CHAPTER IX.

“WAYS THAT ARE DARK, AND TRICKS THAT ARE VAIN.”

Although he remained unconscious of the plot which was forming against the ultimate triumph of his policy, Cyril was not long in discovering that his daily task was not destined to be made lighter by any gratitude for the signal service he had been the means of rendering to his royal mistress and her son. He had been so short-sighted as to believe that the alarm produced by the near approach of such extreme peril would make it easy to induce the Queen to return to Bellaviste at once, or even to accept the despised Praka as her residence for the remainder of the winter, but he found himself mistaken. Queen Ernestine knew that he had averted the threatening danger not only without her help, but in spite of her unconscious opposition, and this was unpardonable. Moreover, although she was not one of the people who become the deadly enemies of any one that has the misfortune to do them a service, she knew that she had misjudged her Minister, and she could not forgive him either for allowing himself to be misjudged, or for failing to justify her bad opinion of him. It seemed to her, therefore, a pleasant piece of revenge to assure him that while he remained in attendance, she felt so safe that she had no intention of leaving the Villa before the spring. Cyril urged in vain that on another occasion he might not have the good fortune to discover the existence of a conspiracy in time to prevent its taking effect: the Queen replied that this might be a reason for added vigilance on his part, but not for the withdrawal of her confidence in him.

This peculiarly irritating conduct on the part of his liege lady Cyril attributed, rather unjustly, to the influence of the Princess of Dardania; for although Queen Ernestine saw her cousin frequently at this time, they disagreed almost invariably when they touched upon the subject of the Minister of the Household. As the sharp-eyed Princess had discerned, the Queen was divided between the desire of defying Cyril and the fear of alienating him from her son’s cause, between dislike of his tutelage and confidence in his guidance. Her cousin urged her to dismiss him, and thus avenge her wrongs, upon which Ernestine brought forward immediately her husband’s wish and her own promise. Torn in this way between willingness and reluctance, prudence and rashness, it is not surprising that she did not succeed in disguising all outward traces of her mental struggles. In other words, Queen Ernestine’s temper was very bad at this time, and not only Cyril, but the other members of the household, from Baroness von Hilfenstein to the youngest dresser, had it forced upon their notice that her Majesty was extremely hard to please. As it happened, one of these fits of ill-temper was destined to have far-reaching consequences.

It was a mild day in winter, and Cyril was leaving the Villa after his morning’s work. As he passed along the terrace, the little King ran out from the open French window of one of the Queen’s rooms, and demanded a game. Cyril had scarcely seen the child for some days, and turning at the clamorous summons, held out his hands and helped King Michael to climb up him and seat himself triumphantly on his shoulder. Before he had taken a single step, however, the Queen dashed out of the house and snatched the child from his arms, her eyes blazing with anger.

“You stole my husband from me,” she cried. “At least leave me my son!”

Answer was impossible, and Cyril was about to retire; but the little King did not see the matter in the same light.

“Let me go, mamma!” he cried, wriggling violently. “I want to play with the Herr Graf. I am tired of Lida and nothing but girls. Put me down! put me down!” and he began to kick and struggle, finally striking his mother in the face with his little fist.

“Majestät!” said Cyril reprovingly; but the Queen turned upon him again, with the red mark on her face showing plainly where the blow had been delivered.

“I may be forced to allow you to govern my kingdom, Count, but I do not need your assistance in controlling my own child.”

Cyril bowed and turned away, and the Queen carried the struggling boy back into the house. The incident had not been witnessed by any of the Court, and Cyril found some consolation in this fact, but he was none the less seriously disquieted. He had been much worried of late by what seemed to be signs that the accord between himself and M. Drakovics was less complete than it had been. When the conspirators whom he had baffled by arresting them so unceremoniously were set at liberty, and assured that they were the victims of a mistake in identity, he had been anxious to reduce the O’Malachy’s power of doing harm for the future by having him conducted to the frontier, and warned not to re-enter Thracia. This he had suggested to the Premier, only to receive in reply a telegram, couched in needlessly emphatic terms, refusing him permission to do anything of the kind for fear of offending Scythia. Moreover, there had been unnecessary delay several times in answering his telegrams, while one or two small requests which he had made were disregarded, and these various indications, taken together, led him to surmise that something was wrong. He did not actually suspect M. Drakovics of intriguing either with Scythia or with the Queen against him; but it was quite possible that some one in the Premier’s _entourage_ might be thus engaged, and a personal interview was extremely desirable. He would have asked permission of the Queen to visit Bellaviste weeks ago if it had not been that he foresaw the delight with which she would grant him leave of absence, for who could say to what use she might put her unaccustomed freedom from his guidance? But now he began to think that it might be as well to disregard this risk, since a short absence would lessen the tension which prevailed between them, and perhaps allow the Queen to realise how ill she could do without him. His half-formed resolution was dissipated for the present, however, by an intimation that the Queen could not safely be left to manage her own affairs. He was sitting in his office on the afternoon of the day which had witnessed the scene on the terrace, when a knock at the door announced the advent of Mrs Jones, the little King’s nurse, who came to ask his advice as to the best way of returning to England.

