Chapter 8

“Cannot this affair be postponed--” began Ugo, desperately.

“Not unless your friend forgets that I punched his head. It is now or never with me,” said Dickey.

“I insist that it is my right to fight this man!” exclaimed Quentin, standing forth. “I first expressed the opinion which Mr. Savage merely echoed and to which Prince Kapolski took exception.”

“But you did not strike me. In any event, you shall come next, Mr. Quentin; I shall take you on immediately after I have disposed of your cockadoodle friend,” said Kapolski, throwing aside his coat. “You have pistols here, Prince Ravorelli?”

“This is murder,” cried the millionaire, “and I shall take it before the United States government.”

“Dickey! Dickey!” cried Phil, helplessly, as Savage began to remove his coat.

“I have weapons, if you insist, gentlemen,” said Ugo. At his words intense excitement prevailed, for now there could be no doubt as to the result of the quarrel. Count Sallaconi hurried away for the pistols, smiling significantly as he passed his prince. His smile said that Kapolski would kill two men that night.

“For God's sake, Dickey, be careful, if you must fight. Take deliberate aim and don't lose your nerve,” cried Quentin, grasping him by the arms. “You are as cold as ice.”

“I haven't fired a pistol more than a dozen times in my life,” said Dickey, smiling faintly.

“Then shoot low,” said the millionaire.

“Your second, Monsieur?” said the Austrian duke, coming to Savage's side.

“Mr. Quentin will act, Monsieur le Duc. We may need a surgeon.”

“Dr. Gassbeck is here.”

It was hurriedly agreed that the men should stand at opposite ends of the room, nearly twenty feet apart, back to back. At the word given by Prince Ugo, they were to turn and fire.

Sallaconi came in with the pistol case and the seconds examined the weapons carefully. A moment later the room was cleared except for the adversaries, the seconds, and Prince Ugo.

There was the stillness of death. On the face of the Russian there was an easy smile, for was not he a noted shot? Had he ever missed an adversary in a duel? Dickey was pale, but he did not tremble as he took the pistol in his hand.

“Good-bye, Phil,” was all he said. Poor Quentin turned his face away as he clasped his hand, and he could only murmur:

“If he hits you, I'll kill him.”

A moment later the word “fire” came and the two men whirled into position. Dickey's arm went up like a flash, the other's more cruelly deliberate. Two loud reports followed in quick succession, the slim American's nervous finger pressed the trigger first. He had not taken aim. He had located his man's position before turning away, and the whole force of his will was bent on driving the bullet directly toward the spot he had in mind. Kapolski's bullet struck the wall above Dickey's head, his deadly aim spoiled by the quick, reckless shot from the other end of the room.

He lunged forward. Dickey's bullet had blown away part of the big Russian's chin and jaw, burying itself in the wall beyond.

XV. APPROACH OF THE CRISIS

Prince Ugo's face was livid, and his black eyes bulged with horrified amazement. The unscrupulous, daring, infallible duelist whom he had induced to try conclusions with Quentin in a regular and effective way, had been overthrown at the outset by a most peculiar transaction of fate. He had assured the Russian that Quentin was no match for him with the weapons common to dueling, and he had led him to believe that he was in little danger of injury, much less death. Kapolski, reckless, a despiser of all things American, eagerly consented to the plan, and Ugo saw a way to rid himself of a dangerous rival without the taint of suspicion besmirching his cloak. Sallaconi was an accomplished swordsman, but it would have been unwise to send him against Quentin. Ugo himself was a splendid shot and an expert with the blade, and it was not cowardice that kept him from taking the affair in his own hands. It was wisdom, cunning wisdom, that urged him to stand aloof and to go up to his wedding day with no scandal at his back. But the unexpected, the miraculous had happened. His friend, his brother prince, his unwitting tool, had gone down like a log, his vaunted skill surpassed by the marksmanship and courage of an accursed American.

To his credit be it said that he did all in his power to preserve the life of Prince Kapolski. More than that, he did all that was possible to keep the story of the encounter from reaching the world. So powerful, so successful was his influence that the world at large knew nothing of the fight, the police were bribed, and the newspapers were thrown completely off the scent.

Ugo's first thought after the fall of Kapolski was to prevent his opponent from leaving the room alive, but common sense came to his relief a second later, and he saw the folly of taking a stand against the victor. He rushed to Kapolski's side and helped to support the moaning man's body. The surgeon was there an instant later, and Dickey, as white as a ghost, started mechanically toward the fallen foe. Ouentin stood like a man of stone, stunned by relief and surprise. One glance at the bloody, lacerated face and the rolling eyes caused Savage to flee as if pursued by devils.

