his
limping steps descend the stairs, where, with many curses, he seemed to
be, as Galva expressed it to herself, "taking it out of the missus!"

Left alone the prisoner poured herself out a cup of fragrant coffee.

"There seems to be a humorous side to even this adventure," she said as
she contentedly nibbled at a piece of buttered toast.




CHAPTER XIX

TERESA

As day succeeded monotonous day, even Galva's buoyant spirits began to
show signs of the strain of hope deferred.  The first hours of her
captivity had given her little or no uneasiness, feeling sure that her
friends would discover her whereabouts; if they did not, she told
herself that, armed as she was, she was more than a match for the two
craven souls of her jailers.

But on the second night she had heard the sound of a new voice in the
room down-stairs, whether one voice or more she could not say.  Also
the sound of a motor-horn had come to her through the woods.  This
latter she had not given much thought to at the time, thinking that in
all probability it was a car on its way to Alcador.  Now that there
were visitors in the room below, the memory came back to her and took
on a new significance.

Whoever it was who was responsible for this muttering that reached her
distantly through the floor, he did not seem anxious for an interview
with her.  She had pounded on the boards with the heel of her shoe, but
beyond a short silence and a little laugh it had had no effect, and the
murmuring voices went on again as before.  Then she had turned her
attention to the heavy fire-irons, and the continued din had brought
old Pieto to the landing to remonstrate through the door, and to assure
the girl, in answer to her questions, that there was no one in the
house save themselves.

But a little later, Galva had heard the opening of the front door and,
in the distance, the sound of a motor-engine being started.

The next morning, she had seen a man digging in the little vegetable
patch, a coarse, black-browed, evil-faced fellow.  Galva remembered
having seen the same type of man, with their closely-cropped heads,
among the loafers outside the bull-rings in Madrid, and she knew their
reputation.  She drew back into the room, and for the first time since
her capture, her heart failed her.  Where were her friends, and why did
they not come to her?

Her mind flew, in its need, to the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, and she told
herself, and thrilled at the telling, that he would rush to her
assistance did he know.  He had asked her on that last day in Paris to
write to him, should she be in any trouble, and she, seeing no clouds
in her future, had laughed at him.  Now she shut her eyes and saw again
the eager boyish face, and she knew what a big place he had in her
heart.

She threw herself down on the great bed and buried her face in the
pillow.  The tears that came were the first she had shed and they
relieved her.  The knowledge that all escape by force was impossible
took from her the thoughts that had buoyed her up.  Now, she could not
tell how many there were against her, and she knew that the man she had
seen in the garden was not one to be cowed by a girl with a toy pistol.

She sat up and dried her eyes.  What could not be done one way, must be
done another.  She must think out some scheme, some subterfuge to gain
her release.  If only she could get a letter or a message sent to Venta
Villa.  The high road ran only a hundred yards from her window, but the
hundred yards might be miles for all the use they were, so securely was
her retreat hidden.  Of the imaginary accident and of her supposed
death she of course knew nothing.

After this the days passed with a dull monotony.  The prisoner, seeing
that no good was to be expected of it, dropped her bantering tone with
the old people.  No longer were her meals served to her at the pistol
point.  For hours together she would sit, a pathetic little figure, in
the great arm-chair which she had pulled into the embrasure of one of
the windows, not even turning her head when Pieto or his wife entered.
She would sit there gazing out across the tree-tops to the arid plains
and the wild desolation of the distant hills.  There were dark circles
showing now under the beautiful eyes, and sometimes the meals were
taken away again untasted.

And then a little gleam of hope came to her.  Since her first arrival
at the little castle she had noticed the covert looks, half admiration,
half fear, with which Teresa had regarded her.  Twice, too, she had
seen that the old woman had been on the point of saying something that
was in her mind, but each time she had checked herself and broken off
with a sigh.  One day Galva spoke to her.

It was a dull and miserable morning, with a fine rain that lashed and
blurred the windowpanes, and a high wind moaned through the trees of
the forest, swaying their topmost branches.  Teresa was leaving the
room with the scarcely touched breakfast when Galva laid a gentle hand
on her arm.

"Teresa," she whispered.

The dame stopped and looked at her.  Galva thought she saw compassion
in the beady black eyes.

"Teresa--you are a woman and have a heart.  I have seen your heart
sometimes in your eyes, when you look at me.  Have you no pity there
for me?  All this is killing me--I am ill, Teresa--I have lived my life
in the open air of God's green world, and this," with a despairing
gesture that took in all the room, "is weighing on
me--killing--crushing me."

Teresa swallowed something in her throat.

"I had a heart, but I thought it dead--and you say you can see it in my
eyes.  How can I help you?  I act for others."

"I am rich, Teresa, you can have anything you wish for.  Let me write a
letter to my friends.  Think of their anxiety.  Here," and the girl
tore at the bosom of her blouse, snapping a thin ribbon that passed
round her neck, "take this now--it's valuable, Teresa, very valuable.
See, they are diamonds, and that big red stone is a ru----"

Galva broke off and gazed in wonderment at the old woman.  At sight of
the glittering object which the girl with trembling hands held out, a
sudden change had come into the wrinkled face.  She seized on the large
marquise ring and looked at it intently, searchingly, but there was no
cupidity in her glance, only a great dawning wonderment.  She turned
roughly on the bewildered girl, bringing her old eyes within a foot of
her face.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.  "For God's
sake--tell me--who are you?"

"I am Miss Galva Baxendale, that is, I--I----  Oh, I see that you know.
I can tell by your face that you do."

"I do now.  I know that you are the Princess Miranda.  I suspected
before, and my suspicion has grown every time I saw your eyes.  But I
told myself that I was getting old and that I saw things that did not
exist--only in my brain."

Teresa was on her knees, pressing Galva's hand to her cold lips.

"It was this ring--the sainted Queen who wore it.  Oh, how can I tell
you----"

The old woman was crying softly now, and she had not cried for nearly
twenty years.  In a little while she grew more composed and went to the
landing and listened.

"They are at their cards," she said, when she returned, "and Pieto is
drunk; they will not disturb us," and then Teresa told her story.

"You said to-night that you saw the heart that died--for my heart died
seventeen years ago when I buried my Jose.  He was only five, but he
never walked.  He would just lie in the sun in his little wheeled
cradle and look up at the sky and smile at me with his deep eyes and
ask me things I could not tell him.  Pieto, too, in those days was a
good father and loved his little crippled son almost as much as I did.
And then one day there was a jingling of harness and Queen Elene drove
past our little house, that lay up on the cliff road towards Logillo.
She ordered her postilions to stop and called me to the side of the
carriage.  She had the sweetest smile that ever told of a perfect soul,
and tender eyes into which came a mist when I answered her questions
about little Jose.

"And then she got down and knelt in the dust beside the cradle, and the
little man looked at her with his great wondering eyes, and put up his
thin little hand to touch the glittering ornaments at the Queen's neck.
And after that she often drove that way, and would sit with him.  Once
she told me of her own little child, a maid--but I think she thought it
unkind to speak of her own blessings in the face of my sorrow, for she
only spoke of you that once."

Teresa held out her hand and took up the ring that she had laid down on
the tray.

"This was what he admired more than anything, and your mother would
take it from her finger and let him play with it, flashing it back and
forth in the sunlight.  The day before he died she had lent it to him
and he had gone to sleep still holding it.  The Queen would not awake
him, and in the night he died.  When, afterwards, I returned it to the
Queen, she wept; she would have had me keep it, but it was, she said,
the first gift your father had given her.  That is my story--and you,
Princess?  I do not want to know how you escaped the fate of that
devilish work at the Palace.  I know only, that you are here and that I
ask nothing better than to die for you, for the sake of your sainted
mother, and for the joy she brought into my boy's life."

Galva, her eyes moist with tears, bent and kissed the wrinkled brow.

"And I, Teresa, want you to live.  I think I want you always to be with
me, to talk to me about my mother."

Teresa shook her head.  "I am not worthy," she said.  "After Jose was
taken from us, Pieto took to the drink, and I--I did not care what
happened.  We took service with Gabriel Dasso--it was rumoured that his
was the hand that killed the Queen.  We hoped to gain evidence that it
was so, and we would have poisoned him.  But we learnt nothing.  We
obeyed him and did his dirty work, sinking lower and lower until we
forgot why we had entered his service.  I am not worthy, Princess, to
touch the sole of your shoe."

Galva rose.

"I won't write the letter till this afternoon, Teresa.  You can get it
through to Corbo for me?"

"There is a carrier, Princess, who passes here twice a week, about
nightfall.  He reaches Corbo at eleven.  To-morrow is his next journey.
I will see that he takes your letter."

"And you will come and sit with me, Teresa--we have much to talk over,
haven't we?  It will do you good, dear.  Do not let them see
down-stairs that you have been crying.  For the present you must keep
our secret."

When Teresa had left the room, Galva crossed over, and leaning her
elbows on the mantelpiece looked long and searchingly at herself in the
mirror.




CHAPTER XX

THE BOAT FROM THE MAINLAND

If the days hung heavily upon the heart of the captive in the castle on
the Alcador road, they hung no less heavily upon the man who waited in
Venta Villa.

The culpability of one's actions is too often determined by the worldly
success, or otherwise, which attends them, and Edward Povey was
experiencing some very bitter moments.  Had Galva been firmly and
happily seated in the great throne-room up there in the Palace, he
would have carried his head high and have looked upon himself as a
hero, and his usurpation of the character of Sydney Kyser as a
meritorious act.

But under the existing circumstances he cursed himself for a meddlesome
idiot, or worse, and prayed that he might suddenly awake to find
himself dozing over the corner desk in the dingy Eastcheap
counting-house or in his shabby arm-chair in the front room at Belitha
Villas.

Hitherto he had accepted his present luxurious surroundings as due to
him for the trouble he was taking; now each item of them became a stab.
The well-cooked dinners which he took miserably with Anna Paluda seemed
like to choke him, and the dainty hangings of his little bedroom,
overlooking the bay, became a physical torture to him.  The letter sent
him by Jasper Jarman also rankled deeply.  He wished he had kept the
letter now, that he might read it again and again as a penance.

By a stroke of ill-fortune Senor Luazo was confined to his room with an
attack of gout, and the fashionable physician who attended that
estimable gentleman had made it clear to Edward that his patient was
not to be disturbed.  Any help or even advice from that quarter was out
of the question.

But Mr. Povey had not been content to rest in idleness; as far as it
was possible he had acted.  Disguised, he had ingratiated himself with
the landlord of The Three Lilies, and had spent hours together behind
the little curtain of the window of the room vacated by Uncle Jasper,
which overlooked the house and gardens of Gabriel Dasso.  He had,
however, gained little by this, save one important point, the certainty
that Lieutenant Mozara was, without doubt, malingering in the matter of
his injuries.

The gallant officer, thinking himself secure behind the high walls of
Dasso's garden, had relaxed his precautions.  Twice the watchful eye at
the window opposite had seen the crutch discarded and the black silk
sling hanging empty.

Beyond the comfort derived from this confirmation of the suspicions
which Anna Paluda had planted in his mind, Edward could make no use of
the information gained.  Any day now he might receive an answer to the
letter he had sent to M. Brea in Paris, and until that came he was
loath to act.  He felt that, with the help of the Duc de Choleaux
Lasuer, he would be more than a match for the conspirators.  At the
same time, for Galva's sake, he determined that should no word reach
him within the next three days he would put the matter before the
British Consul.

He had met the monocled nonentity who represented the interests of
Great Britain in the island kingdom.  Senor Luazo had introduced them
in the cafe attached to the Casino, and Edward had not been impressed.
The Consul did not appear to him to be the man to lean on in any great
emergency.  Commerce between the idle inhabitants of San Pietro and
English ports was confined to the few boxes of dried fruits of two
Jewish firms in the business quarter of Corbo, and the Government post
in the service of His Britannic Majesty on the little island was not
one sought after by ambitious men.  No, on second thoughts, Edward did
not feel inclined to disturb the alcohol-engendered ease of the
Honourable Bertie Traverson unless it became absolutely necessary.

The evening following the day on which Teresa learnt the identity of
Galva Baxendale, Edward was sitting in the little library at Venta
Villa, reading for the hundredth time a telegram which he had that
morning received.  A knock at the door caused him to crumple this up
guiltily in his hands as the servant entered.  A man was at the door
asking for Mr. Sydney--rather a curious person, the servant
volunteered, respectfully.  Edward, eager for anything to relieve the
period of waiting, went out into the hall.  A rough individual was
there, standing on the mat, his clothes dripping and making little
rain-pools on the tiled floor.

As he saw Edward he bowed a black shaggy head, and from the sodden
recesses of his heavy coat produced a dirty envelope which he held out.
Edward could see it was addressed to Mr. Sydney, at the Venta Villa,
Corbo.  The light in the hall was not good, and Povey stepped back into
the library to open and read the letter.  A moment later he was again
out in the hall, calling to the servant to bring wine for the
messenger.  To his surprise the man had disappeared, the little pools
of water alone remaining to show where he had stood.  Edward flung open
the door.  The wind swept the rain in his face in clouds, and that,
together with the darkness, made the man's retreat secure.  Having rid
himself of the letter entrusted to him, the carrier of the Alcador road
considered he had done all that could be expected of him.  Remembering
the air of mystery with which Teresa had given him the envelope, he
wished to be done with the affair.  Curiosity was not one of his
failings, and the suspiciously generous payment the old woman had made
him was burning in his pockets with a flame that called for the
extinguishing wine of a little inn he knew, nestling beneath the shadow
of the cathedral.

Edward Povey cleared the flight of richly carpeted stairs in three
bounds and burst frantically into the little drawing-room.  The
black-gowned figure in the arm-chair, drawn up to the fire, rose at his
entrance and stood facing him inquiringly; one arm resting on the
chair-back, with the other she pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips.
The room was lighted by a single cluster of electric bulbs only, but
Edward could see that Anna Paluda's face was chalky-grey, and that the
large eyes looked tired with tears.

"She's found, Anna.  Galva's safe."

The woman thanked God and reached out a trembling hand for the letter.
Edward switched on the other lights, and together they devoured Galva's
message.  As they finished reading it the second time the chimes of the
cathedral clock reached them.

"Twelve o'clock, Anna.  Nothing can be done to-night.  And the
rain--listen to it."

Anna sat silent for a moment gazing out through the blurred panes at
the inky blackness beyond.  The rain lashed the windows like a shower
of sand, and the waves breaking on the shore below voiced a distant
monotony.  Edward was right, nothing could be done at once, except to
go to bed and get what rest one might against the morrow.

Left alone, Povey took out the telegram he had been reading and had
hastily thrust into his jacket pocket on the entrance of the servant.
He smoothed it out on a little table.  It was from the Duc de Choleaux
Lasuer, and as Edward read it again he told himself that he was nearing
the end of his tribulations.

He had been rather averse to showing the cable to Anna.  She knew
nothing of the affection, if it can be called only that, which existed
between Galva and the duke, or if she had noticed it in Paris it had
long ago left her memory.  Edward doubted whether she would think it
wise, this calling in of a stranger to their affairs.