“Which I’ve give the Queen notice, my lord, and good reason, too, and I looks to your lordship to get me my rights, and not see me cheated out of them by no foreigners.”

“I am very sorry to hear this, Mrs Jones; and Lady Caerleon will be very much disappointed to know that you are leaving, I am sure. If it is any little unpleasantness with the other servants, which I could arrange----”

“No, my lord. Not that I haven’t put up with a deal from them, knowing they were foreigners--which they couldn’t not to say be held responsible for--and so didn’t know no better. But when it comes to her Majesty herself callin’ me names, and usin’ language which no lady should use, then, I ask you, my lord, would you have me lay down at her feet to be trampled upon?”

“Oh, come, Mrs Jones; there must be some mistake. Her Majesty is a foreigner too, you know, and doesn’t speak English perfectly; but, as you say, it is not her fault. You must have misunderstood her.”

“There was no misunderstandin’, my lord. It was as plain as the nose upon your face, as they say, not intendin’ anything personal to your lordship. And I’m sure,” here Mrs Jones looked mysterious, “as there ain’t no call, my lord, for you to be defendin’ them as worrits your life out with doin’ their work, and then turns round and stabs you when you ain’t there, so to speak.”

“If I can do anything for you,” said Cyril, his curiosity not stirred even by the complicated operation described, “I shall be glad to do it; but I can’t listen to complaints of your mistress.”

“And who talked about complaints, my lord, may I ask? I was settin’ by my fire, and little King Michael, as was tired after his play, on my lap. ‘Tell me a ’tory, nursie,’ he says, and I tell him the one he always likes best, of the time when you and the Markiss was young gentlemen at school, and made raftses on the lake when you was home for the holidays. I was just gettin’ to the part where your lordship was tryin’ to smoke the old swan off of the rock you wanted for a desert island, when I heard a rustle, and there stood the Queen, her eyes glarin’ at me. ‘Woman!’ she says, ‘how dare you worm yourself in here to turn my child’s heart against me?’ ‘And who may your Majesty be callin’ wormses?’ I says, and I don’t deny, my lord, my temper was up, to be spoke to in that way in my own nursery, and before the child. ‘You are a creature of Count Mortimer’s,’ she says, ‘and he has hired you to tell these tales.’ ‘Me a creature!’ I says; ‘me that’s always lived in the best families, and kep’ myself respectable! That’s a name I don’t allow no one to call me, not even Queen Victoria herself, as would know better than use it to a honest widow woman, as has always paid her way, and brought up four sons and three darters to be a credit to the estate, and one of them dead in Egypt, and two in service at the Castle, and one of them her ladyship’s own maid! I’ll ask your Majesty to please suit yourself this day month, and you may be sure that the names of their lordships shan’t never cross my lips again in this house, as ain’t fit to be honoured with them!’ But there, my lord, when her Majesty was gone, as she did go pretty soon when I up and spoke my mind like that, and the child put his little arms round my neck and says, ‘Finish the ’tory, nursie dear,’ what did I do but finish it? But for all that, I leave this day month, if you please.”

“I hope you will think better of it, Mrs Jones. The Queen seems rather worried just now, and perhaps a little vexed with me. I fancy I must have got upon her nerves. So you mustn’t think she meant all she said; and if she asks you to stay, I hope you will. After all, you really are a woman, you know.”

“And if I am, my lord,” returned Mrs Jones, with great dignity, “it ain’t for any other woman, nor yet for your lordship, to cast it up to me. Will your lordship be good enough to help me with my journey, or must I write to Sir Egerton Stratford at Bellaviste?”

“Don’t trouble the British Minister, certainly. I will give you any help you need. Good afternoon, and pray think better of it.”

Mrs Jones departed, with her head high in air, and Cyril rose from his chair, and took one or two turns up and down the room.

