Chapter 6

Phil thought long and hard before sitting down at noon to write to Dickey Savage. He disliked calling for help in the contest, but with a bandaged arm and the odds against him, he finally resolved that he needed the young New Yorker at his side. Dickey was deliberation itself, and he was brave and loyal. So the afternoon's post carried a letter to Savage, who was still in London, asking him to come to Brussels at once, if he could do so conveniently. The same post carried a letter to Lord Bob, and in it the writer admitted that he might need reinforcements before the campaign closed. He also inclosed the clipping from the newspaper, but added a choice and caustic opinion of the efficiency of the Brussels police. He did not allude specifically to Courant, the duke, or to the queer beginning of the prince's campaign.

Early in the afternoon Mrs. Garrison sent to inquire as to his wound. In reply he calmly prepared for an appearance in person. Turk accompanied him, about four o'clock, in a cab to the house in Avenue Louise. There were guests, and Phil was forced to endure a rather effusive series of feminine exclamations and several polite expressions from men who sincerely believed they could have done better had they been in his place. Mrs. Garrison was a trifle distant at first, but as she saw Quentin elevated to the pedestal of a god for feminine worship she thawed diplomatically, and, with rare tact, assumed a sort of proprietorship. Dorothy remained in the background, but he caught anxious glances at his arm, and, once or twice, a serious contemplation of his half-turned face.

“I'll let her think the fellow was one of the diamond robbers for the present,” thought he. “She wouldn't believe me if I told her he was in the employ of the prince, and the chances are she'd ruin everything by writing to him about it.”

When at last he found the opportunity to speak with her alone he asked how she had slept.

“Not at all, not a wink, not a blink. I imagined I heard robbers in every part of the house. Are you speaking the truth when you tell all these people it is a mere scratch? I am sure it is much worse, and I want you to tell me the truth,” she said, earnestly.

“I've had deeper cuts that didn't bleed a drop,” said he. “If you must have the truth, Dorothy, I'll confess the fellow gave me a rather nasty slash, and I don't blame him, He had to do it, and he's just as lucky as I am, perhaps, that it was no worse. I wish to compliment your Brussels police, too, on being veritable bloodhounds. I observed as I came in that they have at last scented the blood on the pavement in front of the house and have washed away the stain fairly well.”

“Wasn't the story in the morning paper ridiculous? You were very brave. I almost cried when I saw how the horrid detectives criticised you.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, because I was afraid you'd think like the rest--that I was a blundering idiot.”

“You did not fear anything of the kind. Do you really think he was one of those awful diamond robbers who are terrorizing the town? I could not sleep another wink if I thought so. Why, last spring a rich merchant and his wife were drugged in one of the cafes, taken by carriage to Watermael, where they were stripped of their valuables and left by the roadside.”

“Did you see an account of the affair in your morning paper?”

“Yes--there were columns about it.”

“Then I think eight-tenths of the crime was committed at a city editor's desk. It's my opinion these diamond thieves are a set of ordinary pickpockets and petty porch climbers. A couple of New York policemen could catch the whole lot in a week.”

“But, really, Phil, they are very bold and they are not at all ordinary. You don't know how thankful we are that this one was discovered before he got into the house. Didn't he have a knife? Well, wasn't it to kill us with if we made an outcry?” She was nervous and excited, and he had it on the tip of his tongue to allay her fears by telling what he thought to be the true object of the man's visit.

“Well, no matter what he intended to do, he didn't do it, and he'll never come back to try it again. He will steer clear of this house,” he said, reassuringly.