The message was quite brief, and stated simply that the sender had
reached Spain and was leaving by the boat which was due to arrive at
Port Corbo at nine that evening.  Edward had waited anxiously in the
rain until the harbour master had told him that the heavy weather had
delayed the sturdy little vessel, which acted as passenger, cargo and
mail steamer between the island and the mainland.  The man had said
that she had not yet passed the Point at the arm of the bay where the
alternate red and white flashes of the distant lighthouse showed dimly
through the driving rain.  Edward had learnt that she could not berth
before two in the morning, and he had returned to the Villa for
refreshment and dry clothes.

At one o'clock he quietly ascertained that Anna had retired for the
night, then, putting on a long mackintosh, crept from the house and
started on the mile or more walk to the dock side.  The rain had now
nearly ceased, and the esplanade lay a glistening line of wet asphalt
in front of him, in which the arc lamps threw a clean reflection.  The
wind still blew in fitful gusts, scattering the raindrops from the
leaves of the trees that bordered the pavement.

The promenade was deserted, save for a few waiting motor-cars and
carriages outside the Casino.  From time to time a whistle would call
one of these up to the entrance, and Edward would catch a glimpse of
black-coated men holding umbrellas over the dainty figures of lightly
cloaked women who, with skirts well bunched up over slender ankles and
high-heeled shoes, made a dash for the carriage door.

And here and there were shuffling figures edging along in the shadows.
These were the denizens of the hinterland of Corbo, night-birds who
crept out to the fashionable haunts in the dark hours, bent on plunder,
or perhaps the honest earning of a little of the money which was being
so freely spent there.

Past the Opera House and the gardens the way became darker.  The arc
lamps became further apart, and the few cafes that were still open
showed sleepy waiters standing moodily behind the great plate-glass
windows, waiting for the stragglers to depart.

As Edward walked on he thought of the coming interview, debating within
himself whether or no he should acquaint the new arrival with the true
state of affairs.  He felt that the secret was not altogether his own,
and now that he had heard from Galva that she was safe and in no
immediate danger, he said that there was no need to act hurriedly.  He
rather wished, in fact, that he had not been so hasty in writing.  The
duke would be useful certainly, but he complicated matters.

As he neared the dock the way became increasingly difficult.  The
Powers that Be in the Island of San Pietro made up for their lavish
pandering to their rich visitors by altogether neglecting those
portions of the town that lay remote from the Casino.  Short, narrow
streets, the houses of which seemed tumbling in on one in the darkness,
straggled down to the waterside.  In places, the particular road which
Edward had taken was so steep that rough slabs of granite had been
crudely laid down in a series of steps, broad and shallow, down which
he stumbled dangerously.

The houses, for the most part, were in darkness, save where here and
there an open door silhouetted the shrouded figure of a woman who would
whisper to him as he hurried past.  A party of Swedish sailors were
quarrelling under the hanging oil-lamp of an inn, the doors of which
were being hastily shut and bolted.  Edward passed unnoticed, and in a
moment emerged on the broad cobbled wharf.

Here, doubtless with a view of favourably impressing arriving visitors,
the Powers that Be proved more prodigal with illumination, and a row of
arc lamps showed the misty forms of a few tramp steamers huddled up to
the dock edge.  A little knot of seamen and luggage touts stood looking
out towards the open sea.  From one of the boats a wheezy concertina
was accompanying a rich tenor voice singing an old English ballad.

His friend, the harbour master, was not to be seen, but Edward learnt
from one of the seamen that the Spanish boat was expected to be
alongside in the course of half an hour.  He could hear the syren
booming dismally.

Edward Povey buried his chin more deeply between the storm-collars of
his mackintosh and waited, pacing up and down in the raw, damp mist.




CHAPTER XXI

EDWARD SEES COMPLICATIONS

Galva had written--


"_.... so, as I hardly expect you will be able to get a reply through
to me, I had better make my own arrangements.  At ten o'clock each
night I will be in readiness and Teresa will be on hand to open the
door to you on your giving the signal, Anna and I, in dear old
Cornwall, used, when we became separated in any way, to call to each
other by imitating the cry of the kestrel.  I will wait for that signal
here.  You must remember that I have promised old Teresa that her
husband will come to no harm ... I am well and in no danger, and having
allayed your anxiety and eased my mind, I can wait quite happily till
you come...._"


The captive had set forth at length the manner of her capture and the
position of Casa Luzo.  She had briefly touched upon the friendship for
her shown by Teresa and how the old woman had discovered her secret.
She impressed upon Edward to lay his plans well and not to spoil
matters by undue haste.

"Casa Luzo," murmured the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, "it lies nine or ten
miles out on the Alcad..."

"You know the Alcador road, duke?"

The boyish face flushed a little and his grace bent over Galva's letter.

"A little," he said.  "An idle man of the world like myself knows most
of the pleasure spots on this old earth of ours--I had my car over here
last year and I did a lot of work on these inland roads."

They were sitting on the balcony outside the drawing-room windows of
Venta Villa.  The duke had, immediately upon his arrival in the early
hours of the morning, hurried Edward away from the lighted dock-side up
to the house, keeping ever on the darker side of the way.  Edward had
noticed with no little alarm, how, under some pretext or other, he had
contrived to keep his features hidden when any one approached.  He
would stop and light his cigarette, or stoop and occupy himself with
his bootlace.  Edward, whom recent affairs had made observant, did not
feel at all comfortable.

It was plain to him that his grace was anxious that he should not be
observed, and he felt uneasy to think that there could be any mystery
about the young man on whom he was depending for so much help.  He
decided that, for the present, the least said was soonest mended, and
he would not share the secret of Galva's birth with him until he could
more clearly see his way.

But now, as he looked at the figure of the young man beside him on the
balcony and noted the frank open countenance, the steady eye, he felt a
pang of compunction at doubting him.  And yet--why was it that the duke
had taken up his position behind the thick fronds of the largest palm
that adorned the little balcony?  A coincidence perhaps, but----

The mistral-like storm of the night before had passed over, leaving
Corbo radiant and clean in the bright sunlight.  The sea was calming
and there was no wind.  The sun had been strong, and now in the early
afternoon there was not a spot of moisture left on the promenade.

"There will be a moon to-night, Mr. Sydney."

"Good--and you really think it better not to risk the road?"

The duke drew a large scale map of Corbo and its surroundings towards
him.

"It's unnecessary.  The Sebastin Park, so Senora Paluda says, merges
into the forest, and once there the way seems clear.  The distance
appears to be less that way, and I do not think we can go wrong.  We
will leave ourselves plenty of time."

A meal was taken at three o'clock and immediately afterwards the men
set out, each armed with a revolver.  They did not consider it needful
to take other help with them--secrecy was half the battle.  Edward felt
his misgivings returning to him in full force as he noticed that, in
spite of the warm sun, the duke twisted a thick muffler round his neck,
burying his chin and mouth in the folds.

The Sebastin Park, given to the people of San Pietro by their late
ill-fated king, was a magnificent stretch of vivid lawns and trim
gravel paths.  The semi-tropical vegetation was trained and cultivated
to show to the best advantage and everywhere little statues and
fountains gleamed white in the sun.  There were, also, on the outer
edges of the park, walks more secluded and screened by shrubberies of
rhododendrons.

Edward frowned as he noticed that his companion chose these outer
pathways in preference to the broad walks, where nursemaids and their
little charges swarmed and idle promenaders walked slowly up and down.
With chin buried in his muffler, the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer walked
quickly, his eyes nervously looking from side to side.

And then they were in the forest.  The cultivation was left behind and
there was only a little zigzag path winding between the trunks of the
great pines.  Through them to the left a glimpse of the grey walls of
the Palace grounds showed sombre against the sky.  Edward pointed this
out to the duke and spoke of the dying king.  He detected a shadow pass
over the boyish face, and the duke's next remark was on an entirely
different subject.  A suspicion of the truth was born in Edward's mind
at that moment.

But the brisk action and the clean scents of the woodland drove all
thoughts save those of Galva from his mind and filled him with the
spirit of romance and the joy of living.  Uncle Jasper's letter was
forgotten and Edward became again, in his own eyes, the knight-errant
and hero.

They reached the precincts of the Casa Luzo from the back and long
before they had expected.  Edward's watch told them that it was eight
o'clock, and the men had to wait with what patience they could the
passing of the next two hours.  They took their places upon a fallen
tree trunk in a clearing, and lit cigarettes and looked at the moon
rising over the Yeldo hills and at the black and green mystery of the
forest around them.  The silence was intense and neither of the waiting
men seemed anxious to break the magic of it.

And then as it grew chilly they reconnoitred, taking stock of their
position.  They made a wide detour of the house, penetrating deeply
into the wood.  They saw not a soul, but once the eerie glow of a
charcoal-burner splashed redly between the trees.

At five minutes to the hour they stood just within the belt of trees
facing the house.  Edward's first attempt at the kestrel's note was not
a success.  The weird sound echoed dismally through the night, awaking
the bird life to protesting cries.  He cleared his throat and tried
again,--then, as the surrounding birds quieted down into a peevish
chatter, a window on the first floor showed a faint light.

As they watched, grotesque shadows flitted over the ceiling and walls
within the room as the occupant carried the candle to the window.  For
a moment Galva's slender form showed silhouetted against the
glow,--then darkness.  The men crept quietly up to the building.

As they mounted the steps they saw the massive door before them slowly
open a few inches.  Edward put out his hand and gently pushed it, and
they were inside the hall.

It was in darkness, save for the dull glow that came from a horn
lantern that stood on the stone floor.  By its fitful light they could
make out the shadowy form of an old woman who stood regarding them from
the foot of the staircase.  The rays, coming from below her, touched
her figure here and there into yellow lights, and threw gigantic and
misshapen shadows on the walls behind her.

Teresa was trembling.  She held one finger to her lips as though
enjoining silence, and a hand, outstretched, indicated the door of the
dining-room.  From the stairs above came the sound of hard breathing.
As the men looked at the old woman, she disappeared, melting into the
gloom of the staircase.

The duke made a sign to Edward to stay silent where he was, and with
his revolver held in readiness, advanced to the door of the room.

It was open a little way only, and but a part of the room was visible.
The long table was littered with the remains of a meal, and the cloth
at one end had been crumpled and pushed back to clear a space for two
men who sat there at cards.

One of them, whose figure showed out darkly against the light of the
candelabra, was a personage of massive build, and the duke, taking
stock of the bullet-shaped head and thick neck, told himself that here
was a customer that would need some handling.  The other, his opponent
at the game, he saw at a glance was of little account.  Old Pieto had
been winning, and a crafty smile of gratified greed flickered over his
face as he shuffled the dirty cards.

The watcher by the door noted with some satisfaction that both men
applied themselves assiduously to the flagons of wine beside them, in
fact, they were neither of them quite sober.  As the man whose back was
towards him put down his cards he shivered and half turned in his chair
with a muttered imprecation upon old women who left doors open.

The duke slipped back into the shadows and raised his weapon and
waited.  But nothing happened; the man was perhaps too lazy to rise,
and was waiting for the return of Teresa.

Edward listened to his companion's whispered instructions carefully.
The little old man was to be held at the point of the revolver whilst
the duke grappled with the other and stronger man, whose back being
turned offered himself as an easy prey.

With a muttered "now," they flung open the door, and with a bound the
duke was upon the man at the table, his arm locked around his neck in a
vice-like grip.  Gradually he bore him backwards, tilting the chair up
on its back legs.  The ruffian's face was purple, and he made a
gurgling noise in his throat.  Then the oak of the chair legs cracked,
cracked again, and splintered, and the men were on the floor together.

A nimble twist, remarkable in so big a man, and learnt, perhaps, in the
bull-ring, put the man on his feet again, and he snatched at a knife on
the table.  When he turned, the duke was also up, and leaning panting
against the wall.  The revolver had been knocked from his hand in the
struggle, and had fallen neither man knew where.

Keeping his eyes fixed upon his opponent and crouching low, the man
with the knife reached out his left hand and took hold of the
tablecloth; then, with a swift movement, he dragged it to him, waving
it until it was wound round his left forearm.  The crockery and glass
fell crashing to the floor, and the duke noticed a wine bottle rolling
away to the wainscoting, leaving a red trail like blood over the
scattered playing cards.  But his eyes were quickly back again upon the
man, who with his tablecloth-shielded arm was creeping cat-like up to
him.

The duke counted himself lost, as, unarmed as he was, he awaited the
inevitable spring.  He gave one glance at Edward, who was standing over
the old manservant, the revolver held waveringly within an inch of the
evil face.  Povey had not dared take his eyes from his captive; he
heard the shuffling of stealthy feet as the men circled round each
other, heard one of them kick a dish that was hampering him, sending it
crashing against the wall.  Then there was the sharp crack of a
firearm, and he could stand the suspense no longer.

He turned and saw thin wreaths of smoke floating across the room, and,
on the floor, the man whom the duke had attacked half lay, half sat,
clutching spasmodically at his knee and swearing horribly.  At the door
stood Galva.  She was very white, and the hand that held the still
smoking little pistol was trembling.  Edward heard a small pitiful
voice.  Galva was saying, "In the leg--only--in the leg----"

Then she threw the weapon from her and went over to Edward, and put her
arms round his neck.

"Oh, guardy--I've shot a man!  Say he's not dead--it was only in the
leg--say----"  And the girl fell to weeping on his shoulder.

The duke was now standing over Pieto, and was tying the old man's hands
with a cord.  Teresa bent over the ruffian on the floor, cutting away
the breeches from the wound in his leg.

Edward, looking over Galva's shoulder, took in the details of the
scene.  There was a small pool of blood on the oak boards, and an
orange from the table had rolled into it and was dabbled in red.

He saw the duke approach the wounded man, and at his step Teresa looked
up.  Into her face came a dawning bewilderment, and she gave a little
cry.

"Prince Ar----," she whispered.  Then the duke had his hand over her
mouth.  But Edward had heard, and the duke's actions since his arrival
in San Pietro were made clear to him.

"This complicates matters considerably," he said below his breath, and
went on paternally patting Galva's shoulder.




CHAPTER XXII

THE HEART OF GALVA

"I think we understood each other in Paris, didn't we, Armand?"

"Yes, dearest, but a definite answer to a definite question is
satisfactory; now that you have given me the sweet 'yes,' I will speak
to your guardian."

"To-night--speak to him to-night, dear.  I know he will be pleased,
and," shyly, "if he isn't, I am really afraid that it will make no
difference to the 'yes'--or to me."

Galva drew herself away from her lover's embrace.

"He will have something to tell you--about me," she went on rather
solemnly; "there he is.  Good-night, dearest; I am tired and I want to
be alone with my happiness--for I _am_ happy to-night, Armand--very
happy."

The lips of the lovers met in the shadow of the portico, and when
Edward came through the hall he found the duke alone.  The two men
linked arms and fell to pacing up and down the gravelled space in front
of the house.  It was not yet eleven and quietude had once more settled
down over the Casa Luzo.  As they walked, Edward was relating to the
duke how he had seen the two prisoners safely disposed of in one of the
roomy cellars that ran out under the back courtyard, and had learnt
from old Teresa, much to his satisfaction, that it was not likely that
Dasso would put in an appearance for some days.