“This won’t do,” he said to himself. “The Queen must be getting up a perfect monomania about me, if she flies out at the servants for merely mentioning my name, and it will grow into a scandal if it goes on. It is quite evident that it’s no use speaking to her; I must get at one of the people who know the ropes. Either the Princess of Dardania or the Princess of Weldart would answer the purpose, but it would be a long job. And then, the price to be paid for the support of either of them would be so heavy that the game would certainly not be worth the candle. One owes something to one’s own self-respect, and I don’t propose to efface myself politically because an ungrateful little termagant refuses to see when she is well served. No. I must have a try at the nearest wire-puller. I never knew the woman yet whom there was no way to get round, and I shall be surprised if Fräulein von Staubach is an exception to the rule. But we must go to work carefully. It would be no good to ask her for an interview, for nothing would give her greater pleasure than to refuse. She must be caught with guile. Ah!”

He touched a bell, and one of his clerks appeared.

“Have the repairs yet been put in hand which Fräulein von Staubach asked for in her maid’s room, in which the snow came through the roof?”

“Not yet, your Excellency. It appears that the roof is very much out of repair, and that more work will be needed than we imagined.”

“Very good. Bring me the estimates here, and see that the repairs are not begun until I give you orders. If Fräulein von Staubach should inquire the cause of the delay, refer her to me.”

“At the orders of your Excellency,” and the clerk retired, after a puzzled glance at his superior’s face to discover whether he could be joking. But Cyril knew now a good deal more about the lady with whom he had to deal than he had done at the time of their former acquaintance. Then he had regarded her as a singularly uninteresting girl, who seemed to have no tastes or interests of her own, and whose views were coloured by those of any one who came near her. Now he recognised her as a sentimentalist of the most pronounced German type--and when a German is sentimental he carries his favourite quality to such a pitch as to astonish the less impressionable Englishman. Fräulein von Staubach lived in the joys and sorrows of others; it would almost be correct to say that she enjoyed both equally. Her tears and her laughter, her sympathy and her condolences, were always at the service of her friends, or even of her enemies, if they could once succeed in obtaining her ear. Her mood was that of her companion at the moment, but carried to its highest degree; her hopes were the brightest, her despair the deepest, her misery the most uncontrolled, in any society. In the same way, she could be absurdly credulous among trusting people; but once let a suspicion be suggested to her, and she would speedily astonish its author by her absolute persuasion of its truth. She called herself a “child of nature,” in the full belief that she was laying claim to the highest possible honour, and she hated with a bitter hatred the artificialities of courts and of polite society generally, after the manner of the leaders of a minor romantic reaction which had afflicted various exalted circles in Germany twenty or thirty years before, and which had also influenced the Princess of Weldart in the education of her daughter.

It was no surprise to Cyril, therefore, when an imperative knock at his office-door the next day announced the arrival of Fräulein von Staubach, who entered the room in a state of the loftiest moral indignation.

“I have been extremely astonished, Count,” she said severely, as Cyril rose to receive her, “to hear that you have not only taken no steps to remedy the inconvenience from which my servant is suffering, but have even given orders that nothing should be done.”

“I fear you have been misinformed, Fräulein. Nothing could be further from my mind than to wish to cause inconvenience to any member of the household. The delay of which you complain arises from the fact that two alternative schemes have been proposed by the Works Department, and I am glad to have the opportunity of consulting you on the subject. Perhaps if you have a minute or two to spare, you will sit down and look at these estimates. The one provides merely for repairs, as you will see; the other involves an alteration of the shape of the roof, which would be an improvement, but would require a good deal of work and some changing of rooms.”

“I do not wish my maid’s room changed,” said Fräulein von Staubach, falling into the trap, and accepting the offered chair. “It is very conveniently situated, and she can talk to the Queen’s dressers if she feels lonely when I am busy with the King. Still, I will look at the papers, Count.”

A very short examination of the estimates served to confirm Fräulein von Staubach in her preference for the simple repairs, which was what Cyril had intended; but the courtesy shown in allowing her a choice in the matter worked a distinct change in her manner.

“I am much obliged to you for your kindness, Count,” she said, as she handed the papers back to Cyril. “I see that I misjudged you when I thought you had arranged this delay for the purpose of vexing me. My maid is a faithful servant, and I could not endure to see her badly treated.”

“No, indeed; I am only sorry that every one is not so considerate as yourself, Fräulein. Faithful servants are hard to find, and should be prized.” A pause, and then Cyril went on, “That is why I am so sorry to hear that Mrs Jones intends to leave the Queen’s service almost immediately.”

