Chapter 3

“New York won't see me for some time. I'm going to make a tour of the continent.

“This is going too far, old man,” cried Lord Bob. “You can't gain anything by following her, and you'll only raise the devil of a row all round. Dash it! stay in London.”

“Thanks for the invitation, Bob, but I've always had a desire to learn something about the miniature Paris. I shall spend some time in Paris, and then go up there to compare the places. Besides, there won't be any row.”

“But there will be, Phil,” cried Lady Saxondale. “You must keep out of this affair. Why, all Europe knows of the wedding, and even now the continent is quietly nursing the gossip of the past two weeks.” She dropped into a chair, perplexed and anxious.

“Let me tell you something, both of you. The events of the past two weeks are tame in comparison with those of the next two months,” said Quentin, a new light in his eye. His tall figure straightened and his nostrils expanded.

“Wha--what do you mean?” floundered Lord Bob.

“Just this: I love Dorothy Garrison, and I'm going to marry her.”

“Good heavens!” was the simultaneous gasp of Lord and Lady Saxondale. And they could not dissuade him. Not only did he convince them that he was in earnest, but before he left for Paris he had made them allies. Ugo's experience in Rio Janeiro shocked Lady Frances so seriously that she became a champion of the American's cause and agreed with Lord Bob that Dorothy should not be sacrificed if it were in their power to prevent. Of course Dickey Savage approved of Quentin's campaign and effectually disposed of Lady Jane's faint objections by saying:

“America for the Americans, Brussels for the Americans, England for the Americans, everything and everybody for the Americans, but nothing at all for these confounded foreigners. Let the Italian marry anybody he pleases, just so long as he doesn't interfere with an American. Let the American marry anybody he pleases, and to perdition with all interference. I'm for America against the world in love or in war.”

“Don't forget, Mr. Savage, that you are a foreigner when on British soil,” remonstrated the Lady Jane, vigorously.

“My dear Lady Jane, an American is at home anywhere in this world. If you could see some of the foreigners that land at Castle Garden you wouldn't blame an American for absolutely, irrevocably and eternally refusing to be called a foreigner, even on the shores of Madagascar. We are willing to be most anything, but I'll be hanged if we'll be foreigners.”

A week later Quentin was in Paris. Savage was to join him in Brussels about the middle of August, and Lord and Lady Saxondale promised faithfully to come to that city at a moment's notice. He went blithely away with the firm conviction in his heart that it was not to be a fool's errand. But he was reckoning without the woman in the case.

“If you do marry her, Quentin, I've got just the place for you to live in, for a while at least. I bought an old castle in Luxemburg a couple of years ago, just because the man who owned it was a friend and needed a few thousand pounds. Frances calls it Castle Craneycrow. It's a romantic place, and would be a great deal better than a cottage for love. You may have it whenever the time comes. Nobody lives there now but the caretaker and a lot of deuced traditions. We can discharge the caretaker and you can make fresh traditions. Think it over, my boy, while you are dispatching the prince, the mamma and the fair victim's ambition to become a real live princess.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Bob,” exclaimed Quentin. “I'll not need your castle. We're going to live in the clouds.”

“Beware of the prince,” said Lady Frances. “He is pretty high himself, you know.”

“Let the prince beware,” laughed back the departing guest. “We can't both live in the same cloud, you know. I'll push him off.”

On the day Quentin left Paris for Brussels he came face to face with Prince Ugo on one of the Parisian boulevards. The handsome Italian was driving with Count Sallaconi and two very attractive ladies. That the meeting was unexpected and undesired was made manifest by the anxious look which the prince shot over his shoulder after the carriage had passed.

When Quentin left Paris that night with Turk and his luggage, he was not the only passenger bound for Brussels. At the Gare du Nord two men, one suspiciously like the Duke Laselli, took a compartment in the coach just ahead of Quentin. The train was due to reach Brussels shortly after midnight, and the American had telegraphed for apartments at the Bellevue. There had been a drizzle of rain all the evening, and it was good to be inside the car, even if the seats were uncomfortable.