He and Mozara had paid two visits to Casa Luzo since the coming of
Galva, but on the last of these the old woman had overheard that,
thinking their prisoner perfectly hidden, and the news of her death
accepted, Dasso would remain near the Palace waiting for the death of
the king.  As Edward mentioned the dying monarch he glanced slyly up at
the duke's face, paused a moment, then:

"They are saying that your poor uncle can't last long."

At this his companion wheeled round on him.

"So you know my secret?"

"I am not blind, your Highness; you are Armand Enrico Marie, Prince of
Alcador, heir-apparent to the throne of San Pietro."

"----which is the only one of the eleven titles I possess of which I am
not proud.  It is no honour to claim kinship with King Enrico.  But I
am glad you know, it saves explanations--I have asked Galva to be my
wife."

Edward looked up quickly, then let his gaze rest on the tree tops of
the forest.

"Ye gods," he murmured, then felt that the duke was regarding him
curiously.

"You are pleased, Mr. Sydney?  Galva does not know that it is a throne
I am offering her.  I will make her a queen, she--what are you looking
at, Mr. Sydney?"

Edward drew his eyes back from their contemplation of the tree tops.

"I was thinking," he said slowly.

The duke waited.

"----Yes, I was thinking," went on Edward, "whether what you have told
me--oh, damn it all, you've got to know.  Come inside, I think I
remember seeing a bottle of wine in there, and I have a story to
tell--no, not a word until we have found the bottle and you have heard
the story."  And the duke, mystified into silence, followed him into
the house.

The dining-room still showed some signs of the late struggle, but the
_debris_ had been in part cleared away, and old Teresa was rubbing
vigorously at the blood stain on the oaken floor.  She rose from her
knees as the men entered, and taking her bucket, slipped from the room.
As the door closed behind her the duke broke the silence.

"I really cannot understand the way you have taken my news, Mr.
Sydney," he began, a little haughtily, and Edward held up his hand.

"Of course you can't, I can't get the hang of it myself all at once.
Sit there, will you?  This Chianti is excellent"; then, when the men
were seated facing each other across the wood fire--

"You will remember hearing about the tragedy at the Palace at Corbo
fifteen years back.  I expect you have heard the details over and over
again.  When the dynasty of the Estratos was all but wiped out----"

"_All but_, Mr. Sydney?"

"That is what I said, prince.  The popular belief was that the entire
tree of that illustrious house was cut off root and branch, and that
all its members perished on that evil night, but it was not so.  The
Princess Miranda escaped the fate of her parents."

"But the child--a baby--was killed with the queen."

"A child was, but it was not hers.  You were speaking to the mother of
the dead child only a few hours ago.  It is Anna Paluda's little one
that lies buried in Corbo Cathedral."

Edward paused impressively, but the duke did not speak.  He sat with
his dark eyes fixed on the face of the man who was telling the tale.

"That poor woman was foster-mother to the little princess, and the two
children were in the night nursery at the time of the tragedy.  Queen
Elene took up the wrong baby, that's all.  It's one of those simple
mistakes which mean so much.  Anna has sunk her revenge for all these
years for the sake of the little girl who was almost as much to her as
her own, but her revenge is not dead; some one will pay the price when
the princess's affairs are settled."

"And the Princess Miranda, what--what became of her?"

Edward threw a keen look at his listener.

"Anna escaped during the excitement, taking the child with her.  A few
days later, an American gentleman came across them, living in the
deserted hut of some charcoal-burner in the woods.  This kind-hearted
Yankee, touched by the child's helplessness and the romance of the
case, adopted her, smuggled her out of the country, and brought her up
to the life of an English lady.  Circumstances prevented his taking her
back to the States with him, and she and Anna have spent a peaceful
life on the Cornish moors until the girl's eighteenth birthday, a few
months----"

There came the sound of light singing from the room above them, and
with a meaning smile, Edward pointed to the ceiling.

"Her Highness the Princess Miranda seems happy to-night, eh, duke?"

As he spoke Edward leant over with a look of concern, and touched the
other on the knee, for the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer was sitting silent,
and had buried his head in his hands.  "What's all this?" he asked, and
noted the anguish that lived in the duke's eyes as he raised his head
to answer him.

"It means the loss of everything to me--everything, Mr. Sydney.
Throne, position--and a love that is more than my life to me."

"Now, look here, duke: of course the throne is Galva's, there's no
getting away from that, but if she loves you and you love her--well--it
seems to me that things are fitting in rather neatly."

"Oh, you don't understand.  What will the people here say?  How will
they speak of a man who, having lost a throne, climbs back to it on the
shoulders of a woman?  The honour of our family is not to be judged by
the standard of the devil who is dying back there in Corbo."

The duke had risen as he spoke, but Edward pressed him gently back into
his chair.

"I am a plain man, duke, and have lived a plain life--how plain it has
been you would never guess.  One of these days I will tell you all
about the hand I have played in this affair, but not now.

"But in my plain life I have learnt two or three plain facts, and one
is that we must take what the good gods give us; they don't, as a rule,
hold out their gifts twice.  As for this fetish you call honour, what
honour is there in spoiling your own life and Galva's too?  You say the
people will think badly of you.  Let them.  They will be in the
minority, a few kill-joys--remember that all the world loves a lover.

"Yours is a love story that will ring through Europe.  Your engagement
before either of you knew the high destiny of the other has the true
spice of romance, the heart-throb which always fetches the public
favour.  The Press will fight your battle."

Edward sat down feeling rather surprised at his own eloquence, and
drank off a goblet of Chianti.  Then he lit a cigar and was silent.

A moment, and the duke turned to him with a sad little smile.

"You put it very nicely, Mr. Sydney.  I'll talk to Galva about it in
the morning.  After all, there are other things to worry about just
now.  I think a little action is what I want.  You say that Dasso will
not be here for a few days?"

Edward nodded.

"He lays great stress on being first in the field when Enrico dies.  I
don't expect he is ever far from his house for two minutes together.
By the way, you know the Palace well, I suppose?"

"Only fairly.  I have not been on speaking terms with my uncle for
years, except on state occasions when it is policy for me to show up;
it's only then that I come to Corbo at all.  As a youth I lived in the
Palace; my father died when I was eleven.  I knew every inch of the
building then.  It's a rambling old place.  Why do you ask?"

"Because I have a plan to suggest.  We cannot risk more than one night
here, and Galva will be glad to change her surroundings.  Among the
palace attendants there must be one who can be bribed to smuggle us
into the building.  It can only be a matter of hours before Enrico
dies.  Then"--and Edward rubbed his hands together with a crafty
smile--"Dasso will find us there to greet him.  Won't he be pleased?

"I suggest that we give the wounded ruffian in the cellar money and
food.  He'll be about again in a day or two.  Then Pieto and Teresa,
who hate Dasso like poison, will go to their master and tell of the
fight and the rescue.  They will also say that they overheard us
planning to leave the country, that we were heartily sick of San Pietro
and all its works.  They will, of course, not mention your identity.
Anna will join us at the Palace, and my villa will be shut up.  This is
if you can manage to bribe some attendant whom you know."

The prince thought a moment.

"I fancy it can be managed.  I know a way into the grounds.  I used it
often when I wanted to break bounds.  There was Pia, one of the
under-gardeners, who was well disposed to me.  He ought to be useful if
he is still there, as I remember Dasso thrashing him once for spraying
him accidentally with a hose.  Your Corbian does not forget a thrashing
in a hurry.  Yes, Pia is our man, I think."

"Very well, then; we will leave here to-morrow afternoon and reach the
walls of the grounds by the time it is dark.  Then I will slip across
Sebastin Park and fetch Anna.  After that we will enter by your secret
way, and, please Heaven, find your gardener.--We are on the laps of the
gods.  Now we'll take a watch, two hours each, and don't forget to pray
for your uncle--that he may be spared another day."

"Amen to that," said the duke.


"The Princess Miranda begs to inform Enrico Armand, Prince of Alcador,
Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, Baron Diaz, Count of the Holy Roman Empire,
etc., etc., that she cannot accept the return of anything which she has
graciously bestowed upon him--even her freedom."

And saying this, Galva jumped lightly up from the moss-covered boulder
upon which she had been sitting, and, smiling mockingly, bowed low
before the young man who stood leaning moodily against the straight
bole of a pine-tree.

"But, Galva, my honour----"

"Honour, indeed!  And does my happiness count for nothing?  Does _my_
honour not weigh with you?  Is it honourable to ask a young girl to
show you the treasure-house of her heart and then turn away?  Perhaps
the wares don't suit.  Perhaps----"

"Galva!"

"No, you must hear me out.  Oh, I wish that we were just poor ordinary
people, so that we could live only for each other, perhaps away in my
lovely Cornwall.  But, dear, we aren't just poor ordinary people, and
we must go where we are called."

The girl turned and pointed to where the dull crimson of the setting
sun shone in the windows of the royal residence.

"There, Armand, is my future home, perched up there above the people
whom God has given me to rule.  It is for you to make it, for me, a
Purgatory or a Paradise--a prison or a home."

She held out her little white hands pathetically and stood there among
the trees, her queenly head thrown slightly back, her lips just parted,
and with the love-light smiling from under the blue of her lids.  And
the duke looked at her for a moment--then, with a glad little cry, took
her into his arms and kissed her on the lips.

"And now," said the princess as they walked up to a fallen tree trunk
which lay half embedded in the undergrowth, "we will sit here and wait
for Mr. Sydney--and we won't talk any more nonsense, will we?"

The little party had left Casa Luzo after lunch.  Teresa had been
instructed to delay the telling of the rescue to Dasso for as long as
possible.  The wounded man had gratefully accepted the handsome
monetary present offered him (especially as Dasso had already paid for
his services in advance), and was now making preparations to get back
to his native town and the delights of bull-ring society.

The walk through the woods had been a pleasant one to Galva in her
new-found happiness and freedom, and her lover had not been able to
find the heart to speak the words which he knew would give her pain; in
fact, Edward had been gone an hour, leaving them to await his return at
the forest edge, before he had summoned up courage to the task.  And
then had come the battle, and it had lasted exactly ten minutes, and
the spoils had been all to Galva.  His mind once made up, the duke gave
himself with a little sigh to his happiness.

The night came down upon the forest, and still they sat, their fingers
entwined, on the fallen tree.  The flush had faded from the palace
windows, leaving them grey and forbidding, and with sun-down a chill
wind had come in from the sea.  Behind the lovers the pine trunks
showed dimly like vast columns in some ghostly cathedral, and there was
no sound save the gentle song of the wind in the branches.

Armand drew the rug they had brought with them closer over both their
shoulders, shielding the little head that nestled so confidingly on his
breast.  When Edward returned with Anna Paluda, the Princess Galva
awoke.

The duke rose and stretched his cramped limbs.  Edward reached for his
hand and shook it.

"Congratulations!" he murmured.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE PASSING GUN

The particular genius who designed the grounds of the Palace at Corbo
was a nephew of the Estratos--a youth of an artistic but somewhat weak
intellect and bizarre tastes.

This was in the latter part of the seventeenth century, a period when a
wave of decadence had swept over the Court, a time of powder and
patches and red-heeled shoes--of mincing courtiers and doubtful
gallantries.

Large, level lawns, and flower-bordered walks lay immediately beneath
the terrace which ran the length of the building at the back, and
beyond and at the sides, the royal horticulturist, with an eye,
doubtless, to the doings of the times, had devised cunning shrubberies
and fascinating little arbours, the narrow paths twisting here and
winding there, a very maze of foliage, paths which had doubtless
hampered the movements of many an outraged husband.

Here and there a weather-beaten, moss-patched statue or terminal peeped
above the greenery, a nymph with broken features, or a faun, the leer
still lingering on his discoloured face.  One could imagine him again
pricking his goat ears to catch an echo of the sounds he had listened
to in those quiet retreats in the days that were gone--the whispered
vows, the crunch of high-heeled shoes on the gravel--the oaths and the
clash of rapiers.

But Edward's party had more important affairs to hold their attention
than the imagining of long-dead romances.  They had found without
difficulty the entrance into the grounds, and now were making a
cautious way over the weed-grown paths.

They had not drawn nearer to the Palace, but had threaded their way
through the outer portions of the shrubberies, keeping near to the
boundary wall, and coming, after some ten minutes' walk, upon the
cottage of the friendly gardener.

The duke stopped as the patch of yellow light from its windows came
into view, then quietly led his companions to a stone bench that lay
almost hidden in rhododendrons.  Here, after seeing the two ladies made
comfortable, he left them.  The moon had risen and the tangled foliage
of the garden was all grey-green and shadow, through which the broken
statuary rose, here and there, like pale ghosts of an evil past,
looking down on the intruders within their domain of memories.

Armand was away some time, and when he returned he had with him a tall,
broad-shouldered man wearing the livery of the keepers of the royal
gardens.  He stood awkwardly before them, changing from one foot to the
other and twisting his green cap nervously in his huge fingers.  The
duke laid a hand affectionately on the big shoulder.

"These ladies, Pia, and this gentleman, are those of whom we have been
speaking."  Then turning to Edward, he went on, "I have told this good
fellow everything, and although he seems dazed at the whole affair, he
is with us heart and soul, as I knew he would be.  He has no love for
Dasso--and he knows of others who will help us."

At the mention of Dasso's name, the man had looked up, a mask of
malignant hate, and the duke, noting it, had given a little smile of
satisfaction.

The cottage to which the party was conducted was a roomy building, but
of a single storey.  Pia's wife at once took charge of Anna and Galva,
who were both now showing some signs of weariness.  The good woman,
noticing this, parted a curtain at the further end of the room, and
taking a lamp from a bracket, led the ladies to her bedchamber.  The
men, left alone, were not slow to take the opportunity of discussing
ways and means.

Their plan of action was a simple one.  They were to lie hidden where
they were until the king was in extremis.  Pia, whose daughter was
employed as a still-room maid at the Palace, would give them
information as to the progress of the royal patient.  In the mean time
Pia would see that the little staircase which Anna Paluda had used to
such good purpose fifteen years before, was free of access, and that
the door which gave on to the grounds, and which had fallen into
disuse, was cleared of the tangled creepers which he said now all but
covered it.

At the first alarm that Enrico's death was imminent, they would make
all speed to this door, and hurry up to the room at the top of the
stair, the little chamber behind the corridor wall, where ten or twelve
people could wait in moderate comfort.  Here they would be perfectly
secure, and even in the event of the report of the king's condition
proving false, they could but retire.  At the sound of the first gun
announcing the death they would proceed to the king's ante-chamber,
there to wait the advent of Dasso.  At the least they would be twenty
minutes before him.

The ladies did not re-appear but sent their "good-nights" to the men by
the old dame, and the duke and Edward were conducted by their host to a
barn which lay some ten yards to the rear of the cottage.

Here Pia left them with a stable lantern, telling them that there was
no need for them to keep watch.  One or other of his sons would be
about all night on guard, and nothing could happen without them being
made aware of it.

Nothing loath, after their long walk, the two men took off their outer
garments, and rolling themselves in the horse blankets provided by Pia,
threw themselves upon the pile of yellow straw which littered one end
of the barn, and in a few moments they had fallen asleep.