“You cannot regret it more than I do, Count. Since she saved the King’s life in that attack of croup, one has felt it impossible to value her too highly. Again, she has such an excellent influence over his Majesty.”

“True, and such an influence is much needed. But what gives me even more concern, Fräulein, is the cause of her departure. Mrs Jones is not a tell-tale; but she is certain to be asked why she resigned her post, and when it comes out that it was because the Queen, in a fit of ill-temper, called her names, the impression produced cannot fail to be a most deplorable one.”

“Count!” Fräulein von Staubach sat erect, but her tone was one of consternation rather than anger, “You are right; that had not struck me. Her Majesty has undoubtedly been imprudent.”

“We may find some difficulty in filling Mrs Jones’s place, I fear. But then, of course, it is possible----;” Cyril fell into a reverie.

“Possible? what?” asked Fräulein von Staubach anxiously.

“It is possible that the nation may think it desirable that the King should be removed from the sole care of ladies sooner than was originally contemplated. I tell you this in confidence, of course”--“in full confidence that the Queen will hear every word of it at the first opportunity,” he added to himself.

“It cannot be! You would not have the heart to separate so young a child from his mother?”

“I said nothing about separation, Fräulein. What I was thinking of was merely the provision of a suitable household of his own for his Majesty, and the appointment of a state governor and tutors.”

“But it would all come between them. You could not be so cruel. It would kill the Queen.” Fräulein von Staubach’s tones thrilled with anguish.

“I am proposing nothing, Fräulein. My duty is merely to act as a member of the Ministry, and the duty of the Ministry is to do what is best for the kingdom. Consider a moment. You will scarcely deny that his Majesty is developing a very imperious and violent temper. I myself saw him strike his mother in the face yesterday, when she thwarted some whim of his.”

“You saw it? The Queen was cry----talking about it last night, but she did not say you were there. But who can wonder that the King should have an ungoverned temper, Count? Think what his mother’s life has been!”

“I am not now discussing past history, which is unhappily beyond mending, Fräulein. If the King’s disposition is not to be ruined, he must be taught to control his temper and keep it in check. Since the one person who treats him sensibly is leaving him, I fear the council of Ministers will feel it necessary to place him under a stricter rule.”

“Sensibly! You are using very strange language, Count.”

“It is quite possible, Fräulein; but I mean what I say. To Mrs Jones it is all the same whether a child is a King or a beggar. If he is in her charge, she makes him ‘mind’ her, as she calls it. Now I ask you, as a conscientious woman, is not her method more likely to produce good results than that of--another lady--who alternates between humouring his most unreasonable wishes, and thwarting his most innocent ones because she is--well, angry herself?”

“I cannot remain here to listen to such words about the Queen, Count.”

“Forgive me for wearying you, Fräulein. I am afraid I am rather an enthusiast on the subject of education. But I won’t bore you any more with my theories.”

“You are trying to revenge yourself upon the Queen by torturing her through her son!” burst from Fräulein von Staubach.

“Surely, Fräulein, you must be aware that her Majesty makes my post such a delightful one, and responds with so much alacrity to the slightest suggestion I may venture to make for her guidance, that the feeling at which you hint would be entirely out of place and uncalled for?”

“She--she has not perhaps treated you as graciously as you may have expected; but then, is it noble--is it even manly--to act in this way? To work upon an unhappy mother’s feelings----”

“Fräulein, permit me to remind you that you are speaking of her Majesty in terms for which there is no justification. If I had any wish for revenge--to which you seem to consider I am entitled--I could find no better way of wreaking it than by simply resigning my office and returning to England. I am actuated by no feelings but those of the greatest respect and kindness towards the Queen, who was left in my charge under the most solemn circumstances by my dead friend. It is not my fault, but I fear it will be her own great misfortune, that she herself is the worst enemy of her son’s kingdom.”

“I wish I could trust you!” she cried with a gasp. “But no, you must have some other motive. You could not endure her coldness, her childish peevishness, her foolish little affronts, as you do, unless you had some end in view.”

“My end is solely to see King Michael seated safely on his father’s throne, Fräulein. I have given up my life first to Otto Georg and now to his son, and it strikes one as a little hard that the sacrifice should be supposed to be made for the sake of some personal advantage. If you can suggest one, I should be glad to hear it, for I confess it has occurred to me more than once that I am wasting my pains on an ungrateful family.”