A week, two weeks went by without a change in the situation. Dickey Savage replied that he would come to Brussels as soon as his heart trouble would permit him to leave London, and that would probably be about the twentieth of August. In parentheses he said he hoped to be out of danger by that time. The duke was persistent in his friendliness, and Courant had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared completely. Prince Ugo was expected daily, and Mrs. Garrison was beginning to breathe easily again. The police had given up the effort to find the Garrison robber, and Turk had learned everything that was to be known concerning the house in which Courant found shelter after eluding his pursuers on the night of the affray. Quentin's shoulder was almost entirely healed, and he was beginning to feel himself again. The two weeks had found him a constant and persistent visitor at Miss Garrison's home, but he was compelled to admit that he had made no progress in his crusade against her heart. She baffled him at every turn, and he was beginning to lose his confident hopes. At no time during their tete-a-tetes, their walks, their drives, their visits to the art galleries, did she give him the slightest ground for encouragement. And, to further disturb his sense of contentment, she was delighted--positively delighted--over the coming of Prince Ugo. For a week she had talked of little save the day when he was to arrive. Quentin endured these rapturous assaults nobly, but he was slowly beginning to realize that they were battering down the only defense he had--the inward belief that she cared for him in spite of all.

Frequently he met the Duke Laselli at the Garrisons'. He also saw a great deal of the de Cartiers and Mile. Gaudelet. When, one day, he boldly intimated to Dorothy that de Cartier was in love with Louise and she with him, that young lady essayed to look shocked and displeased, but he was sure he saw a quick gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. And he was positive the catch in her breath was not so much of horror as it was of joy. Mrs. Garrison did all in her power to bring him and the pretty French girl together, and her insistence amused him.

One day her plans, if she had any, went racing skyward, and she, as well as all Brussels society, was stunned by the news that de Cartier had deserted his wife to elope with the fair Gaudelet! When Quentin laconically, perhaps maliciously, observed that he had long suspected the nature of their regard for one another, Mrs. Garrison gave him a withering look and subsided into a chilling unresponsiveness that boded ill for the perceiving young man. The inconsiderate transgression of de Cartier and the unkindness of the Gaudelet upset her plans cruelly, and she found that she had wasted time irreparably in trying to bring the meddling American to the feet of the French woman. Quentin revelled in her discomfiture, and Dorothy in secret enjoyed the unexpected turn of affairs.

She had seen through her mother's design, and she had known all along how ineffectual it would prove in the end. Philip puzzled her and piqued her more than she cared to admit. That she did not care for him, except as a friend, she was positive, but that he should persistently betray signs of nothing more than the most ordinary friendship was far from pleasing to her vanity. The truth is, she had expected him to go on his knees to her, an event which would have simplified matters exceedingly. It would have given her the opportunity to tell him plainly she could be no more than a friend, and it would have served to alter his course in what she believed to be a stubborn love chase. But he had disappointed her; he had been the amusing companion, the ready friend, the same sunny spirit, and she was perplexed to observe that he gave forth no indication of hoping or even desiring to be more. She could not, of course, know that this apparently indifferent young gentleman was wiser, far wiser, than the rest of his kind. He saw the folly of a rash, hasty leap in the dark, and bided his time like the cunning general who from afar sees the hopelessness of an attack against a strong and watchful adversary, and waits for the inevitable hour when the vigil is relaxed.

There was no denying the fact that with all his confidence his colors were sinking, while hers remained as gallantly fluttering as when the struggle began. He was becoming confused and nervous; a feeling of impotence began slyly, devilishly to assail him, and he frequently found himself far out at sea. The strange inactivity of the prince's cohorts, the significant friendliness of the duke, the everlasting fear that a sudden move might catch him unawares began to tell on his peace of mind. Both he and Turk watched like cats for the slightest move that might betray the intentions of the foe, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing. The house in which Courant found safety was watched, but it gave forth no secrets. The duke's every movement appeared to be as open, as fair, as unsuspicious as man's could be, and yet there was ever present the feeling that some day something would snap and a crisis would rush upon them. Late one afternoon he drove up to the house in Avenue Louise, and when Dorothy came downstairs for the drive her face was beaming.

“Ugo comes to-morrow,” she said, as they crossed to the carriage.

“Which means that I am to be relegated to the dark,” he said, dolefully.

“Oh, no! Ugo likes you and I like you, you know. Why, are we not to be the same good friends as now?” she asked, suddenly, with a pretty show of surprise.