It was bright day when they awoke to find that Pia had entered the
barn, bringing with him a jug of steaming coffee and some toasted
rolls, to which comforting fare the men devoted themselves whilst they
were making their toilet.  This completed as well as the lack of razors
and other necessaries permitted, they followed their host across the
cobbled yard to the great kitchen and living-room of the cottage.

This was a cheerful apartment, whose lime-washed walls, pierced here
and there by little red-curtained windows, reflected the glow of the
blazing pine logs in the open fire-place.  The ceiling was high and
pointed, being the entire height of the house, and from the black
rafters hung bulky hams and bunches of sweet-smelling herbs.  At one
end a flight of rough oak steps led up to a little railed gallery that
projected out over the fire-place, making a cosy settle, which on
winter evenings would accommodate the whole family.  In this little
gallery were two or three rush-seated chairs, and in a niche in the
wall a rather crudely coloured figure of the Virgin.

The morning sunlight shone through the tiny leaded panes of the
windows, and glinted on the glass and earthenware laid out on the bare
table, spotless as any tablecloth, and made play among the pewter and
brass on the great dresser.  The cleanliness and order of Dame Pia's
room made one imagine oneself in the kitchen of some strict housewife
on the Zuyder Zee.

Anna and Galva, refreshed by their night's rest, were in the highest of
spirits, which Edward's suggestion that they should not go outside the
house hardly lessened.  It was so cosy in this sweet-smelling kitchen,
and for the moment memories of Cornwall came back to them.  They
occupied their time well, insisting on giving a helping hand at the
housework, much to the embarrassment of the good mistress of the house;
and Galva could hardly repress a smile at the expression and the low
bow of reverence with which the old woman handed each utensil she had
washed to her to wipe.

But the work of one cottage in the hands of three capable women is soon
done, and time began to hang heavily on Galva's hands, until, noticing
Dame Pia preparing a stew, nothing would satisfy her but that she
should try her hand, with what materials were available, at a Cornish
pasty.  With sleeves rolled up above her dimpled elbows the princess
set about her task, the housewife standing dutifully by, her apron
twisted between nervous fingers.  It was a good pasty, and no doubt the
disinclination of the Pia family to eat heartily of it is explained by
a little glass case on the dresser which to this day is shown to all
visitors, and which shelters the remains of the queen's culinary effort.

Pia went about his work as usual, and Edward mooned rather unhappily
about the big room.  To the duke this enforced imprisonment was no
hardship, and he would sit in the little window-seat watching Galva as
she flitted gracefully here and there in the performance of her tasks.
No news came to them from the Palace, and as it grew dusk and the
lights of Corbo shone in the sky, Edward could stand the inactivity no
longer, but disguising his appearance as well as might be, made his way
through the Sebastin Park down to the town, choosing the streets that
lay near the cathedral in his search for information.

There was, however, nothing to be learnt from the loungers who were
taking their coffee and cognac at the little tables of the cafes, and
Edward was soon anxious to get back to the cosy comfort of the
gardener's cottage.  As the chimes in the belfry above him told the
hour of nine he rose from the corner of the obscure brasserie where he
had been taking his refreshment, and went out into the Cathedral Square.

The air was chilly, and buttoning his coat closely round him he strode
out briskly in the direction of the park.  He had left the town and
entered the Sebastin Gates when he was aware of something unusual in
the air.  From the direction of the boulevards came the subdued murmur
of voices, that intense mumble that speaks of popular excitement.
Above the confused sound Edward could make out the shouts of boys
crying their papers, and he remembered that it was at nine o'clock that
the _Imparcial_ made its appearance.

For a moment he stood in indecision.  To return to the town meant the
loss of half an hour--and surely that rustle of excitement denoted that
King Enrico was dead or dying.  What a fool he had been to leave the
cottage.  He might have thought that the absence of news during the day
was but the lull before the end, and now here he was out of the game,
the success of which he had been playing so hard for.

Pressing his hat firmly on his head, he set off running across the
park.  After all, he might have been mistaken in imagining that the
death had occurred.  Surely he would have heard the gun.  He knew that
the custom was to--

_Boom--m--m----_

The sound echoed and reverberated over the woods and the open spaces
round him.  Edward slackened his pace, and swore softly to himself.  He
had come through the secret entrance to the grounds, and now paused a
moment and took his bearings.

Then, mending his pace, he ran on, avoiding the cottage, and making
direct for the door at the foot of the staircase.




CHAPTER XXIV

A BULLET IN THE GROUNDS

At the moment when Edward was drinking his cognac in the cafe in Corbo,
Gabriel Dasso was sitting in the library of his house in the old town
listening eagerly to a story.  Lieutenant Mozara, his spurred
riding-boots stretched out to the fire, was telling what had befallen
him that afternoon in Alcador.

"It was in a crowd near the little theatre in the Plaza.  I only caught
a glimpse of him, but I knew the face at once as that of the brute you
sent to Casa Luzo.  I tried to get near him, but he had evidently seen
me, for he slipped into a cafe.  It was a low place, but I followed
him.  The old proprietor answered my questions with a cunning smile; no
one had entered, he told me, and our friend was not among the
disreputable crowds that lounged round the tables.  There was nothing
for it but to hurry on to the Casa Luzo.

"My horse was stabled at the little hotel on the Alcador road, and in
under the hour I was interviewing old Pieto, or rather his wife, for
the old man was in a state of collapse--and good red wine."

The lieutenant broke off and poured himself out some claret.  His host
pushed his own glass towards him also, and the two men drank.  Then,
"Go on," said Dasso, shortly.

"It was a funny story that she had to tell me.  She says that yesterday
that mysterious Mr. Sydney drove up in a car.  With him were the lady
companion and three burly ruffians, who, Teresa says, were strangers to
her.  They seem to have done their work pretty thoroughly, even to the
extent of putting a bullet through the leg of your friend from Alcador.

"That was what made me believe the tale, for the man I had seen enter
the cafe was using a crutch.  Teresa said that Pieto was asleep at the
time, but I expect he was drunk.  She says that Galva was bundled into
the car, and she overheard Sydney tell her that they were going to
Rozana _en route_ for England.  He was very agitated, she says, and
remarked that he was damn sick of San Pietro, and everything and
everybody in it."

"But, Gaspar, you say this was yesterday.  Why did not Pieto let me
know?"

"They wouldn't allow him to.  Two of the men Sydney had brought with
him stayed on guard, and it was only----"

The lieutenant stopped and looked inquiringly at his companion, for
through the night-air had come the sound of a gun, muffled, but
unmistakable.

Dasso leapt to his feet with an oath.

"Enrico's gone," he said hoarsely, and made for the door.  Mozara
followed, and in a moment the men, assisted by the under-groom, were
saddling Dasso's horse.  Gaspar's own mare was on a pillar-rein where
he had left her.  A moment more and the two men were riding with loose
rein up the cobbled street that led to the Palace.

The frightened inhabitants, who were conversing in little groups,
scattered to right and left, and windows were opened and heads thrust
out as the horsemen clattered past.  The Palace gates were open, and
dashing through them they pulled up their smoking horses at the great
doors.

In the hall the servants, male and female, were crowded, their faces
showing inactive stupidity.  They fell apart and gave room for Dasso
and the lieutenant as they made their way up the wide marble staircase.
Reaching the corridor above, they turned to the right in the direction
of the death-chamber.

"This is unseemly conduct, Senor Dasso.  My uncle is barely dead."
Armand was standing before them, a naked blade in his hand.

The intruders fell back.

"Prince Armand--_you_ here!"

"It seems so, gentlemen.  This is a curious way to pay one's respect to
the dead."

Gabriel Dasso stood with bowed head.

"I did not expect----"

"I did not intend that you should, Senor Dasso.  Put up your weapon,
Mozara, the guards are within call."

A moment's silence, then Dasso spoke.

"Your Majesty's appearance is timely.  The people will be calling for
you.  They will want to greet the new king."

Armand smiled.

"Perhaps you will lend me the notes of your own speech for the
occasion, Dasso; I am rather unprepared.  Besides, I do not act for
myself, I act for the Queen."

"The Queen?"

"I said 'the Queen,' Senor Dasso.  To-night's blunder is not the only
one you have made--you made one fifteen years ago when you did your
hellish work in this palace."

"You have taken service early, prince, under the banner of this
adventuress, this----"

"Senor Dasso,"  Armand was speaking quietly, "the Queen has ordered
that there shall be no bloodshed here to-night.  You are forgetting
yourself."  He called, and four of the royal guard came from a passage
behind him.

"Show these gentlemen out.  Dasso, I have no royal rank now, and can
call you to account for this--by the bye," he added, as the guard
closed round the discomfited men, "there will be a special edition of
the _Imparcial_ to-morrow morning.  It will interest you."

The escort left them at the door and Dasso and Mozara stood undecided
on the great steps.  Then, leaving their horses, they walked towards
the gates.  Once out of sight of the building, however, they stopped.
Dasso was gnawing at his moustache in impotent fury.

"They told me he was better at seven o'clock.  The nurse herself told
me.  What cursed luck."  They walked on again, taking a path that led
into the shrubberies.  For, perhaps, five minutes they strode on in
silence, then the lieutenant halted and caught at his companion's arm.

"Listen!" he said.

From a path close at hand came the sound of running footsteps and the
heavy breathing of a spent man.  Then round the bend before them
emerged the figure of Edward Sydney.  With a little laugh Dasso barred
his way.

"So," he said.

Edward pulled up short and stared at the wicked faces before him.

"Gentlemen--you will let me--pass?" he gasped.

"I don't think so, Mr. Sydney.  Haven't this gentleman and myself, as
you English say, a bone to pick with you?"

Dasso smiled grimly as he spoke, a smile which caused a little shiver
to pass over Edward and set him looking about him for a possible way of
escape.

They had met in one of the narrow paths.  On either hand the tall mass
of foliage made an impenetrable wall.  A few paces away Edward could
make out an alley-way which ran at right angles, and he told himself
that with luck and a start of a few yards he would stand a good chance
of evading capture among the tortuous twists and turns of the
shrubbery.  In the mean time he must temporize.

"I cannot imagine what your excellency and I can have in common.  We
have met once--I think at Senor Luazo's, wasn't it?"

"We did meet there, Mr. Sydney, certainly, but it is about the lady who
accompanied you here from England that I want to have a word with you."

"You mean Miss Baxendale?"

Dasso nodded.

They had been moving along the path slowly as they were speaking, and
Edward noted with satisfaction that now a few feet only separated him
from the entrance to the alley.  If only he could take the attention of
the two men from himself for a moment.--A thought occurred to him.

"Ah, yes--the young lady.  If that is so, I think that this will
interest you, Senor Dasso."

As he spoke he took from his breast pocket an envelope; it was, in
fact, a London tailor's bill and was addressed to him at Belitha
Villas, but in the gloom it served its purpose.

Dasso took it and drew out the folded sheet of paper it contained,
holding it up to catch the moon-rays which here and there penetrated
the leafage surrounding them.

Edward Povey seized the opportunity he had created, and, for the first
and last time in his life, he struck a man.  The blood surged joyously
through his veins and sang a hymn of power in his brain as his fist
shot out straight and true, and he felt the knuckles grind into the
evil face of Gabriel Dasso.  Then with a leap he had gained the dark
alley way.

Dasso put a hand to his face and called out to Mozara, and in a moment
the lieutenant was giving chase.  Edward heard the sound of running
footsteps behind him and he mended his pace.

On and on, turning and twisting, ran the poor exhausted little man.  In
some of the longer paths he would catch a fleeting glimpse over his
shoulder of his pursuer, then a sudden plunge to the right or left
separated them again.

At last at the end of a more than usually straight run he found himself
in the open.  To retrace his steps was impossible, already Mozara was
but twenty feet from him, the barrel of a revolver shining blue in his
hand.

Some hundred yards away the Palace rose, a dark mass against the
star-powdered sky, and Edward knew that in the shadow of one of those
buttresses lay the little staircase--and safety.

Breathing a hurried prayer for help, he darted across the moon-swept
lawns, running unevenly, now upright, now bent nearly double.  A shot
whined past his ear and he drew in his breath sharply, then another,
then--a stinging pain took him in the left shoulder and Edward Povey
knew that he had been hit.

Almost at once the acute pain passed and his shoulder grew cold and
numb and sticky.  He faltered in his stride and all but fell, but the
sight of the doorway gave him courage and again he stumbled on.

It took him only two or three minutes to reach it, but to the stricken
man it seemed as though he were running for hours.  A fog appeared to
have risen before his eyes, a reddish fog in which danced and trembled
little points of flame--and through the mist he saw the face of Pia,
who had been placed to guard the foot of the staircase--felt strong
arms supporting him--then with a little sigh drooped into oblivion.

      *      *      *      *      *

Edward came to his senses to find himself in a dimly lit chamber, with
the face of the Princess Galva, white and drawn, bending over him, and
her cool hand on his forehead.

Beyond her, in the gloom of the room, were other faces.  Anna was
there, and the duke, and a strange man whom they addressed as doctor,
and who now came forward and took Edward's wrist.  The latter could
catch here and there a word of what he was saying; the voice seemed to
come from a great distance.

"----unfortunate that it should be this room--locate the bullet--no,
again in the morning perhaps--not to be moved--one of the sisters will
watch--you can send for me if----"

Then the faces grew blurred and swayed in circles round the wounded
man, and again his senses left him.




CHAPTER XXV

IN THE DEATH CHAMBER

A dark, silent chamber.  A room magnificent and lofty in which the far
corners were shrouded in shadowy gloom.

Edward lay in a half consciousness, staring up at the ceiling.  It
caused him no wonderment that the ceiling was strange to him, and
unlike any ceiling he had ever known, or that it should be carved and
painted and rich with gilding.

There was a faint, elusive perfume in the air that set him thinking of
cathedrals, and from somewhere near him there came a droning monotone.

He felt no definite pain now, only a sensation of lassitude and
detachment.  There was a strange tightness in the region of his heart
and he felt a little cold.  Turning his head he tried to rise upon his
elbow, but a sharp pain took him in the shoulder as he moved, and he
was glad to sink back again upon the pillow.

The movement, however, slight as it had been, had left him in a
position from which he could get a better view of his surroundings, and
as he took these in he gave a little gasp and felt the beads of
moisture pricking out upon his forehead.

In the centre of the room there was a bed, the four posts of which,
richly carved, upheld a fluted canopy of dull red silk from which
depended heavy curtains looped up with tasselled cords.  Upon the panel
above the pillow an escutcheon was blazoned out in dull gold.

Edward closed his eyes for a moment before he could make up his mind to
let them rest on the figure which he knew he would see lying beneath
the crimson canopy.  He asked himself what could have been the cause of
his, Edward Povey's, presence in the death chamber of the king of San
Pietro.  Then he opened his eyes and looked.

Enrico was lying stiff in the centre of the bed, the sharp points of
his knees and feet showing rigidly through the white sheet which
covered his body.  The thin hands were folded peacefully upon the
breast, and between the stiffening fingers had been thrust a crucifix
of ebony, bearing a silver image of the Christ.  Below the hands, too,
Edward noticed that some one had placed a single bloom, a rose.  The
little flower stood out eloquently among the sombre pageantry of death,
"all the purer for its oneness," and he wondered idly whether it spoke
of at least one who had truly sorrowed at the passing of the king, at
one real regret.