“I long to believe you,” said Fräulein von Staubach. “I might be able to make your path easier, but how can I, knowing what I know? I remember you of old--your intrigues, your deceptions, all the course of trickery you carried on when your brother was King. I do not--I cannot--believe that you have really changed.”

“Perhaps, Fräulein, you will believe in my disinterestedness when the kingdom is ruined in spite of my best efforts. Pray don’t misunderstand me. I am not uttering any threat, for I shall continue to do my best for the King, for his father’s sake. But I cannot hope to succeed, and you know to whom my failure will be owing.”

“I wish I could trust you!” she said again, as she passed out of the door he held open for her, and Cyril went back to his desk well pleased.

“Now she is divided in mind,” he said to himself. “The new light is beating fiercely on all her preconceived notions of a martyr Queen persecuted by a revengeful Minister. She will do all she can to reconcile the two views, and meanwhile she will improve matters a little.”

And Cyril turned his attention to other subjects, feeling perfect confidence in his new agent. It was no surprise to him a few days later to receive a visit from Mrs Jones, who entered the office with a face wreathed in smiles.

“You’ll be pleased to hear as I’ve changed my mind about goin’ home, my lord,” she said. “I hope as your lordship haven’t give yourself no trouble about findin’ out trains for me?”

“I am extremely glad to hear this,” returned Cyril. “You decided that you had been a little too hasty, I suppose?”

“No, my lord, that I never will give in to. Them as was hasty has made amends, as was proper. Her Majesty come into my nursery this mornin’, and I stood up very stiff-like, as my feelin’s bein’ hurt. But she speaks to me very pleasant, and says, says she, ‘Mrs Jones, I spoke hasty to you a short time ago, and it may be that through ignorance of your language I said more nor I meant. I hope very much that you have made no other arrangements, and will stay with us. I ask it as a favour to myself, and also to the King, as will break his heart if you leave him.’ There, my lord! I was all in a flutter to think of a crowned Queen talkin’ to me of favours, and the little King come runnin’ and says, ‘Nursie not goin’ away. Nursie stay and tell stories,’ and I burst out cryin’ like any old crocodile, as they say, and told the Queen that my heart was just about broke to think of leavin’, and that I asked no better than to stay. And this afternoon her Majesty have sent me a beautiful gown-piece of black silk, that thick you might use it for a parachute if you wanted to, and so I’ve took back my notice, my lord.”

This was extremely satisfactory so far as it went, but Cyril was not long in discovering that the part he had played with respect to Mrs Jones’s remaining a member of the royal household was not appreciated by the Queen. It was tolerably clear that Fräulein von Staubach had repeated verbatim, or, at any rate, rather in an exaggerated than a diminished form, the conversation she had held with him, and that the Queen had taken it to heart. She was very careful in these days to entrench herself behind an impassable barrier of etiquette, and she indulged in no freaks and no outbursts of temper, while yet she kept Cyril at a distance, and made it evident that he was in disgrace. This little exhibition of spite could do Cyril no harm, for he still held the reins of authority and controlled the purse-strings; but it was a very uncomfortable state of affairs for the other members of the Court, who were obliged to do their utmost to keep in favour with both parties. In these circumstances, Cyril thought it a suitable opportunity to ask for a few days’ leave of absence in order to pay his projected visit to Bellaviste, and the permission was granted with a most unflattering readiness, which, however, only caused him amusement.

“I don’t think she’ll be up to much in the way of tricks while I’m gone,” he said to himself; “this last pulling-up has taken her rather aback. She must know that I shall hear of all that goes on, and hurry back if there is anything wrong. I don’t really like going, and yet I must have a word or two with Drakovics. He shall learn to understand that our partnership is not to be all on one side. If he is not going to back me up, he may look out for some one else to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him. And I’m not sorry to have a little change from this wretched place. I wonder whether there would be time to run up to Vienna for a day or two? Oh no; my precious charge would be getting into mischief, and, after all, Bellaviste is better than this dull hole. Nothing much can happen in five days. The servants know that I am master, and Stefanovics and the Baroness will keep me posted up. If any one launches out on the strength of my being gone, I shall be able to deal with them when I come back.”

But on the day before that fixed for his departure, he discovered that his authority in the household was not quite so firmly rooted as he had imagined. It happened that in the course of the morning a telegram arrived for him, and was brought into his office by one of the royal footmen. The telegram was of little importance, but something unfamiliar in the aspect of the bearer struck Cyril.

“Wait a minute,” he said, as the man was leaving the room. “How is this? You are not Alexander Sergeivics, but Peter, and you were one of the servants left at Bellaviste to look after the Palace.”