“Oh, I suppose so,” he said, looking straight ahead. They were driving rapidly toward the Bois de la Cambre. “But, of course, I'll not rob the prince of moments that belong to him by right of conquest. You may expect to see me driving disconsolately along the avenue--alone.”

“Mr. Savage will be here,” she said, sweetly, enjoying his first show of misery.

“But he's in love, and he'll not be thinking of me. I'm the only one in all Christendom, it seems to me, who is not in love with somebody, and it's an awful hardship.”

“You will fall really in love some day, never fear,” she volunteered, after a somewhat convulsive twist of the head in his direction.

“Unquestionably,” he said, “and I shall be just as happy and as foolish as the rest of you, I presume.”

“I should enjoy seeing you really and truly in love with some girl. It would be so entertaining.”

“A perfect comedy, I am sure. I must say, however, that I'd feel sorry for the girl I loved if she didn't happen to love me.”

“And why, pray?”

“Because,” he said, turning abruptly and looking straight into her eyes, “she'd have the trouble and distinction of surrendering in the end.”

“You vain, conceited thing!” she exclaimed, a trifle disconcerted. “You overestimate your power.”

“Do you think I overestimate it?” he demanded, quickly.

“I don t--don't know. How should I know?” she cried, in complete rout. In deep chagrin she realized that he had driven her sharply into unaccountable confusion, and that her wits were scattering hopelessly at the very moment when she needed them most.

“Then why do you say I overestimate it?” he asked, relentlessly.

“Because you do,” she exclaimed, at bay.

“Are you a competent judge?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, grasping for time.

“I mean, have you the right to question my power, as you call it? Have I attempted to exert it over you?”

“You are talking nonsense, Phil,” she said, spiritedly.

“I said I'd feel sorry for the girl if she didn't happen to love me, you know. Well, I couldn't force her to love me if she didn't love me, could I?”

“Certainly not. That is what I meant,” she cried, immensely relieved.

“But my point is that she might love me without knowing it and would simply have to be brought to the realization.”

“Oh,” she said, “that is different.”

“You take back what you said, then?” he asked, maliciously.

“If she loved you and did not know it, she'd be a fool and you could exert any kind of power over her. You see, we didn't quite understand each other, did we?”

“That is for you to say,” he said, smiling significantly. “I think I understand perfectly.”

By this time they were opposite the Rue Lesbroussart, and he drove toward the Place Ste. Croix. As they made the turn she gave a start and peered excitedly up the Avenue Louise, first in front of her companion, then behind.

“Oh, Phil, there is Ugo!” she cried, clasping his arm. “See! In the trap, coming toward us.” He looked quickly, but the trees and houses now hid the other trap from view.

“Are you sure it is he?”

“Oh, I am positive. He has come to surprise me. Is there no way we can reach the house first? By the rear--anyway,” she cried, excitedly. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were sparkling.

“Was he alone?” asked he, his jaw setting suddenly.

“That has nothing to do with it. We must hurry home. Turn back, Phil; we may be able to overtake him on the avenue.”

“I wanted to take you to the Park, Dorothy.”

“Well?”

“That's all,” he went on, calmly. “The prince can leave his card and call later in the--well, this evening.”

“What--you don't mean--Philip Quentin, take me home instantly,” she blazed.

“Not for all the princes in the universe,” he said. “This is my afternoon, and I will not give up a minute of it.”

“But I command, sir!”

“And I refuse to obey.”

“Oh--oh, this is outrageous----” she began, frantically.

Suddenly his gloved left hand dropped from the reins and closed over one of hers. The feverish clasp and the command in his eyes compelled her to look up into his face quickly. There she saw the look she feared, admired, deserved.

“There was a time when you wanted to be with me and with no other. I have not forgotten those days, nor have you. They were the sweetest days of your life and of mine. It is no age since I held this hand in mine, and you would have gone to the end of the world with me. It is no age since you kissed me and called me a king. It is no age since you looked into my eyes with an expression far different from the one you now have. You remember, you remember, Dorothy.”