On the bed, at the feet of the dead monarch, were two cushions on which
were pinned the several orders and medals which had belonged to Enrico;
his sword, too, lay between them, together with his plumed hat and his
field-marshal's staff.

On either side of the bed there knelt a Sister of Mercy, and it was the
monotone of their prayers that Edward had heard when he first awoke.
In an alcove by the great carved fire-place a thin spiral of scented
smoke rose from a censer.  Four tall candles in silver holders made the
space round the body an oasis of light, and in the cavern of shadow
beyond loomed the strange shapes of massive furniture, and the dull
gleam of mirrors.  The heavy curtains had been drawn across the
windows, and there was no sound but the murmur of the women at prayer
and the occasional fall of a cinder on the stone flags of the hearth.

The scene was eerie in the extreme, and Edward gazed in fascinated
interest at the rigid figure on the bed.  Enrico had been a handsome
man in life, and with the passing of his evil soul his earthly dignity
of aspect had increased.  The head was lying well back and showed the
noble sweep of the brow and the clean-cut profile of the high-bridged
nose.  A full beard, raven black and threaded here and there with grey,
rested spread out like a pall upon his breast and reached to the
clasped hands.  Upon the sunken wax-like cheeks the firelight flickered
and played ghastly shadow tricks in the hollows of the deep-set eyes.

One of the nuns rose silently from her knees to attend to a candle at
the head of the bed which had been guttering in a little draught that
had found its way into the still room.  As the woman turned to resume
her prayers she saw that Edward, upon his pile of rugs in the corner,
was awake, and she came with noiseless steps over to him.  She laid a
cool hand upon his brow and spoke to him in a whisper.

"You are not to talk, senor; I have orders to fetch the Queen to you
when you awoke."

"The Queen!--you call her that already!  But she will be asleep,
she----"  He ceased speaking as the white hand was pressed over his
lips, and he watched the sister as she glided noiselessly to a door
that was concealed behind a curtain near him.

In a few moments she had returned, and behind her, Edward saw Galva,
and a smile lit up his rather tired-looking eyes as she crept and knelt
down by the side of the made-up couch.

Very adorable looked the young Queen of San Pietro as she bent her
lovely head over Edward Povey.  Her hair, parted in the centre, fell
over her shoulders in two long plaits, showing their dark richness
against the steel blue of the wrapper the girl had put on.  Her face
was a little pale and there were dusky rings showing under the
eyes--eyes which still held a suspicion of tears.

The nun who had fetched her crossed the room and touched her fellow
watcher on the arm, and together they left the room.

When they were alone Galva bent lower over towards Edward and he put
out his hands and took her little ones between them, and as he did so
something warm fell upon them.

"Why, Galva--what's all this--tears?  Why----"

"Oh, guardy, you are hurt--and I can't bear it.  I would never forgive
myself--never, if anything were to happen to you.  It is my
fault--it----"

"I don't know, Galva, whether I'm badly hurt or not--sometimes I think
I am.  I don't feel much pain now--but there is a tightness here.  Why
was I put in this room, into the presence of death?  Enrico in all his
glory is hardly the best of company for an invalid."  And he smiled a
little.

"It was the doctor, guardy, the man who had been attending the king.
He had you brought here as it was nearest, and he won't let them move
you.  He tried to find the bullet, but he couldn't.  He is coming again
in the morning.  Who shot you, guardy?"

"Never mind that now, dear.  I want to ask you something.  I want you
to tell me if----if----I have been of use to you, if I have helped ever
so little to put you where you are now--to make you Queen of San
Pietro."

Galva raised her head.

"Why, Mr. Sydney, what a strange question--of course----"

"Not so strange, dear, not so strange.  Don't call me Mr. Sydney, just
Edward.  And so I have really helped a little?  I'm glad.  I'm--do you
know, Galva, that I have always thought that in this life we are given
our chance to combat the evil we do with good, to balance our account,
as it were; that for every sin we commit, every wrong we do, we are
given a whitewash brush, to use if we will."

"I think so too, guardy--but you have done no wrong.  I won't believe
any evil of you--you are all that is noble and good."

Edward shook his head.

"But you don't know everything, there are one or two little things
which one of these days, when I am better, I will explain to you.  Now
go to bed, dear; this wrapper of yours is as thin as paper.  In the
morning I will explain--yes, explain.  Good-night.  Oh, by the bye,
that is your rose, I expect, isn't it?" and he pointed to the bed, and
Galva nodded.  "I thought so, you little saint; I don't know any one
else who would have put it there.  Now run away, dear---in the morning
I will explain."

The girl rose and leant over the wounded man.

"Good-night, guardy dear, and God bless you," she said, and kissed him
on the lips.

She turned at the door and sent him a little smile, and as she went
from sight behind the curtain, a sense of desolation came over Edward
Povey.

He thought it would be good to die like this--and perhaps it were
better that there should be no explanation.  He had taken on the
mission of a man who was unable to act for himself, and he had carried
it to a successful issue.  All was right with the world, and he told
himself that his own account was with God in His heaven.

He became mildly delirious and asked himself what more could he desire
of the Romance he craved, than to pass out of life here in this chamber
which might have been lifted bodily from a classic of the Middle Ages?
What fitter surroundings than the tall sombre candlesticks, the praying
women, the silence, and the shrouded figure on the bed?  He turned his
eyes to Enrico and felt a strange sense of companionship.

The pain in his chest seemed easier now, and the spasms were becoming
less frequent.  He lay between sleeping and waking, in a delicious
state of ease.  He thought tenderly of Charlotte, and wondered if she
would miss him very much if she were never to see him any more.

There had been little love, little real love, between them for the past
few years, but in his light-headedness Edward thought of her as he saw
her that day years ago, decked out in the tawdry white finery of their
wedding morning, trembling beside him at the altar of the shabby little
Barnsbury church.  He called to mind the girlish, shrinking figure
standing on the threshold of life, and he remembered that there were
tears shining through the cheap little net veil.

Then he went on through the years, through the hopefulness of it all,
and the disappointments, through the troubled waters with their
sun-kissed moments, to the dull tinged sea of matrimonial failure.  He
could not really blame Charlotte; her lot had been perhaps a harder one
than his, after all.

Even the journey to and from the City, the noisy companionship of the
second-class smoker, the life of the gloomy counting-house, the snack
of lunch followed by the grateful pipe smoked on the sunny side of
Gracechurch Street--these had all been his, and he knew now how they
had all helped him to endure those years in the little villa at Brixton.

He wondered idly why God had not sent them any children.  Little ones
were so necessary to life.  Charlotte and he would never have drifted
apart if the wondering eyes of a child had been there to see--if there
had been tiny roseleaf hands to hold them to each other.  It would all
have been so different then.

The blind at one of the windows had become disarranged, and through the
aperture Edward saw the first sweet flush of the dawning.  It was only
a little glimpse, but he could see an inch or two of the horizon.
Above the silver edge of a bank of stormy clouds that lay low over the
sea, the coming day had barred the sky with green and gold and shell
pink and glory.  Gradually the light in the room increased, and the
candles grew ghostlike, and the shadows lifted unexpectedly from the
corners.

The two nuns had re-entered the room, and one of them crept softly over
to his couch and gazed down at the white face.  Then she tiptoed back
and touched her companion on the arm.

"We will whisper our prayers, sister; our little friend is in a
delicious sleep.  He'll do now.  We must think of the living before the
dead."




CHAPTER XXVI

THE FUGITIVE

In dynasties, as in politics, the pendulum pursues its immutable law.
Those who, or whose immediate ancestors, had applauded the tragedy of
fifteen years ago, were now to be seen in the very forefront of the
rejoicings at the fair Estrato who had come out of the blue to rule
over them.

The editor of the _Imparcial_ had at last had his great chance, and the
Marinoni he had purchased second-hand from a Madrid printing office was
working overtime.  For edition after edition he drove home the praises
of the rising stars of San Pietro.  With the true journalistic spirit
he had seized on the high lights of the romance, points which he knew
would delight the gossip-loving patrons of his sheet, and the cafe
loungers on the promenade of Corbo were regaled with stories of the
love of Galva and Armand, which, if not strictly true, were at least
richly garnished with the roses of romance and were well worth the
reading.

As a counterblast, _El Dia_ had appeared the morning following the
death of the king, with a heavy, wordy, black-bordered leading article
in which the influence of Spain was barely disguised.  It had pointed
out to the inhabitants of San Pietro that they would do well to move
warily in the crisis now before them, and that, at least, they should
stay the celebrations of joy until after the vault in Corbo Cathedral
had closed over the remains of the late king, whose small virtues they
unearthed and glorified.

But your Corbian is not given to moving warily, and neither can he
pretend to a sorrow he does not feel.  It is small wonder, therefore,
that the gala colours of rejoicing should outweigh the trappings of woe
with which a few axe-grinding friends of the late monarch bedecked
their sorrowing persons.

From an attic window high up in a small and dirty hotel facing the
Cathedral Square, and well shielded by the faded and torn curtains, a
man had sat for days watching the animated scenes beneath him.  He sat
with his chin moodily resting in his hand, in his eyes the haunted look
of a man who is hard pressed.

      *      *      *      *      *

Gabriel Dasso and the lieutenant had, after the encounter with Edward
Povey in the shrubbery of the palace grounds, made their way to the
house in the old town.  The ex-dictator did not consider all was lost
until Spain had had her say in the matter; he relied, too, on the army,
a hope which would have been fully justified had he had only Prince
Armand as an opponent.

But he well knew the natures of the gay-hearted youths who held
commission in the San Pietran army, and, knowing this, he sighed, and a
vision of a lovely face rose up before him, a face in which the dark
eyes shone serenely and fearless, and luminous with fascination.  He
felt that only too readily would the swords fly from their scabbards to
do service for Queen Miranda.

The men let themselves into the house in the old town and made their
way to the dining-room.  Dasso went over and drew the heavy curtains
across the windows.  There was wine on the table and he drank greedily.
Mozara was standing dejectedly before the fire, jabbing viciously at
the logs with his heel.  The sight of the spur reminded him of
something, and he gave a hard little laugh.

"We might have brought away our horses, Gabriel--we may need them," he
said meaningly.

"Pshaw, we'll win yet."  But Dasso's tone was not hopeful as he said
it, and the hand that held the wineglass trembled a little, which was
not usual with the hand of the ex-dictator.

"What!  You have been busy with your schemes, Dasso; you have not
noticed the eyes of the Queen, perhaps.  Win!"--and the lieutenant
snapped his fingers--"impossible."

Gabriel Dasso leant over the table and he spoke in a low whisper.
Perhaps it was the wine that caused the huskiness to come into his
voice.

"I saw eyes, Gaspar, like those _fifteen years ago_--and I won then.
What is to prevent our doing _now_ what we did _then_?"

He remained silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving Mozara's face.

"----_now_, what we did _then_," he repeated; "the people know nothing
of this girl, and before the story can leak out it will be all over.  I
can get the captains from the barracks, Luaz and Pinto, and--oh,
they'll all come with me.  The girl shall not be mentioned; they will
think there is only Armand there, and you know what they think of him.
But it must be now; I will not count on their help when once they have
seen her.  I myself will find the girl and deal with her as I dealt
with her moth----"

With an oath the lieutenant started forward; the glass he had been
holding crashed to the floor, and his breath came in little painful
gasps.

"You devil--you--Oh, I knew the downward path was broad, I did not
think it was so short.  Only a few months since that evil day when I
fell under your thumb.  Before the night of the cards I had been no
worse than the others, now----  What's that, Dasso?"

The lieutenant had broken off suddenly and stood in the attitude of
listening, his face grey and set.  For a moment there was a strained
silence in the room, then there came to the ears of the men a confused
distant murmur.  Dasso reached out a hand and extinguished the lamp.

Cautiously the two men, brought together now by a common danger, moved
to the window; the flicker of the logs in the grate lit up the fear on
their faces.  Gabriel drew the blind aside for about an inch and stood
waiting.

All seemed quiet again now, and the men told themselves that they had
heard some drunken roysterers on their way home from the Casino.  After
a few moments they returned to the fire.  There was a sneer on Dasso's
face as he turned to the younger man and took up the quarrel where it
had been interrupted.

"So you prefer to remain here and be disgraced, eh?  My plan is the
only one left and to-night is the only time for the doing.  If we
succeed Spain will gloss over the affair; if we fail----"

"Stop, Gabriel, I won't listen to you, and I'll do no more of your
hellish work.  A few mouths ago my life was at least decent.  I'll have
no dealings with you after what you have said.  I can only thank God
that I was with you in this, else that poor girl would have had no
mercy shown her and would now be dead.  Perhaps that will atone a
little when I meet my Maker.  I'll expose you, Dasso--you--you
murderer."

The spring that Dasso made took the lieutenant unawares and bore him
heavily to the ground, his head striking one of the carved iron
firedogs as he went down with a dull crash, and he lay still where he
had fallen.  The face of the elder man was livid with passion.

"You'll expose me, eh?  Murderer, eh?  Many have thought that, but no
one has called me it to my face."  The fingers were tightening round
the throat of the unconscious officer.

"When--you--meet--your--Maker, you said.  That will be to-night, my
friend."  He pressed more heavily, leaning his weight full upon the
body.

And when all was over and the form beneath him no longer made any
movement or sound, he stood up.  There were great beads of moisture on
his face, and the decanter clinked pitifully against the glass as he
poured out more wine.

He took the cloth from the long sideboard and dropped it over the face
of the man on the floor.

Now the sound that they had heard came to him again in little bursts,
and he walked unsteadily to the window.  Pieces of the glass dropped by
Mozara crunched under his heel.

The lamp had not been relit, and the murderer was able to see clearly
into the moon-bathed street.  The Three Lilies was in
darkness--evidently the sound had not come from that quarter.

Again.  This time it was more pronounced, and Dasso could make out a
dark patch, dotted with lantern light, moving towards the house from
the direction of the town.  As the murmur grew more distinct, the
watching man could make out a word here and there; they were calling
his name, and the epithets attached to it were not flattering.

Dasso left the window, and crossing to the fire peered into the steel
face of the clock that stood in the centre of the mantelshelf.  Then in
the half light he went over to the little safe embedded in the wall.

He unlocked it with trembling fingers and took from it package after
package of papers and carried them over to the fire, and placing them
on the seat of a chair began his task of sorting.  Some were put upon
the burning logs without a second glance; others, including a large
roll of paper money, he placed in the breast pocket of his coat.

There were other documents, too, which caused a furrow to take shape
between the evil brows, and which were held to the glow and read
through from their first word to their last before they were finally
pocketed or sent to swell the growing pile of grey ash on the
smouldering logs.

Only once did the man look towards the thing that lay still and
sinister on the great bearskin rug not two feet from where he knelt.
This was when he picked up the envelope containing the hand at cards
which had been the downfall of the man who now was dead.