“Yes, Excellency; but my brother’s wife is dangerously ill at Bellaviste, and I am taking his place that he may be with her.”

“Indeed! an excellent arrangement; but you will have to learn, and so will your brother, that servants in the royal household are not at liberty to exchange their posts to suit their own convenience.”

“Not if they have her Majesty’s sanction, Excellency?” There was triumph clearly visible under the man’s deferential manner.

“Her Majesty’s pleasure overrides all regulations, of course. I am to understand that your brother obtained her consent?”

“It is so, Excellency. Having obtained leave of absence, I came to Tatarjé to tell my brother about his wife, and her Majesty, on hearing the news, granted him permission to return to Bellaviste immediately. When my brother ventured to suggest that it was requisite for him to obtain leave from your Excellency, her Majesty was pleased to say, ‘What has Count Mortimer to do with it? I have told you to go, I the Queen. That is enough.’”

“Quite enough,” returned Cyril genially. “Ask M. Paschics to step this way, and to bring with him the household book. The change and the reason for it must be entered.”

The man departed, and Cyril walked to the window.

“There’s something fishy about the business,” he said; “but the Queen has made it next to impossible to clear it up. I am pretty sure I remember that there was something suspicious about this man Peter. Come in, Paschics.”

M. Paschics, who entered in response to the invitation, was ostensibly Cyril’s most confidential clerk, and there were only a few who knew that he was in reality a member of the Secret Police, specially detailed to watch over the royal household. The book which he brought with him was to all appearance merely a record of the comings, goings, and conduct of the domestics attached to the Court; but by means of a series of private marks, the meaning of which was known only to himself and Cyril, it contained also an account of their political opinions and personal histories.

“You have heard that Peter Sergeivics is at present taking his brother’s place,” said Cyril. “Turn up his name, and let me see what there is against him.”

“He is a member of the Golden Eagle Society for the study of Scythian literature, your Excellency, and has been heard on several occasions to express approval of the sentiments uttered on St Gabriel’s day by his Beatitude the Metropolitan.”

“I knew there was something wrong. Those literary societies are invariably political clubs in disguise. Well, Paschics, this man is to be watched. Notice his resorts and his associates, and let me know the result of your shadowing.”

“Yes, your Excellency. He is not on duty this afternoon and evening, and I hear that he is going into the town. As a stranger, he wishes to see what the place is like.”

“And very natural too. If he finds any friends here, it is as well that we should know it. That is all for the present.”

Paschics retired, and Cyril returned to his accounts. Later in the day he was witness of a curious little incident which he did not at the time connect with Peter Sergeivics and his suspicious record, but which proved afterwards to have a bearing upon it. Standing at a window which overlooked the approach, Cyril saw, to his astonishment, the O’Malachy advancing to the door of the Villa. His clothes were faultless, his moustache waxed; there was something jaunty about his very limp. A stranger would have taken him for a prince travelling _incognito_, or at the least for an exquisite of the Pannonian Court; and Cyril, who knew him only too well, wondered what on earth he was up to now. The door of the room was slightly ajar, and he heard the familiar voice, with its rich rolling intonation, asking leave to see over the Villa. The obvious answer was returned that sightseers were not admitted at present, to which the O’Malachy appeared to reply by producing the local guidebook, which mentioned that visitors were allowed to go through the State apartments on two days in the week. On being assured, however, that this did not apply to the times at which the Court was in residence, he perceived his error, and retired, with profuse apologies, to view the Villa from the gardens, admission to which was practically unrestricted.

“Pretty cool cheek of him to come here!” said Cyril to himself. “I wonder he didn’t make use of my name as a reference. Now, what was the object of this, I should like to know?”

But his curiosity remained unsatisfied, and he thought no more of either the O’Malachy or Sergeivics until Paschics presented himself as soon as he entered his office the next morning. A glance at the detective’s face showed Cyril that he was bubbling over with news, and he looked about for eavesdroppers, and made sure that the door and windows were shut, before he would allow him to tell his tale.

“According to your Excellency’s orders, I shadowed Peter Sergeivics yesterday,” began Paschics. “In the afternoon I saw him leave the Villa by the servants’ entrance, and take the road to the town. While still in the grounds, however, he was met by an elderly gentleman of military appearance, walking with a slight limp.” Cyril uttered an exclamation. “As your Excellency has surmised, I recognised this person as the Scythian officer who was arrested by mistake some time ago, and set at liberty immediately afterwards. Perceiving by his livery that Sergeivics belonged to the household, he stopped him, and apparently requested him to point out to him the principal architectural features of the Villa; for Sergeivics gave up his intention of proceeding to the town, and escorted him round the gardens, exhibiting the chief points of interest. I must confess with regret that I could not succeed in following them sufficiently closely to hear their conversation. At last Colonel O’Malachy presented Sergeivics with a handsome _pourboire_, and departed. I discovered afterwards that he had tried to gain admission to the interior of the Villa, but had been refused an entrance.”