Turk and his master were the only passengers in the compartment. The watchful eyes of the former had seen several persons, men and women, pass through the aisle into which the section opened. One woman paused at the entrance as if about to enter. She was fair to look upon and Turk gallantly moved, presenting a roomy end of his seat to her. She passed on, however, and the little ex-burglar glanced sharply at his master as if to accuse him of frightening the fair one away. But Quentin was lying back, half-asleep, and there was nothing repellent about the untroubled expression on his face.

Before reaching Le Cateau the same lady passed the entrance and again glanced inside. Turk was now asleep, but his master was staring dreamily toward the aperture leading to the aisle. He saw the woman's face for an instant, and it gradually dawned upon him that there was something familiar about its beauty. Where had he seen her before? Like the curious American he was, he arose a few minutes later and deliberately walked into the aisle. He passed two compartments before he saw the young woman. She was alone and was leaning back, her eyes closed. Quentin observed that she was young and beautiful and possessed the marks of fashion and refinement. As he stood for a moment looking upon the face of the dozing French woman, more certain than ever that he had seen her recently, she opened her eyes with an affrighted start.

He instantly and in some embarrassment turned to escape the eyes which had caught him in a rare bit of impertinence, but was surprised to hear her call softly:

“Monsieur!”

“Mademoiselle,” he replied, pausing, “can I be of service to you?”

“I must speak with you, M. Quentin. Come inside. I shall detain you but a moment, and it is so very important that you should hear me.” She was now sitting upright, visibly excited and confused, but very much in earnest.

“You know my name,” he said, entering and dropping to the seat beside her. “Where have we met? Your face is familiar, but I am ashamed to admit--”

“We have no time to talk of that. You have never met me, and would not know who I am if I told you. Had it not been for that horrid little man of yours I should have boldly addressed you sooner. I must leave the train at Le Cateau, for I cannot go on to Quevy or Mons. It would not be wise for me to leave France at this time. You do not know me, but I wish to befriend you.”

“Befriend me? I am sure one could not ask for a more charming friend,” said he, smiling gallantly, but now evincing a shade of interest.

“No flattery, Monsieur! It is purely a personal matter with me; this is by no means a pleasure trip. I am running a great risk, but it is for my own sake as much as for yours, so do not thank me. I came from Paris on this train because I could not speak to you at the Gare du Nord. You were watched too closely.”

“Watched? What do you mean?” almost gasped Quentin.

“I can only say that you are in danger and that you have incurred the displeasure of a man who brooks no interference.”

He stared at her for a moment, his mind in a whirl. The thought that she might be mad grew, but was instantly succeeded by another which came like a shock.

“Is this man of noble blood?”

“Yes,” she almost whispered, turning her eyes away.

“And he means to do me harm?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Because?”

“Because he fears your power.”

“In what direction?”

“You know without asking, M. Quentin.”

“And why do you take this interest in me? I am nothing to you.”

“It's because you are not to be treated fairly. Listen. On this train are two men who do not know that I am here, and who would be confounded if they were to see me. They are in one of the forward coaches, and they are emissaries sent on to watch your every movement and to report the progress of your--your business in Brussels. If you become too aggressive before the man who employs them can arrange to come to Brussels, you are to be dealt with in a manner effectual. What is to be done with you, I do not know, but I am certain you are in great danger unless you--” She paused, and a queer expression came into her wide eyes.

“Unless what? You interest me.”

“Unless you withdraw from the contest.”

“You assume that there is a contest of some sort. Well, admitting there is one, I'll say that you may go back to the prince and tell him his scheme doesn't work. This story of yours--pardon me, Mademoiselle is a clever one, and you have done your part well, but I am not in the least alarmed. Kindly return to the man who sent you and ask him to come in your stead if he wants to frighten me. I am not afraid of women, you know.”

“You wrong me, Monsieur; I am not his agent. I am acting purely on my own responsibility, for myself alone. I have a personal object in warning you, but that is neither here nor there. Let me add that I wish you success in the undertaking which now interests you. You must believe me, though, when I say that you are in danger. Forewarned is forearmed. I do not know what steps are to be taken against you; time will expose them. But I do know that you are not to win what you seek.”