Dasso held the package for a moment in his hand, the custodian of a
dead man's honour.  He seemed to be debating whether Mozara could in
any way further serve him.  Then as the noise outside grew louder he
thrust the envelope between the bars and rose to his feet.  Now there
came a knocking at the great oaken door, and Dasso heard his name
called by angry voices.  He knew why the mob had come seeking him, and
he knew the temperament of the Corbians, that they were creatures in
whom civilization and barbarism were separated by the faintest of
lines, and who knew no restraint or reason once their passions were
aroused.

A stone hurtled through the window-pane and checked by the blind fell
down with a clatter on to the polished floor and rolled almost to his
feet.  For the first time Dasso showed signs of haste.

He made his way from the room and through many passages to the servants
quarters at the back, taking, as he ran, from a peg in the lower hall,
a wide-brimmed hat and a common brown cloak which had belonged to old
Pieto.

There came a crashing and splintering from the front of the house, and
the man told himself that the stout oak had given at last.  He opened a
door beside the great dresser shutting it behind him and shooting home
the heavy metal bolts.  He descended a short flight of steps that lay
there, and which led down to the cellars of the old mansion.  At the
foot he waited, and feeling out with his hands he found and lit a horn
lantern.

Through cellar after cellar he made his tortuous way, past bins and
racks of wine, between casks and cases stacked high to the groined
roof.  The air was thick and musty and great rats scampered away at the
approach of the flickering yellow light and the hurried footsteps.

Then the air grew cooler, and Dasso stopped and, raising his lantern,
searched the walls round him.  A few stone steps led up to an opening,
through which with stooping shoulders the man passed.  Here he was in a
tunnel, a narrow tube, that rose gradually until the fugitive could
feel the cool airs of the night upon his face, and he found himself in
front of an iron gateway.  He took from the pocket of his coat a key,
and after a few attempts the gate was thrust open, tearing its way
through the mass of vegetation with which the iron-work and hinges were
choked, and Dasso stood in the moonlight of the vegetable garden of his
house.  A thick belt of trees separated him from the building itself,
and in the distance he heard the cries of the mob who had now gained an
entrance.  He clenched his fists and turned away.  As he did so,
through the trees a light splashed redly, then another--and another,
and the man knew that they had set fire to the building.

A curse spluttered out between his teeth as, dropping the lantern into
a water butt that stood at hand, he started to run along the path that
led away from the house.

For perhaps a hundred yards he ran, the path leading between beds of
celery and fruit bushes.  The moonlight cut the garden up into sharp
black-green shadows, which were illuminated now and again by flashes of
light from the burning house behind him.

At the foot of the garden a high wall, spiked with broken glass, barred
his way, and turning to the left he ran along at its base till he came
to a door, bolted and barred.  In a few moments he had this open, and
was out in a small lane that ran behind the house.

Following this he emerged into a broader road, and again into the main
street in which stood what was left of his home.  Here, disguised as he
was, he was safe, and he stood in a doorway and looked up towards the
burning house.

The fire had by now obtained a firm hold, and the old worm-eaten
woodwork was blazing vividly.  Silhouetted against the glow were the
dark figures of the incendiaries, like imps of the netherworld, leaping
and howling in drunken joy, and Dasso guessed, and rightly, that some
of the choice vintages it had been his whim to lay down had fallen into
their unappreciative hands.

Higher and higher leaped the flames, casting a glow as of burnished
copper on the dark violet of the sky.  Higher, too, rose the voices of
the mob; they were singing now a song of the Estratos, and one which
had not been heard in the streets of Corbo for many a long day.

For perhaps half-an-hour the man stood in the doorway watching the
downfall of his home and of his hopes.  Then, drawing his cloak round
him and pulling his hat well over his face, he made his way to the
Cathedral Square.

He had to stop many times on the way to slip into the friendly shadow
of some porch.  Late as it was, the town seemed _en fete_ on this night
when their king lay dead in the Palace.  The cafes were open and
crowded with revellers, and bands of youths rushed madly past the
homeless man, attracted by that beacon shining in the sky which
promised devilment and plunder.  It took Dasso, perhaps, half-an-hour
before he emerged into the comparative quiet of the square facing the
Cathedral.

At the side door of a dirty little hotel he stopped and rapped.  The
door was opened by the landlord himself, an evil-looking ruffian, who
held the candle he carried up high to see who it was who came knocking
at this late hour.  Dasso took off his hat.  The innkeeper fell back.

"Senor Dasso--why, what brings----"

"Don't stand there talking, fool, I'm coming in."  He smiled cruelly.
"You won't refuse a lodging to me, Gambi, surely."

The old man drew aside, and the hand holding the candle trembled.  The
visitor made his way into the kitchen of the hotel.


For a fortnight now the man had been sitting almost incessantly at the
window looking down into the Cathedral Square.  He had seen many
happenings--the State procession of the new King and Queen when they
attended Mass, the shouts of the multitude, and the smiles of the royal
beauty in the carriage.

One night, too, a huge bonfire had been lighted in the square, and an
effigy, whom he had no difficulty in recognizing, had been burnt to the
accompaniment of drunken jeers and savage howls of execration.

The innkeeper, whose many misdeeds made him loath to offend his
unwelcome guest, to whom they were well known, told him that the people
were searching high and low for him, and that they had now come to the
conclusion that he had left the island.

"In another week or two, Gambi, when my beard has grown more, their
conclusion will be justified," Dasso had remarked, and the innkeeper
had been very relieved indeed to hear it.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE IMPOSTOR

The sun newly sunk behind the Yeldo Hills had stained the sky with rose
and amber, and it was very peaceful in the darkening grounds of the
Palace of Corbo.

The woods were alive with the evening songs of the birds, and a light
wind that blew in from the sea brought with it the chimes from the
Cathedral belfry.  The shrubberies loomed big in the violet twilight
and afar out the sea lay placid, steel-blue and mysterious.

Edward Povey, surveying the scene from the comfort of a bath-chair, was
putting to himself a few pertinent and very necessary questions.  Some
lines which he had heard years back came into his mind, he couldn't
remember them exactly, but they had to do with what the devil would do
when he was sick.

Amongst other thoughts which crowded into the brain of Mr. Povey were
the warm feelings he had experienced towards Charlotte when, as he
thought, he lay dying in Enrico's death chamber, and he told himself
that they were very right thoughts to have.

He remembered also the events of the past few months, Galva's
unremitting care and tenderness to him during the period of his
convalescence.  The thought that the time had now come when his part in
her affairs was done was a very bitter one, but as day followed day the
feeling that he was an impostor grew stronger.  He had long thought
that he must get away from it all.  Every kind word, every smile was a
stab to him.  To explain matters now would do no good, spoiling as it
would Galva's happiness.  He hated, too, to think of her eyes regarding
him in any other way but with admiration, the thought of the disgust
that might show in her face unnerved him.  He felt very thankful that
his fears of death had been premature, and that he had been spared to
witness the reception by the Corbians of their new Queen, but, at the
same time, the grim visitor would at least have put him out of his
predicament.

His recovery had not been rapid enough to allow of his attending the
festivities of the Coronation, which had taken place with much pomp and
circumstance a few weeks after Enrico had been laid in the Cathedral.
The kindly doctor, however, had permitted the invalid's couch to be
wheeled out on to one of the balconies of his room.

From there he had seen the procession leave the palace, had noted the
enthusiasm of the holiday crowd, and, best of all, had seen Galva turn
in her carriage and wave her bouquet of orchids at his balcony.  Then
the cavalcade, winding like a gaily coloured stream of ribbon, had been
swallowed up in the twistings and turnings of the old town, and Povey,
lying there in the genial afternoon sunshine, had been left to imagine
the rest.

By the aid of his field glasses he had seen the bunting and banners
fluttering bravely on the buildings in the town, which lay spread out
beneath him shining like a jeweller's tray of gems in the sun-rays.  He
had seen the yachts in the bay gay with little flags.  He had heard,
too, the bells pealing joyously from the tall belfry of the Cathedral,
the firing of the guns on the fort, and the distant murmur of the
people cheering their Queen.

He had said a little prayer for everybody and had fallen asleep there
on the flower-decked balcony.  When he awoke he was again in his room
and the candles were being lit.

The Queen of San Pietro stood there before him flushed with her
happiness and resplendent in her finery of state.  Her little head was
thrown slightly back and she appeared taller than she really was in the
sweeping mantle of crimson and ermine which fell from her shoulders and
spread out on the carpet behind her.  As she noted the wondering
admiration on Edward's face she gave him a delightful little smile.

"A right down, regular, Royal Queen," she quoted gaily as she dropped
an elegant curtsey.  "Oh, guardy dear, it's been splendid--just
splendid--nothing but sun and cheers and flowers--and joy."

She turned to her husband who was standing a little behind her, for the
ceremonies in the Cathedral had been twofold that day, and the
Archbishop who had placed the crown on the little head, had, in the
little private chapel, placed a circlet of gold also on the Queen's
finger.

"I didn't see a single house, Armand," she ran on, "that was not flying
a flag.  And to think that we owe all this to guardy here.  If he had
died, and we really thought he was going to, didn't we?  there would
have been no joy, then, only----"

She had leant over and kissed him and Armand had taken his hand and
gripped it hard.  Was it any wonder that the explanation that had
hovered so long on Edward's lips retired from the unequal contest?

And now as he sat in his bath-chair he remembered all these things, and
sighed regretfully as he told himself that there was only one way left
for him in honour to take.  It was time for him to leave the stage, to
take off the motley, for he had no part in the next act of the drama.

The attendant, who in the gorgeous Estrato livery was slowly propelling
the chair, pulled up rather suddenly, as, turning into one of the
alley-ways which led back to the palace he came in sight of the figure
of a woman.  Anna Paluda turned at the sound of the wheels on the
gravel, and Edward saw that she thrust a paper hurriedly into the black
silk reticule hanging by a cord from her waist.  Her manner, too, as
she came towards him, was, he thought, a little strained.  Evidently
Madame Anna Paluda had been taken somewhat unawares.

For a little while, after greeting Edward, she walked on beside the
bath-chair, speaking of commonplaces, on subjects ranging from the
politics (such as they were) of San Pietro to the evening light shining
in the western windows of the palace.  Then a sudden thought came to
the man in the chair and he turned to the lady by his side.

"This chair is quite light, Anna; do you think you could--or better
still, I will walk the rest of the distance, it isn't far."

"You'll do nothing of the sort.  I know you _can_ walk, but you will
find the air chilly after all those rugs."  She turned to the
attendant, "You can go, Juan--I will attend to Mr. Sydney."

With a bow the man left them, and Anna, taking the handle, leant over
to the occupant of the chair.

"You wanted to say something to me?"

A moment's final hesitation, then Edward took the plunge.

"Yes, Anna, I wanted to tell you that I intend leaving Corbo for
England as soon as the doctor will let me.  My business, you know--I've
been away from it long enough."

"But you will come back, Mr. Sydney?"

"Oh yes--that is, I----Oh, I'm sure to come
back--yes--sure--to--come--back."

Had Edward been facing Anna as he spoke he would have noticed a curious
light creep into the black eyes, as though something had occurred
suddenly to her.  One hand involuntarily left the handle of the chair
and caressed the black silk reticule.  As she felt the paper under her
fingers she smiled.

"But--some one will have to go with you--you have had an illness--it
isn't safe, is it, for you to travel alone?"

"Tut, tut, Anna, I'm fit as a cello.  Why, I walked twice round the
palace this morning; besides, I'm not going to-morrow."  Now that his
departure had been decided on, and he had burnt his boats, he felt
disposed to allow himself the luxury of delay.  "It may be a month
before I really go," he added.

Again Edward would have seen a look come into Anna's
eyes--disappointment this time, unmistakable disappointment at his last
words.

But the woman said nothing, and before Edward spoke again the chair had
reached the doorway of the palace and footmen were assisting him to
alight.

Anna accompanied him up the broad staircase, until he reached the
corridor on which his apartment was situated, then she turned and made
her way swiftly to her own room.  Entering, she locked the door and
crossed to the large wardrobe which took up one side of the apartment
wall.  From beneath some clothes in a drawer she lifted her leather
jewel case, and carrying it over to the dressing-table lit the candles
which stood on either side of the draped mirror.  She selected a tiny
key from the bunch at her waist and, opening the case, took out a box,
a little cardboard box, which had once contained chocolates.  The lid
was broken here and there, and had been carefully pasted together with
scraps of plaster paper.  Anna removed the cover carefully and
tenderly, and leant her head in her hands and gazed down at what lay
therein.

A baby shoe of white kid, soiled and still showing the shape of tiny
toes, a bunch of faded ribbon, a little armless doll with staring beady
eyes; and, most pathetic of all, two or three of the original
chocolates the box had held--hard and colourless.

The woman raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror.  She had
not been crying, for her eyes were quite dry, but into them had come a
look of determination, of a set purpose in which tears had no place and
tenderness no part.  She looked again at the articles in the box.

"A little while--not long now," she murmured, "then, perhaps I may
weep."

Silently she put away the baby relics back into the wardrobe drawer.
Then from the reticule she took the letter she had been reading when
Edward had come upon her in the grounds.  She smoothed out the creases
and held it to the light on the dressing-table.  It was headed from the
offices of _The Imparcial_, and read--


"_MADAM,_

"_Acting under your instructions, I have caused inquiries to be made by
my correspondents in Paris, London and Vienna.  The man Dasso, who
disappeared so suddenly from Corbo, had covered his traces so well that
it was not until now that we have lit upon a clue of any sort._

"_My Paris correspondent in the Rue Scribe, M. Dupine, has been
watching, as you suggested, the places of entertainment and the
restaurants on the boulevards.  Your idea that our man would appear
sooner or later at one or the other of these was quite correct.  M.
Dupine came face to face with him in the lounge of the Folies Bergere._

"_Curiously enough, Dasso seemed to scent danger, for he left
hurriedly, but Dupine succeeded in following him.  He tells me he
(Dupine) was reading a copy of my paper at the time he saw Dasso, and
attributes the latter's flight to that fact._

"_Dasso left the Gare St. Lazare the next morning, travelling to
Dieppe, and so across the Channel._

"_Dupine, being now known by sight to Dasso, wisely refrained from
following him on to the boat, where he would have certainly been
observed, but wired comprehensively to a confrere in Brighton to motor
over to Newhaven and take up the chase._

"_I have heard only this morning that this gentleman has been
successful, and that Dasso is now staying in unpretentious lodgings in
Bloomsbury, No. _9,_ Dorrington Street._

"_Having thus, madam, followed out your wishes, I have only to assure
you that my information will be kept secret until such time as you give
consent for publication.  I thank you for your promise that I shall
have first and exclusive news of eventualities, and beg to assure you
of my devoted services._

  "_I am, madam,_
    "_Yours obediently,_
      _ALFONSO PINZATO_
        "_(Editor)_."


For a long time the excuse that she would have to make to Galva before
she could leave the island had been worrying Anna.  She thought of
Edward as she folded the letter and put it away.

"Yes, some one must travel with him--Galva would never let him go
alone.  Edward Sydney, the sooner you are able to travel the better I
shall be pleased."




CHAPTER XXVIII

EDWARD DEPARTS

Edward's convalescence progressed apace when once his course of action
was decided upon.  It had been a severe blow to Galva's happiness that
she was so soon to lose the little friend whom she had come to love--a
blow that was not softened by Anna's asking permission to accompany him.