Cyril nodded. “I saw that myself,” he said.

“After this, your Excellency, Sergeivics returned to the servants’ quarters, and did not go out again until the evening. Following upon his steps, I tracked him to a tavern in a low part of the town. Having seen him seated at one of the tables, I hurried to the lodging of an acquaintance of mine near at hand, and borrowed from him the long coat, high boots, and fur cap of a droschky-driver. With the aid of the wig and false beard which I always carry about with me, my disguise was complete, and I entered the tavern and sat down at the same table as my quarry. I then noticed that the table was close to the end of a passage, in which was a door. From time to time one of the men in the room would enter the passage and disappear through the doorway. Again, several persons came in one by one from the street, and, believing themselves unnoticed, also slipped through. Among these, I am certain, was Colonel O’Malachy. He was disguised in a country cloak and cap; but I could not mistake his limp, nor his white moustache. I observed that all who passed in at this mysterious door were subjected to some test. They knocked, I think, in a peculiar scraping manner; but I cannot be sure of this, owing to the distance and to the noise around me, and also to the necessity of not appearing to watch too closely. Moreover, certain questions, which also I could not hear, were asked and answered before the door was opened. Then, as it seemed to me, a badge of some kind was exhibited, which was worn on the under-side of the left-hand lapel of the coat, and admission was immediately granted. All this time, your Excellency, I was behaving as though I had already drunk too much brandy, and offering to treat Sergeivics and the other guests. The Thracians, as your Excellency knows, do not become hilarious when excited by liquor; but I was talkative and inclined to be quarrelsome. Sergeivics tried to shake me off, and when he thought he had directed my attention to a group of fresh arrivals, rose and endeavoured to slip down the passage. But I caught him by the coat, and said in a drunken voice, ‘Not so fast, my friend. There seems to be something interesting going on in there, and I should like to come too.’ He looked at me as though he could have killed me, but bent over the table and fixed me with his eye. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I have no business to tell you what it is; but you have been so liberal with the brandy that I don’t mind letting you know in confidence. You have heard of the Freemasons?’ ‘Oh yes,’ I said; ‘they worship the devil, and their rites are proscribed.’ ‘Stuff!’ he said; ‘that is what the priests tell you. Count Mortimer himself is a Freemason, and therefore the police have orders to wink at their doings, in spite of the law. This is one of their lodges, and I am a member, so you see I can’t take you in, much as I should like.’ I gave a tipsy grunt, and let him go, when he vanished down the passage at once. I sat there some time longer, talking and treating, and saw other people go in, some of them officers, as I knew by their walk, and others, I am sure, priests. Then, fearing to arouse suspicion, I staggered out, and, taking up a position from which I could watch the place, tracked Sergeivics back to the Villa about an hour and a half later. That is my report, your Excellency.”

“And a very good one it is. I shall require you again presently, Paschics. You can go now, and tell Sergeivics that I want him.”

“But your Excellency does not intend to tax the man with his treachery? He will be desperate--and he is probably armed.”

“So am I,” was the brief response; and Paschics retired. When Sergeivics entered the room, Cyril was seated at his writing-table, looking for something in one of the drawers.

“Ah, Peter Sergeivics--wait a minute,” he said, glancing up. “By the way, what’s that on the left-hand lapel of your coat?”

The man’s face turned pale, and his hand went up in a terrified snatch. Finding nothing, he recollected himself immediately.

“Perhaps you will kindly tell me what is wrong there, Excellency?”

“Nothing--now,” responded Cyril; “but something very wrong was there last night.” There was a sudden movement of the footman’s arm, but Cyril was too quick for him. The right hand which had been hidden in the drawer came up suddenly, holding a revolver. “Throw up your hands this moment, and stand where you are, or you are a dead man!” were the words which smote upon the ear of the astonished Sergeivics, as he found himself covered by the weapon.

“You will not murder me, Excellency?” he faltered.