“This is a very strange proceeding,” began he, half-convinced of her sincerity.

“We are nearing Le Cateau, and I must leave you. The men of whom I speak are the Duke Laselli and a detective called Courant. I know they are sent to watch you, and they mean you no good. Be careful, for God's sake, Monsieur, for I--I--want you to win!” She was standing now, and with trembling fingers was adjusting a thick veil over her face.

“Why are you so interested in me?” he asked, sharply. “Why do you want me to win--to win, well, to win the battle?”

“Because--” she began, but checked herself. A deep blush spread over her face just as she dropped the veil.

“The cad!” he said, understanding coming to him like a flash. “There is more than one heart at stake.”

“Good-bye and good luck, Monsieur,” she whispered. He held her hand for an instant as she passed him, then she was gone.

Mile after mile from Le Cateau to Quevy found him puzzling over the odd experience of the night. Suddenly he started and muttered, half aloud:

“By thunder, I remember now! It was she who sat beside him in the carriage this morning!”

VIII. THE FATE OF A LETTER

At Quevy the customs officers went through the train, and Quentin knew that he was in Belgium. For some time he had been weighing in his mind the advisability of searching the train for a glimpse of the duke and his companion, doubtful as to the sincerity of the beautiful and mysterious stranger. It was not until the train reached Mons that he caught sight of the duke. He had started out deliberately at last to hunt for the Italian, and the latter evidently had a similar design. They met on the platform and, though it was quite dark, each recognized the other. The American was on the point of addressing the duke when that gentleman abruptly turned and reentered the train, one coach ahead of that occupied by Quentin, who returned to his compartment and proceeded to awaken the snoring man-servant. Without reserve he confided to Turk the whole story of the night up to that point.

“I don't know what their game is, Turk, but we must not be caught napping. We have a friend in the pretty woman who got off in the rain at Le Cateau. She loves the prince, and that's why she's with us.”

“Say, did she look's if she had royal blood in her? Mebby she's a queen er somethin' like that. Blow me, if a feller c'n tell w'at sort of a swell he's goin' up ag'inst over here. Dukes and lords are as common as cabbies are in New York. Anyhow, this duke ain't got no bulge on us. We're nex' to him, all right, all right. Shall I crack him on the knot when we git to this town we're goin' to? A good jolt would put him out o' d' business fer a spell--”

“Now, look here, young man; don't let me hear of you making a move in this affair till I say the word. You are to keep your mouth closed and your hands behind you. What I want you to do is to watch, just as they are doing. Your early training ought to stand you well in hand for this game. I believe you once said you had eyes in the back of your head.”

“Eyes, nothin'! They is microscopes, Mr. Quentin.”

Quentin, during the remainder of the run to Brussels, turned the new situation over and over in his mind. That the prince was ready to acknowledge him as a dangerous rival gave him much satisfaction and inspired the hope that Miss Garrison had given her lover some cause for alarm. The decisive movement on the part of Prince Ugo to forestall any advantage he might acquire while near her in Brussels was a surprise and something of a shock to him. It was an admission, despite his position and the pledge he had from the girl herself, that the Italian did not feel secure in the premises, and was willing to resort to trickery, if not villainy, to circumvent the American who knew him in other days. Phil felt positive that the move against him was the result of deliberate intent, else how should his fair friend of the early evening know that a plot was brewing? Unquestionably she had heard or learned of the prince's directions to the duke. Her own interest in the prince was, of course, the inspiration. To no one but herself could she entrust the delivery of the warning. Her agitated wish, openly expressed, that Quentin might win the contest had a much deeper meaning than would appear on the surface.