That her guardian was not sufficiently well to travel alone, however,
made the woman's request a perfectly natural one, and when at last
Edward and his self-appointed nurse, the farewells over, entered the
carriage that was to convey them to the dock-side, the Queen met the
situation bravely.

It was not until, from an upper window of the palace, she had seen the
boat dip below the horizon, that the fall extent of her loss came home
to her.  She remembered, with a little catch at the heart, that Edward,
whilst seeming to answer her many questions as to his return, had
really most successfully evaded them.

Anna she was certain of.  The new rulers of San Pietro had decided that
in a month or so they would take a holiday, a little trip in which for
a week or two they would become again just ordinary people.  As the
Duke and Duchess Armand de Choleaux Lasuer they would renew their
acquaintance with the French capital and the long, straight motor
roads, and afterwards, as Mr. and Mrs. Baxendale, they would take up
their abode at the little Cornish cottage on the purple moors which the
girl, in secret, so longed to see again.

There they were to rejoin Anna, who would have all in readiness for
them, and she looked forward with delight to the time when she could
wander at evening over the hills above Tremoor, watching the
lighthouses flash their warnings out over the sea and the gulls circle
and scream above the rocky cliffs and the restless Atlantic.  It would
be a real honeymoon.  Armand had never been in the "Delectable Duchy,"
and Galva was never tired of thinking of the things she could show him
in the glorious land where her girlhood had been spent so happily.

The court they held at Corbo was unpretentious in the extreme, and
after the coronation and the state receptions attendant thereon, life
at the palace had quieted down to a peaceful existence untrammelled by
the ceremonies which appertained to larger and more important kingdoms.

The girl-queen often wondered what it would have been like had she been
alone.  With Armand it was just as though they were living in a
glorious country home; they drove out unattended, and took motor rides
to one or other of their houses in the other parts of the island with
as much privacy as they had run out to Fontainebleau in the days when
they had first met.

The business pertaining to the State of San Pietro was slight, and
Senor Luazo, who had been elevated to the post of Chancellor, proved
himself invaluable.  Galva saw to it that the abuses which had sprung
into being under the administration of King Enrico were remedied.
Trade improved, visitors, attracted by the royal love story, came in
increased numbers.  The Corbians at heart were a lazy, contented
people, and if only left alone the little toy kingdom really seemed to
rule itself.


The boat train had drawn up at Victoria a few minutes after seven
o'clock, and still Edward and Anna were sitting in one of the cushioned
alcoves of the station buffet drinking coffee.

They each knew that their journey, in company, had come to an end, and
they mutually avoided the subject of separation.  Each felt that the
address to which he or she were going would be expected by the other,
and each was unwilling to give it.  And so they sat and talked of many
things until the clock pointed to nine o'clock.  Then Anna rose and
held out her hand.

"Well--good-bye for the present, Mr. Sydney," she said nervously, "I
can write to you--where?"

"Oh, yes--Anna--good-bye.  I--I'm a little uncertain as to my movements
for the next few days.  I--oh, by the bye, where are you staying?"

Anna Paluda bent down and took up her jewel case and handbag.

"Well, Mr. Sydney--I'm like you--uncertain.  I have an aunt--but she
may be away.  Suppose we communicate in the agony column of the
_Morning Post_--that will be romantic, won't it?" with a little smile.

"Er--yes--just the very thing.  E.S. to A.P.--well, good-bye again.
I'll get you a cab."

Under the glass-covered yard Edward handed Anna into a taxi which had
just driven up and deposited a passenger.  He tried to catch the
address the woman whispered to the driver, but she spoke very low and
he was unsuccessful.

He stood on the curb with his hat in his hand, smiling his farewells
until the cab had passed through the gates.  Then he gave a little sigh
and made his way in the direction of the Park.

"So that is all," he murmured sadly to himself.  "God's in His heaven,
Galva's on her throne, all's right with the world--and Edward Povey's
little flutter is over."

He turned slowly through the gates, and stood looking at the facade of
Buckingham Palace.  And as he gazed at the rows of windows and at the
railed courtyard, with the sentries, his thoughts turned to another
palace, a palace under a blue sky and which overlooked a glittering
jewel city in the sun-kissed waters of a southern sea.

"God bless _my_ little Queen," he said, and turned and walked to where
the lights of Piccadilly were shining in the sky.

He wandered aimlessly along among the evening throng of pleasure
seekers.  He felt lost, he seemed to have forgotten that London
existed.  He turned into the Monico and drank a whisky and soda, and as
he came out he saw a green 'bus drawing up at the curb outside the
Pavilion music hall.  The conductor was shouting--"Russell Square,
King's Cross."

"Do you pass Abbot's Hotel?" Edward asked.

"Just near it, sir."

And Edward, giving himself no time for second thoughts, mounted to the
top.




CHAPTER XXIX

BLOOMSBURY

Edward entered the little vestibule of the select Bloomsbury hotel, and
crossing to the office window, behind which sat a sleepy-looking
book-keeper, asked for an envelope.  Then taking a card from his pocket
he scribbled a few words on it and enclosing it requested that it be
taken up to Mrs. Povey.

A few minutes later he was following an attendant up the broad flight
of carpeted stairs.  It was then five minutes past ten by the clock
which stood ticking sonorously in a corner of the landing.

      *      *      *      *      *

At twenty minutes to eleven Edward Povey descended the stairs and,
walking quickly through the vestibule, emerged into Russell Square.
There were but few people about, and no one seemed to notice the little
figure which stood in indecision on the curb.  Even had they done so it
would have taken a student of human physiognomy of no mean order to
read what was written on Edward's face.  Some would have said that
there was an expression of sorrow behind the eyes, others would have
imagined a suggestion of a smile at the corners of the mouth, and on
the whole countenance a look of joyful relief.

For some moments he stood, gazing out across the road at the lights of
the Hotel Russell, and at the cabs and taxis that were drawing up
before it.  Then he turned with a little sigh, and made his way down
Southampton Row, and along past the Museum into the glare of light at
the end of the Tottenham Court Road.  Here the sight of the restaurants
reminded him that it was mid-day when he had taken his last meal.  With
the thought he crossed the road and walked up Oxford Street to
Frascati's.

The supper crush in the great circular room had well began, but Edward
was fortunate in finding a little table near the orchestra, and he
prepared to order himself a meal in keeping with his feelings of the
moment--some soup, a couple of kidneys, a kirsch omelette and a small
bottle of hock.

He ate slowly and in a lazy contentment.  At intervals his face changed
its expression, now frowning slightly, now smiling.  He asked the
waiter who served him with his coffee to bring him writing materials,
and pushed a clear space among the plates and glasses on the table.
For perhaps ten minutes he sat deep in thought staring at the blotter,
keeping time absently to a rag-time melody the little band had struck
up by tapping his pen on the inkstand.

Then he squared his shoulders, finished his coffee at a gulp, and
wrote--


"_MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,_

"_I have been thinking things over, and I am willing to admit that I am
not, after all, wholly surprised at the reception you gave me when I
called on you this evening.  But I may also say, that knowing you as I
do, I was not prepared for the manner in which you acted._

"_It appears to me that you might, perhaps, had you thought, chosen
your expressions better.  You could have been quite as effective had
you been a little less vulgar, and you could have couched your
suspicions of me in a less offensive manner.  But let it pass._

"_I can only surmise that the life of ease that you have been living
for the past few months has entirely unfitted you for the management
and duties of a home.  I take it also that what you are pleased to term
my desertion of you, accompanied as it was by ample provision for your
wants, has not been distasteful to you._

"_Perhaps you are right--that we had better continue to live apart.  I
am afraid that the future would hold many little rifts.  Personally, I
have led a larger, fuller life since I left England, and have seen many
adventures (you would be surprised to hear that I still have a bullet
in my back which I will carry to my grave).  Yes, I am afraid our
former existence would irritate me beyond measure.  Your allowance will
be paid to you as formerly.  You need have no compunction in taking the
money.  It was fairly earned by bringing to a successful issue a
difficult and delicate affair of business._

"_Again, there would always be friction between us on account of our
several acquaintances.  I have mixed with the highest in the land, and
could never tolerate the state of intimacy you tell me you are in with
Uncle Jasper, a man I never pretended that I had the least affection
for.  He is a low fellow--and you know what I think of your Aunt Eliza._

"_And so, Charlotte, we will go our own ways.  The suggestion I made
to-night that we should meet each anniversary of our wedding-day and
dine together, I consider a good one.  This will be a standing
appointment, under the clock at Charing Cross Station, at seven, each
third of May._

"_I am glad to think that we remain friends._

  "_I am, dear Charlotte,_
    "_Your affectionate husband,_
        "_EDWARD._"


Povey posted this letter at the office in Oxford Street, afterwards
taking a cab to Victoria.  Here he reclaimed his personal luggage, and
had it conveyed into the Grosvenor, in which excellent hotel he engaged
a modest apartment.


The taxi-cab which Edward had seen leave the courtyard of the station,
and which contained Anna Paluda, bowled merrily up Victoria Street,
across Trafalgar Square, and so on to Gower Street, turning off into a
narrow and somewhat dingy thoroughfare which ran behind the Museum.

At Number 9, Dorrington Street, the cab drew up and Anna alighted.  The
driver had not particularly noticed the fare who had engaged him or he
would have seen a vast difference in the woman who now tendered him a
shilling and a half-crown, to the one who had entered his cab at
Victoria.

The white hair which was so strong and noticeable a feature in the
personality of Anna Paluda was now entirely covered up by a well-made
wig of black-brown, drawn down over the ears, and a pair of
slightly-smoked spectacles hid the piercing black eyes.

But a heavy veil made this alteration in the appearance of the lady
very slight to the casual observer, and the chauffeur noticed nothing
as, touching his cap, he restarted his car, leaving Anna standing on
the pavement, her jewel case and handbag in her hands, looking up at
Number 9.

It was a cheerless enough sight, dingy in the extreme, and the woman
wondered that the fastidious Gabriel Dasso should have chosen such a
habitation.  But it was an admirable hiding-place, and doubtless the
ex-dictator had only intended that it should be a temporary one.  Who
would think of looking for the dilettante fugitive among these sordid
surroundings?

A few stone steps flanked by broken iron railings led up to a faded and
blistered street-door that once had been green.  The brass numeral
under the knocker was hanging by one screw, and had fallen round so
that it might as well have been six as nine.  As Anna ascended the
steps she caught a glimpse of a dirty area in which the street-lamp
showed a littered profusion of bottles and jars.  On a spike of one of
the railings hung a tarnished and battered milk-can.

There was a semi-circular fanlight over the door through the grimy
panes of which a gas-jet, innocent of globe, gave a dull glow.  A light
also showed beneath the blinds of the windows flanking the door-step.
In the room within some one was thumping out a dismal melody on a
cracked pianoforte.

The woman waited a moment to compose herself, then reached out and
pulled the bell-handle.  There was a jangle of wires, and somewhere at
the back of the house a bell tinkled.  The musician stopped in the
middle of a bar, and there was silence for a few moments.  Then she
heard a door opened, and a shrill feminine voice shouted--

"Liz!"

Shuffling footsteps approached the door, a chain was unfastened, and
the catch pulled back.  Framed in the aperture stood a servant girl,
small in stature, and of a dirtiness unbelievable.  This presumably was
Liz.

"I see you have a card in the window----"

"Rooms, eh, mum?  Come inside, will yer?"

The small domestic stood aside to allow Anna to pass into the hall,
then carefully wiping her hands on the torn square of coarse sacking
which constituted her apron, Liz tapped at a door, and, pushing it
open, motioned the visitor to walk in.  Anna Paluda did so, and found
herself in the apartment that contained the piano.

The room showed traces of a glory that had long departed.  The
furniture for the most part had been good, and was of that peculiar
comfortless family of horsehair and mahogany with which the
mid-Victorian epoch was blessed.  There were a few pictures on the
wall, one or two of which looked as though they might prove valuable
could one penetrate beneath the grime with which they were covered.

There was an oval table in the centre of the room, from which the cloth
had evidently been hurriedly cleared at the visitor's ring.  Anna could
see its crumpled dirtiness peeping from a drawer in the sideboard into
which it had been hurriedly thrust.  Glimpses of crockery showed
beneath the shabby sofa, and over all was the same objectionable odour
of meals which Anna had noticed even in the hall.

The person who rose from an arm-chair by the fire, and advanced a
little to meet her, fitted the room to a nicety.  She, too, was
mid-Victorian, and, like her surroundings, had once been handsome.  Her
faded tea-gown was trimmed with still more faded lace, and faded
ribbons nodded wearily in her faded cap.

Her face was pale and thin and worn, but there was a little smile which
came into her pale blue eyes as she guessed Anna's errand.

"You have come about a room, madam?"

Anna nodded.

"Yes, for a few weeks--just a bed-sitting room.  I want to be quiet.
By the way, have you many other lodgers?"

"Two, madam; a lady on this floor"--pointing to the folding doors--"and
a gentleman on the floor above.  It is the room behind his that you can
have, or one above it in the front."

"I think the back would suit me.  The traffic at night cannot keep me
awake there.  Is the gentleman of quiet habits?"

"Quite.  Mr. Gabriel is a foreigner, but he is most regular in all his
habits.  He is at home all day, reading, and he goes out in the
evening.  He comes in late, but we never hear him."

Anna followed the faded landlady up the creaking stairs, and gazed
round as the woman held the candle up for her survey of the room.  She
did not take much notice of the furniture.  The room seemed airy and
clean, and she agreed to the price named without demur, forestalling
the request for references which she saw trembling on the lady's lips
by paying rent for a month in advance.

As she removed her bonnet and cloak she asked that a cup of tea might
be served to her in her room.  This in due course was brought up by
Liz, whose appearance had undergone a slight change for the better.
The new lodger made friends at once with the little maid of all work,
seeing in her a possible ally of the future, and, without directly
asking questions, she managed to get Liz to talk, and from her she soon
learnt some of the ways of her fellow-lodger.

She discovered that Mr. Gabriel left the house about eight to half-past
each evening.  "An awful swell, mum; puts on a clean shirt every
blessed night, an 'as one of them smash 'ats."  When he came in the
girl could not tell; they all went to bed and left his supper ready for
him--"not much, only a basin of cold beef-tea, _consommy_ 'e calls it."

"In his room, I suppose?"

"Lor' love yer, mum, not 'im--you don't catch anybody in 'is room when
'e goes out.  'E locks it up.  I makes the bed and all that while 'e's
there in the mornin'."

After the girl had gone up to bed, Anna sat up reading until the chimes
of some near-by church clock told the hour of midnight.  All was silent
in No. 9, Dorrington Street.  Outside, too, it was quiet, only
sometimes a hansom would rattle past the front of the house, its bells
jingling, and the horse's hoofs beating merrily on the asphalt.

The woman rose and looked out into the hall.  On a bracket stood an
evil-smelling oil-lamp turned down low.  Beside it a brass tray
contained the basin of _consomme_ and a dingy little metal cruet.
There were two letters there also, addressed to Mr. Gabriel, and Anna
took them up to examine them.

They were in her hands when she started suddenly and put them back on
the tray.  There was the sound of a key being inserted in the street
door below, and hastily slipping back into her room, Anna put out her
light and closed the door.