“Not on any account; but I shall have no compunction in killing you in self-defence. Peter Sergeivics, you came to Tatarjé under the orders of a revolutionary committee, charged to help them in carrying out their schemes. By an ingenious device, you obtained an opportunity for receiving orders from the Scythian agent here and furnishing him with information. Last night you attended a meeting at which the final plans for the outbreak were agreed upon, and the parts to be played by the various conspirators assigned to them.”

“What does your Excellency want with me?” whined the luckless man.

“I want nothing, as you see. If you care to offer any information, the fact will be taken into account in deciding your sentence. If you do not, you will merely be dismissed from the royal household, and it will become known that you have retired with a pension, awarded in consideration of the loyal assistance furnished by you to the Government, which has led to the detection of the plot.”

Sergeivics writhed. “You know that I should be dead within an hour, Excellency,” he whimpered. “If I tell you all I know, will you guarantee that I shall be saved from the vengeance of the rest?”

“Stay where you are, if you please,” as the wretched man made a movement as though to throw himself at Cyril’s feet. “It will be just as uncomfortable for you to be shot by me as by your fellow-conspirators. I have said that I do not ask you for information; but if yours should prove to be of any value, I will guarantee that you shall be sent to Bellaviste under a sufficient escort to protect you from the vengeance of your friends. This is showing quite undeserved mercy to one who has deliberately plotted to murder the Queen and the young King----”

“Never, Excellency! There was no thought of murder. We merely----”

“Ah, your information differs from mine, then?”

“Your Excellency must have been misinformed. Our object was simply to secure the persons of the King and Queen, and to induce the Queen to consent to the King’s conversion to the Orthodox faith.”

“To induce her? yes. And when persuasion failed----?”

The man’s face grew pale again. “There was something said about a few days without food for the Queen, and the knowledge that her child and attendants were suffering in the same way,” he muttered.

“Exactly; and what would that have meant but murder, in the case of delicate women and a child? And this precious scheme was to be carried out to-night, was it, that you might have at least three clear days before I should begin to feel surprised at receiving no news from Tatarjé? or perhaps you would like to set me right on this point also?”

“No, Excellency; your information is correct.”

“And the plot is supported by the garrison, the Church, and the townspeople, headed no doubt by the mayor?”

“Yes, Excellency; and as you know, of course----”

“Yes, I was waiting for this. By whom besides?”

“I--I fear your Excellency knows more than I do. The message which the head of our circle at Bellaviste gave me to bring here was merely that a certain person was propitious, but must not be too confidently relied upon.”

“Take care. To whom did you understand that message to allude?”

“To--to the Metropolitan, Excellency.”

“You are telling me lies.”

“No, no, indeed, Excellency. I will swear it by the Holy Fire, by all the saints! We of the lower levels are not admitted into the possession of important secrets, but we conjectured among ourselves that the Metropolitan was meant.”

“Well, be careful. To continue: the King and Queen were to be imprisoned in the Bishop’s Palace, which is capable of standing a siege; and when the conversion was effected, the Queen was to be further compelled to place the kingdom under the protection of Scythia, and request the favour and support of the Emperor?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“And if by any chance I did not start to-night for Bellaviste, I was to be killed?”

“That is only natural, Excellency.”

“Quite so. Well, I will take you with me to Bellaviste when I start to-night.”

“You start to-night, Excellency? But--the station is watched. Their Majesties will not be allowed to travel.”

“That need not interfere with my journey. I have unmasked plots before this one, my friend. You see this cigarette-case with the monogram in brilliants? I will place it on the edge of the table close to you. Lower your left hand--be careful, I am ready to shoot--take the case, and put it in your right-hand outside pocket. You understand? Good.”

He rang sharply the bell which stood on the table, and Paschics burst open the door and rushed in, followed by two or three servants, and pausing in astonishment when he saw the tranquil condition of affairs.

“I must have this man searched,” said Cyril. “I suspect him of being in possession of the cigarette-case presented to me by the Emperor of Pannonia, and bearing his Majesty’s cipher in brilliants. It is possible that you may find other stolen property upon him as well. I missed one of my revolvers the day before yesterday.”

In an instant Sergeivics was seized and held by two footmen while Paschics searched his pockets. The cigarette-case and a revolver were produced almost immediately, and laid in triumph on the table; but nothing else was revealed by the search. Cyril nodded pleasantly.

“I thought so,” he said. “Well, it is quite out of the question that I should postpone my journey on account of this, and therefore the man had better be taken to Bellaviste to-night by the train in which I shall travel. Instruct the police to provide a proper guard, M. Paschics, and report to me when you have made arrangements.”