From the moment he received the warning the affair began to take on a new aspect. Aside from the primal fact that he was desperately in love with Dorothy Garrison, there was now the fresh incentive that he must needs win her against uncertain odds and in the face of surprising opposition. In this day and age of the world, in affairs of the heart, an American does not look for rivalry that bears the suggestion of medieval romance. The situation savored too much of the story-books that are born of the days when knights held sway, to appear natural in the eyes of an up-to-date, unromantic gentleman from New York, that city where love affairs adjust themselves without the aid of a novelist.

Quentin, of course, was loath to believe that Prince Ugo would resort to underhand means to checkmate a rival whose real purpose had not yet been announced. In six weeks the finest wedding in years was to occur in Brussels. St. Gudule, that historic cathedral, was to be the scene of a ceremony on which all European newspapers had the eye of comment. American papers had printed columns concerning the engagement of the beautiful Miss Garrison. Everywhere had been published the romantic story of this real love match. What, then, should the prince fear?

The train rumbled into the station at Brussels near midnight, and Turk sallied forth for a cab. This he obtained without the usual amount of haggling on his part, due to the disappointing fact that the Belgian driver could understand nothing more than the word Bellevue, while Turk could interpret nothing more than the word franc. As Quentin was crossing to the cab he encountered Duke Laselli. Both started, and, after a moment's pause, greeted each other.

“I thought I saw you at Mons,” said Phil, after the first expressions of surprise.

“Yes; I boarded the train there. Some business called me to Mons last week. And you, I presume, like most tourists, are visiting a dozen cities in half as many days,” said the duke, in his execrable English. They paused at the side of the Italian's conveyance, and Quentin mentally resolved that the dim light, as it played upon the face of the speaker, was showing to him the most repellent countenance he had ever looked upon.

“Oh. no,” he answered, quickly, “I shall probably remain until after the marriage of my friend, Miss Garrison, and Prince Ugo. Are you to be here long?”

“I cannot say,” answered the other, his black eyes fastened on Quentin's, “My business here is of an uncertain nature.”

“Diplomatic, I infer?”

“It would not be diplomatic for me to say so. I suspect I shall see you again, Mr. Quentin.”

“Doubtless; I am to be at the Bellevue.”

“And I, also. We may see some of the town together.”

“You are very kind,” said Quentin, bowing deeply. “Do you travel alone?”

“The duchess is ill and is in Florence. I am so lonely without her.”

“It's beastly luck for business to carry one away from a sick wife. By the way, how is my dear friend, Prince Ugo?”

“Exceptionally well, thank you. He will be pleased to know you are here, for he is coming to Brussels next week. I think, if you will pardon me, he has taken quite a fancy to you.”

“I trust, after longer acquaintance, he may not find me a disappointment,” said Phil warmly, and a faint look of curiosity flashed into the duke's eyes. As they were saying good-night, Quentin looked about for the man who might be Courant, the detective. But the duke's companion was not to be seen.

The next morning Quentin proceeded in a very systematic and effective way to locate the home of the Garrisons. He was aware, in the beginning, that they lived in a huge, beautiful mansion somewhere in the Avenue Louise. He knew from his Baedeker that the upper town was the fashionable quarter, and that the Avenue Louise was one of the principal streets. An electric tramcar took him speedily through the Boulevards Regent and Waterloo to the Avenue Louise. A strange diffidence had prevented him from asking at the hotel for directions that would easily have discovered her home. Somehow he wanted to stroll along the avenue in the early morning and locate the home of Dorothy Garrison without other aid than the power which tells one when he is near the object of his adoration. He left the car at the head of the avenue and walked slowly along the street.

His mind was full of her. Every vehicle that passed attracted his gaze, for he speculated that she might be in one of them. Not a well-dressed woman came within the range of his vision but she was subjected to a hurried inspection, even from a distance. He strode slowly along, looking intently at each house. None of them seemed to him to hold the object of his search. As his steps carried him farther and farther into the beautiful avenue he began to smile to himself and his plodding spirit wavered. After all, thought he, no one but a silly ass would attempt to find a person in a great city after the fashion he was pursuing. He was deciding to board a tramcar and return to the hotel when, at some distance ahead, he saw a young lady run hurriedly down the steps of an impressive looking house.