She heard the man come up the stairs and unlock his door and carry the
tray into his room.  Then a match was struck, and with a start Anna
noticed a thin streak of light break out in the darkness of the wall
beside her.

She noticed then for the first time that the rooms, like those below,
were separated by folding doors, but in the case of the first floor
they had been fastened up, and on her side had been papered over and a
heavy wardrobe placed against them.

Eagerly Anna Paluda placed her eye to the crack of light beside the
massive piece of furniture, but she could see nothing.  She determined
that when Dasso went out on the following evening she would see what
could be done to widen the crack in the papered door.




CHAPTER XXX

REVENGE

A week after Anna had taken up her residence at No. 9, Dorrington
Street, Senor Gabriel Dasso, as usual, left the house about eight
o'clock.  He had seen his fellow-lodger for the first time when he had
passed her in the dimness of the stairs that night as he went out.

But the heavily veiled lady conveyed nothing to him at the moment, and
the stairs disguised the height, which was so strong a characteristic
of Madame Paluda.  Dasso had merely raised his hat and passed on.

For some reason a bad mood was upon the ex-dictator of San Pietro.  He
dined as usual at an exclusive little restaurant in Soho, but his
favourite dishes gave him no pleasure, and although he drank twice as
much wine as was his custom, the black dog had settled firmly on his
back and refused to be dislodged.

The hole-and-corner life he was leading was becoming very wearisome to
a man of his tastes, and his long daylight sittings in the little
Bloomsbury room were getting sadly on his nerves.  As he sat over his
coffee and cognac he asked himself whether all this hiding was
necessary, after all.

It was only the memory of the man he had seen reading the _Imparcial_
in Paris which had prompted him to this secrecy.  After all, it may
have been a coincidence.  True, the man had also been seen at Dieppe,
but perhaps that was another coincidence.  He had certainly not
embarked on the _Arundel_ with him, and at Newhaven Dasso had noticed
nothing suspicious.

No, it was absurd; in the morning he would leave Dorrington Street and
take up his residence at some hotel and live a life more fitted to his
tastes.  Mozara's body, he told himself, would have been burnt out of
all recognition in the fire--and ashes tell no tales.

Curiously enough, however, the woman he had passed on the stairs would
come unbidden into his mind.  Perhaps some turn of the head, some
gesture, some mannerism, reminded him of some one he had seen before.
Later, as he walked round the promenade of the Empire the memory of the
woman on the stairs remained with him.  He was drinking heavily
to-night, and as he drank the depression he had felt earlier in the
evening returned to him tenfold; something seemed to tell him that
retribution was on his heels, and little devils hammered at the cells
of his brain telling him that his hour had come.

He walked home to Bloomsbury, but the exercise in the night air gave
him no relief.  He was full of fancies--there were steps behind
him--hands stretched out and touched his shoulder.  Once he seemed to
hear his name called.  He cursed softly and told himself that it was
nerves.  He had no right to coop himself up in these dingy
surroundings.  It was life he wanted, rich and full.

It was nerves, again, he said, that made him imagine that a bitter
taste came into his mouth after he had drank his _consomme_ that night;
perhaps that infernal Liz had put too much salt in it.

As he undressed, a curious feeling of lassitude came over him.  He
forgot his fears, forgot everything but that he wanted to sleep.  He
sat on the edge of the little bed and fumbled with unhandy fingers with
his collar stud, but he did not undo it.  With a little sigh his hands
dropped nerveless into his lap and he fell back on the shabby
eiderdown, his face pale and his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

      *      *      *      *      *

In the night Dasso dreamed a strange dream.  It seemed to him that he
awoke to find the room hazy with the grey light of the dawning.
Through the little crevices between the slats of the Venetian blinds
the pale radiance edged its way, giving to objects in the room a
ghostly and unwonted appearance.  Between the man on the bed and the
window there seemed to stand the tall shadowy figure of a woman, a
figure which, as he looked, moved steadily towards him.

It seemed to Dasso that the woman bent over him and that two black
piercing eyes burnt into his very soul.  He tried to speak but could
not.  Then he heard a voice.  The figure was speaking to him in a
whisper, low and vibrant with passion, telling him what the little
devils had been hammering into his brain--that his hour had come.

"--_your_ hour, Gabriel Dasso, and _my_ hour.  For fifteen years I have
waited for this moment, and I have never doubted but that it would
come----"

The figure rose up and it seemed to Dasso that he watched her as she
glided silently about the room.  It seemed to him that she took up the
basin which had contained his _consomme_ and emptied the little liquid
which remained into the mould of a pot containing a palm which stood in
the alcove by the window.  The whisper went on, and now Dasso told
himself that this was Miranda's companion who was in the room with him.

"--and it is curious, is it not?  that so experienced a conspirator as
Gabriel Dasso, master of plot and counterplot, should fail to notice
that his soup had, shall we say, a _distinctive_ taste?  Is it not
curious that he should not have noticed that the lock of his door had
been tampered with?  You have been insensible some hours now--and you
are bound and gagged.  But you are awake, Dasso, and you can see what I
am doing."

The figure came again over to the bed and bent down again above the
bound figure.

"I am a woman of peace, Dasso, and it is no crime I am committing--only
an act of justice.  For fifteen years I have put the thought of
vengeance out of my mind, considering the living before the dead.
After to-night I will take my place again in the world, without regret
and without exultation--I am a tragic figure, am I not? the mother of a
murdered child.

"Any time in those fifteen years I could have killed you, you did not
know me well and it would have been easy.  But I _wanted_ you to know
me and to know why I am doing this.  Perhaps God will let your agony be
your expiation."

The figure rose up and crossed over to the little gas stove that stood
in the fire-place.  In even tones she went on--

"I am turning on the taps, here, Dasso, and all the crevices in the
room are stopped up.  In a little while--when--when you are quite dead,
I will put a cloth over my mouth and come in and cut off the scarves
which bind you--they are silk and will leave no marks.  Then I will
rouse the house and complain of a smell of gas, and afterwards there
will be----"

The vision of the woman with the piercing eyes grew gradually fainter
.... and it seemed to Dasso that he awoke suddenly.

      *      *      *      *      *

The room was quite light now.  It had been a bad dream.  Dasso tried to
rise--why, what was this?

His hands and legs were firmly bound and his jaws ached with the strain
of the gag.  The air of the room was heavy with the fumes of gas, and
his chest pained him as though it would burst.  In his ears were weird
noises and he felt the sweat of fear wet upon his forehead.

Air--he must have air.  The window near him seemed to mock him with its
promise of life.  With an effort he managed to turn on his side, and
inch by laborious inch, he worked his way to the edge of the bed--then
on to the floor.

He lay for a moment, breathing heavily, his heart beating in great
blows against his ribs.  He struggled on to his knees and began a
series of grotesque hops towards the window.

But with each movement the effort grew more difficult and the strain on
his heart grew tenser.  Twice he fell forward on to his face, once he
struggled again to his feet.  The second time he remained lying where
he had fallen, his head buried in the dusty fur rug beneath his goal.

Below, in the street, he heard the jangle of milk cans.  Then a man
cried cheerily to his horse and a cart rattled past the house.  Some
sparrows flew past the window chirping and quarrelling--they made a
shadow on the blinds and were gone.

If only he could throw something and break a pane of glass.
Air--air--not two feet away--and life----

With a superhuman effort Dasso was on his knees again--then, a look of
despair and a great fear came into the white staring face, and with no
sound he rolled over and lay still.




CHAPTER XXXI

A FINAL NOTE BY EDWARD POVEY

It may be a matter of some astonishment to the few people whom I number
as my intimate friends that the records of my doings from the time when
Mr. Kyser accosted me as I leant on the parapet of London Bridge, to
the time I left the kingdom of San Pietro, have not been chronicled by
myself in the first person.

To be candid, such was my original intention, and, indeed, I commenced
the task only to find that it was beyond me.  There were certain
incidents in the record where my actions, however well they turned out,
were perhaps not the actions of a strictly honest man.  These (although
I wish it to be clearly understood that I regret nothing) I felt that I
could not write of without feeling a not unnatural bias.

I claim that in my schemes I did harm to no one; I will even go further
and claim that I have been the humble instrument by which happiness and
a splendid inheritance came to Galva.  Had I returned Mr. Kyser's
letter to America, it would probably never have reached Mr. Baxendale.
If, in an after life, I meet this latter gentleman, I will have no
fear.  The case of the San Pietro inheritance, had I not undertaken the
matter, would have been thrown into the hands of some unknown and
perhaps unscrupulous lawyer who would have exploited the affair for his
benefit rather than Galva's.

I do not wish to hide the fact that it was not alone the thought of
this unknown girl which embarked me on my mission.  I believe that
beneath the shell of the most ordinary existence there is a kernel of
romance, and it was this which tempted me.

I have always held that Romance is not dead, as some would have us
believe, but that it is a question of environment.  I heard a lecturer
once say that Yesterday was romantic, and so is To-morrow, but never
To-day--our grandparents and grandchildren, but never our brothers and
sisters.  Who can dare to say what lies beneath the most prosaic
exterior?  Where is the line which marks the difference between the man
who drives his omnibus down Cheapside and the charioteer of ancient
Rome?  One wears a shiny felt hat, and the other, I believe, affected a
fillet of gold in his hair.  Apart from that they are identical.  I
once knew a man who wore side-whiskers and lectured in little halls on
temperance, and I know for a fact that an ancestor of his helped to
murder a cardinal on the steps of an Italian cathedral.  But I do not
believe that romance is dead in my temperate friend, it is only
dormant.  One of these days something will stir in his mind, and he
will see things as they are, just as something stirred in me that
evening I looked over London Bridge.  I do not expect he will murder a
cardinal, they don't do those things now.  I know he feels secretly
proud of his descent from his violent ancestor--the murder of a
cardinal ages ago is so romantic--but should his brother shoot a
curate, I think he would die of shame.  Yet the crimes are identical.
Why is it?

It is now two years since the events recorded in this book happened,
and the proof sheets have just come from the friend who has taken upon
himself the task of putting my notes into story form.  With them, there
is a letter in which he asks me to write a final note--to tie a knot,
as it were, in the string of the tale.

I must pay my friend the compliment of saying that he has made good use
of the data I have given him, and he has dealt as leniently as he could
with my little failings.

I have spent a very pleasant two years, and I gather from Charlotte
that she is as happy as I am.  Perhaps, after one of our yearly dinners
we will decide to take up again the life which was interrupted by the
visit of Uncle Jasper.  I hope not, however.

It is May now, a month which I always spend in the little cottage at
Tremoor.  Their Majesties the King and Queen of San Pietro, travelling
as Mr. and Mrs. Baxendale, come to Cornwall also and spend a week each
year.  They will be here in a few days now, and with them they are
bringing the Crown Prince, as sturdy a little Estrato as ever graced a
cradle.  I saw him last January, for I spend the winters in the
delightful climate of Corbo.  I do not stay at the palace, but find it
more to my taste to take a suite of rooms at the Imperial, that new
hotel which faces the bay near the Casino.

I rode out to Casa Luzo a few days before I last left the island, and
it was with very mixed feelings that I gazed on the stucco porch and
the little garden.  I thought of Galva and Armand, of old Pieto and
Teresa, and the ruffian who was wounded in the leg.  The place has been
done up, and is, I think, in the possession of a wealthy fruit merchant
of Madrid.

Pieto and Teresa were well when I last saw them.  They keep a small inn
on the Alcador Road, and by Teresa's careful watching of the stock, the
worthy pair manage to wring from the business a fair living.  They
receive also a yearly sum from the Royal Pensions list.

Anna Paluda resides at the palace.  I often find myself wondering what
business it was that really brought her to London with me.  In my
pocket-book is an old and much folded cutting from the _Daily Mail_
which has put strange fancies into my head.  One of these days I will
show Anna the cutting and watch those great black eyes as she reads it.
It is a report of an inquest and goes--


"THE DORRINGTON STREET MYSTERY

"_Yesterday Mr. Paxton, the coroner of St. Pancras, held an inquest on
the body of the man Gabriel who was found dead in the first-floor room
of a boarding-house in Dorrington Street._

"_Mrs. Brand, the landlady, giving evidence, spoke of the curious
habits of the deceased.  Mr. Gabriel took the room about a month ago
and had lived a very retired life, going out only at night._

"_The servant, Elizabeth Harker, gave corroborative evidence, and spoke
of the discovery of the body.  She had been called at about half-past
five in the morning by a Mrs. Graham, the lodger who rented the room
next to the deceased.  The lady complained of a smell of gas, and,
together with the witness, tried to rouse Mr. Gabriel.  No answer being
given to their knocking, they turned the handle, and the door, to their
surprise, came open._

"_To a question from the coroner witness said that she had never known
the deceased to sleep with his door unlocked._

"_Further evidence was called showing that deceased had evidently
destroyed all marks and papers that might lead to his identity.  The
windows of the room had been carefully plugged up and two gas jets were
turned full on._

"_The coroner, in a few words to the jury, said that this was one of
the many cases he had had to deal with of mysterious foreigners who met
no less mysterious deaths in his district._

"_From the evidence he should say that Mr. Gabriel was most anxious to
hide his identity, and the evidence that he did not go out in daylight
pointed to the fact that he went in fear of something.  The deceased
seemed to be of Spanish nationality, and the recent disturbances in
Barcelona made one wonder whether this man was not a refugee or a
member of one of the numerous secret societies, whose plans, perhaps,
he had betrayed.  It looked as though his fear had got the better of
him at last, and that he had chosen death at his own hands rather than
at those of his enemies._

"_The jury, after a few moments' deliberation, returned a verdict of
suicide.  The body, if not identified by to-morrow, will be buried by
the authorities._

"_A curious aspect of the case is that the Mrs. Graham who discovered
the smell of gas has disappeared.  There is nothing to connect her with
the tragedy, but her evidence might have thrown some light on the
affair.  We understand the police, are making inquiries as to the
missing woman, who took the room she occupied only a week ago._"


The affair is now one of London's unsolved mysteries.  Personally I
have, as I said, my fancies--the date of the cutting is ten days after
my arrival, with Anna, in London--but it is no business of mine.

It is peaceful here in this little spring-coloured garden.  The sun has
just dropped down behind a bank of storm-clouds over the sea and the
lights of Pendeen are flashing out.  A tramp steamer, miles away and
looking like a toy on the broad Atlantic, is ploughing her way down
towards the Longships.  Perhaps she is going to Bilbao, or even Corbo
or Rozana.  Above me a large bird is planing on outstretched motionless
wings in the copper blue of the sky, and the moors around me look like
masses of crumpled mauve velvet in the darkening twilight.

And I--I sit here and smoke a very excellent cigar and wonder if Fate
will ever stretch out her hand again to pick me up and drop me again
into the whirl of things.

I say to myself that I hope not--and know that I lie.




THE END




_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay_




ROMANCES BY

MAY WYNNE


Henry of Navarre

From the Play by Wm. Devereux, produced at the New Theatre with great
success by Miss Julia Neilson and Mr. Fred Terry.


Maid of Brittany

A stirring Romance of the Fifteenth Century

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An Irish Romance

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For Charles the Rover

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