She was too surprised to answer, too overcome by the suddenness of his assault to resist. The power she had undertaken to estimate was in his eyes, strong, plain, relentless.

“And because you remember I can see the hardness going from your eyes, the tenderness replacing it. The flush in your cheek is not so much of anger as it was, your heart is not beating in rebellion as it was, and all because you cannot forget--you will not forget.”

“This is madness,” she cried, shivering as with a mighty chill.

“Madness it may be, Dorothy, but--well, because we have not forgotten the days when we were sweethearts, I am claiming this day of you and you must give it to me for the same reason. You must say to me that you give it willingly,” he half whispered, intensely. She could only look helplessly into his eyes.

From the rumble Turk saw nothing, neither did he hear.

XIII. SOME UGLY LOOKING MEN

Prince Ugo Ravorelli was not, that day, the only one whose coming to Brussels was of interest to Quentin. Dickey Savage came in from Ostend and was waiting at the Bellevue when he walked in soon after six o'clock. Mr. Savage found a warm welcome from the tall young man who had boldly confiscated several hours that belonged properly to the noble bridegroom, and it was not long until, dinner over, he was lolling back in a chair in Quentin's room, his feet cocked on the window sill, listening with a fair and increasing show of interest to the confidences his friend was pouring forth.

“So you deliberately drove off and left the prince, eh? And she didn't sulk or call you a nasty, horrid beast? I don't know what the devil you want me here for if you've got such a start as that. Seems to me I'll be in the way, more or less,” said Dickey, when the story reached a point where, to him, finis was the only appropriate word.

“That's the deuce of it, Dickey. I can't say that I've got a safe start at all, even with her, and I've certainly got some distance to go before I can put the prince out of the running. You may think this is a nice, easy, straightaway race, but it isn't. It's going to be a steeplechase, and I don't know the course. I'm looking for a wide ditch at any turn, and I may get a nasty fall. You see, I've some chance of getting my neck broken before I get to the stretch.”

“And some noted genius will be grinding out that Lohengrin two-step just about the time you get within hearing distance, too. You won't be two-stepping down the aisle at St. Gudule, but you'll agree that it's a very pretty party. That will be all, my boy--really all. I don't want to discourage you and I'm willing to stay by you till that well-known place freezes over, but I think an ocean voyage would be very good for you if you can arrange to start to-morrow.”

“If you're going into this thing with that sort of spirit, you'll be a dead weight and I'll be left at the post,” said Quentin, ruefully.

“Was the prince at the house when you returned from the drive?”

“No; and Mrs. Garrison almost glared a hole through me. There were icicles on every word when she told poor Dorothy he had been there and would return this evening.”

“Was she satisfied to finish the drive with you after she had seen the prince?” Quentin had not told him of the conversation which followed her demand to be taken home.

“She was very sensible about it,” he admitted, carefully. “You see, she had an engagement with me, and as a lady she could not well break it. We got along very nicely, all things considered, but I'm afraid she won't go out again with me.”

“She won't slam the door in your face if you go to the house, will she?”

“Hardly,” said the other, smiling. “She has asked me to come. The prince likes me, it seems.”

“But he likes to be alone with her, I should say. Well, don't interfere when he is there. My boy, give him a chance,” said Dickey, with a twinkle.

The duke headed off the two Americans as they left the hotel half an hour later. He was evidently watching for them, and his purpose was clear. It was his duty to prevent Quentin from going to the Garrison home, if possible. After shaking hands with Savage, the little man suggested a visit to a dance house in the lower end, promising an evening of rare sport. He and Count Sallaconi, who came up from Paris with the prince, had planned a little excursion into unusual haunts, and he hoped the Americans had a few dull hours that needed brightening. Phil savagely admitted to himself that he anticipated a good many dull hours, but they could not be banished by the vulgarity of a dance hall. The long, bony, fierce-mustached count came up at this moment and joined in imploring the young men to go with them to the “gayest place in all Brussels.”

“Let's go, Phil, just to see how much worse our New York places are than theirs,” said Dickey.