He recognized Dorothy Garrison, and with a thump of exultation his heart urged him across the street toward her. She evidently had not seen him; her eyes were on the ground and she seemed preoccupied. In her hand she held a letter. A gasp of astonishment, almost of alarm, came from her lips, her eyes opened wide in that sort of surprise which reveals something like terror, and then she crumpled the letter in her hand spasmodically.

“I thought you lived down here somewhere,” he exclaimed, joyfully, seizing her hand. “'I knew I could find you.”

“I--I am so glad to see you,” she stammered, with a brave effort to recover from the shock his appearance had created. “What are you doing here, Phil?”

“Looking for you, Dorothy. Shall I post your letter?”

She was still standing as if rooted to the spot, the letter in a sad plight.

“Oh, I'll not--not post it now. I should have sent the footman. Come with me and see mamma. I know she will be glad to have you here,” she hurried, in evident confusion. She bethought herself suddenly and made an effort to withdraw the letter from its rather conspicuous position. The hand containing it was drawn behind her back.

“That will be very nice of her. Better post the letter, though. Somebody's expecting it, you know. Hullo! That's not a nice way to treat a letter. Let me straighten it out for you.''

“Never mind, Phil--really, I don't care about it. You surprised me so tremendously that I fear I've ruined it. Now I shall have to write another.”

“Fiddlesticks! Send it as it is. The prince will blame the postoffice people,” cried he.

“It is not for the prince,” she cried, quickly, and then became more confused than ever. “Come to the house, Phil. You must tell me how you happen to be here.”

As they walked slowly to the Garrison home and mounted the steps, she religiously held the epistle where he could not regard it too closely should his curiosity overcome his prudence. They were ushered into the reception room, and she directed the footman to ask if Mrs. Garrison could see Mr. Quentin.

“Now, tell me all about it,” she said, taking a chair quite across the big room.

“There's nothing to tell,” he said. “I am in Brussels, and I thought I'd hunt you up.”

“But why didn't you write or wire me that you were coming? You haven't acted much like a friend,” she said, pointedly.

“Perhaps I wrote and never mailed the letter. Remember your experience just now. You still hold the unlucky note in your hand. Sometimes we think better of our intentions at the very instant when they are going into effect. It is very mysterious to me that you wouldn't mail that letter. I can only believe that you changed your mind when you saw me.”

“How absurd! As if seeing you could have anything to do with it!”

“You ought to tell me if my appearance here is liable to alter any plan that letter is intended to perfect. Don't let me be an inconvenience. You know I'd rather be anything than an inconvenience.”

“It doesn't matter in the least; really, it doesn't. Your coming--”

The footman appeared on the landing above at that instant and said something to her in a language Quentin could not understand. He afterward heard it was French. And he always had thought himself a pretty fair French scholar, too.

“Mamma has asked for me, Phil. Will you pardon me if I leave you alone for a moment?” she said, arising and starting toward the grand stairway. The letter, which she had forgotten for the moment, fell from her lap to the rug. In an instant he had stepped forward to pick it up. As he stooped she realized what had happened, and, with a frantic little cry, stooped also. Their heads were close together, but his hand was the first to touch the missive. It lay with the address upward, plain to the eye; he could not help seeing the name.

It was addressed to “Philip Quentin, Esq., care of the Earl of Saxondale, Park Lane, London, W. S.” Surprise stayed his fingers, and hers clutched the envelope ruthlessly. As they straightened themselves each was looking directly into the other's eyes. In hers there was shame, confusion, even guilt; in his, triumphant, tantalizing mirth.

“My letter, please,” he said, his voice trembling, he knew not why. His hand was extended. She drew suddenly away and a wave of scarlet crossed her face.

“What a stupid I was to drop it,” she cried, almost tearfully. Then she laughed as the true humor of the situation made itself felt in spite of consequences. “Isn't it too funny for anything?”

“I can't see anything funny in tampering with the mails. You have my letter, and I hope it won't be necessary for me to call in the officers of the law.”

“You don't expect me to give it to you?” she cried, holding it behind her.