“But I have a--er--sort of an engagement,” remonstrated Quentin, reluctantly. The duke gave him a sharp look.

“Do not be afraid,” he said, laughing easily. “We will not permit the dancing girls to harm you.”

“He's not afraid of girls,” interposed Dickey. “Girls are his long suit. You didn't tell me you had an engagement?” Quentin gave him a withering look.

“I have one, just the same,” he said, harshly.

“You will not accompany us, then?” said the count, the line between his eyebrows growing deeper.

“I have to thank you, gentlemen, and to plead a previous engagement. May we not go some other night?”

“I am afraid we shall not again be in the same mood for pleasure,” said the duke, shifting his eyes nervously. “The count and I have but little time to give to frivolity. We are disappointed that you will not join us on this one night of frolic.”

“I regret it exceedingly, but if you knew what I have to do to-night you would not insist,” said Phil, purposely throwing a cloak of mystery about his intentions for the mere satisfaction of arousing their curiosity.

“Very well, mes Americains; we will not implore you longer,” responded the count, carelessly. “May your evening be as pleasant as ours.” The two Italians bowed deeply, linked arms and strolled away.

“Say, those fellows know you haven't an engagement,” exclaimed Savage, wrathfully. “What sort of an ass are you?”

“See here, Dickey, you've still got something to learn in this world. Don't imagine you know everything. You don't, you know. Do you think I am going to walk into one of their traps with my eyes open?”

“Traps? You don't mean to say this dance hall business is a trap?” exclaimed Dickey, his eyes opening wide with an interest entirely foreign to his placid nature.

“I don't know, and that's why I am keeping out of it. Now, let's take our walk, a nice cool drink or two and go to bed where we can dream about what might have happened to us at the dance hall.”

“Where does she live?” asked Savage, as they left the rotunda.

“Avenue Louise,” was the laconic answer.

“Why don't you say Belgium or Europe, if you're bound to be explicit,” growled Dickey.

A dapper-looking young man came from the hotel a few paces behind them and followed, swinging his light cane leisurely. Across the place, in the shadow of a tall building, the two Italian noblemen saw the Americans depart, noting the direction they took. It was toward the Avenue Louise. A smile of satisfaction came to their faces when the dapper stranger made his appearance. A few moments later they were speeding in a cab toward the avenue.

“That is her house,” said Phil, later on, as the two strolled slowly down the Avenue Louise. They were across the street from the Garrison home, and the shadowy-trees hid them. The tall lover knew, however, that the Italian was with her and that his willfulness of the afternoon had availed him naught. Nor could he recall a single atom of hope and encouragement his bold act had produced other than the simple fact that she had submitted as gracefully as possible to the inevitable and had made the best of it.

“Ugo has the center of the stage, and everybody else is in the orchestra, playing fiddles of secondary importance, while Miss Dorothy is the lone and only audience,” reflected Dickey.

“I wish you'd confine your miserable speculations to the weather, Dickey,” said the other, testily.

“With pleasure. To-morrow will be a delightful day for a drive or a stroll. You and I, having nothing else to do, can take an all-day drive into the country and get acquainted with the Belgian birds and bees--and the hares, too.”

“Don't be an ass! What sort of a game do you think those Italians were up to this evening? I'm as nervous as the devil. It's time for the game to come to a head, and we may as well expect something sudden.”

“I think it depends on the prince. If he finds that you haven't torn down his fences while you had full sway, he'll not be obliged to go on with the game. He was merely protecting interests that absence endangered. Now that he's here, and if all is smooth and undisturbed--or, in other words, if you have failed in your merciless design to put a few permanent and unhealable dents in the fair lady's heart--he will certainly discharge his cohorts and enjoy very smooth seas for the rest of the trip. If you have disfigured her tender heart by trying to break into it, as a safe-blower gets into those large, steel things we call safety deposit vaults--where other men keep things they don't care to lose--I must say that his satanic majesty will be to pay. Do you think you have made any perceptible dents, or do you think the safe is as strong and as impregnable as it was when you began using chisels and dynamite on it six weeks ago?”