For hours Quentin and Turk sought to comfort and to quiet him; the millionaire, who refused to desert them, sat up all night to manage the information bureau, as he called it. He personally inquired at Ugo's rooms, and always brought back reassuring news, which Quentin doubted and Dickey utterly disbelieved At four o'clock Prince Ugo himself, with Duke Laselli, came to Quentin's rooms with the word that Kapolski was to be taken to a hospital, and that Dr. Gassbeck pronounced his chance for recovery excellent. The prince assured Mr. Savage that secrecy would be preserved, but advised him to leave Brussels at the earliest possible moment. Kapolski's death, if it came, would command an investigation, and it would be better if he were where the law could not find him.

Quentin with difficulty restrained from openly accusing the prince of duplicity. Afterthought told him how impotent his accusation would have been, for how could he prove that the Russian was acting as an agent?

Just before daylight Turk saw them take Prince Kapolski from the hotel in an ambulance, and, considering it his duty, promptly followed in a cab. The destination of the ambulance was the side street entrance to one of the big hospitals in the upper part of the town, and the men who accompanied the prince were strangers to the little observer. Prince Ugo was not of the party, nor were Laselli and Sallaconi. On his return to the Bellevue he had a fresh task on his hands. He was obliged to carry a man from Quentin's apartments and put him to bed in the millionaire's room, farther down the hall. The millionaire--for it was he--slept all day and had a headache until the thirtieth of the month. Turk put him to bed on the twenty-seventh.

During the forenoon Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi called at Quentin's rooms. They found that gentleman and Mr. Savage dressed and ready for the street.

“Good morning,” said Dickey, pleasantly, for the two Americans had determined to suppress, for diplomatic reasons, any show of hostility toward the Italians. The visitors may not have exposed their true feelings, but they were very much astounded and not a little shocked to find the duelist and his friend in the best of spirits.

“And how did you sleep?” asked Ugo, after he had expressed his sorrow over the little unpleasantry of the night before, deploring the tragic ending to the night of pleasure.

“Like a top,” lied Dickey, cheerfully.

“I was afraid the excitement might have caused you great uneasiness and--ah--dread,” said the prince. The count was industriously engaged in piercing with his glittering eyes the tapestry in a far corner of the room. Mr. Savage possessed the manner of a man who shoots someone every morning before breakfast.

“Not in the least; did it, Quentin?”

“He slept like a baby.”

“By the way, before I forget it, Prince Ugo, how is the gentleman I shot last night--ah, what was his name?” asked Dickey, slapping his leg carelessly with his walking stick.

“Prince Kapolski is in the hospital, and I fear he cannot recover,” said the prince. “I came to tell you this that you may act accordingly and with all the haste possible.”

“O, I don't know why I should run away. Everybody there will testify that the fight was forced upon me. You will swear to that, yourself, Prince Ugo, and so will the count. I had to fight, you know.”

“It seems to me, Mr. Savage, that you were rather eager to fight. I cannot vouch for your safety if the prince dies,” said Ugo, coolly.

“But he isn't going to die. I did not shoot to kill and the ball hit him just where I intended it should--on the chin. He'll be well in a couple of weeks. True, he may not feel like eating tough beefsteak with that jaw for some time, but I knew a fellow once who was able to eat very comfortably after six weeks. That was as good a shot as I ever made, Phil,” said Dickey, reflectively.

“I think Buckner's nose was a cleaner shot. It wasn't nearly so disgusting,” said Phil.

“Do you mean to say you are able to hit a man just where you please?” demanded the count.

“Provided he does not hit me first,” said Mr. Savage. “Gentlemen, let me order up a quiet little drink. I am afraid the unfortunate affair of last night has twisted your nerves a bit. It was rather ghastly, wasn't it?”

When the four parted company in front of the hotel, a quarter of an hour later, the two Italians sat down to reflect. They wondered whether Mr. Savage usually carried a pistol in his pocket, and they agreed that if he did have one of his own he would be much more accurate with it than with a strange one, such as he had used the night before. The two Americans were not jubilant as they strolled up the street. They had put on a very bold front but they were saying to themselves that Kapolski's death would be a very disastrous calamity. Cold perspiration stood on Dickey's brow and he devoutly prayed that his victim would recover.

“I'd feel like a butcher to the last day of my life,” he groaned.

“The big brute got what he deserved, Dickey, but that isn't going to relieve us if he should die. Prince Ugo would use it as an excuse to drive you out of Europe and, of course, I would not desert you. It was my affair and you were unlucky enough to get into it. There is one thing that puzzles me. I directly insulted Ravorelli last night. Why does he not challenge me? He must be positive that I recognize him as Pavesi and can ruin him with a word. I am told he is a remarkable shot and swordsman, and I don't believe he is a coward.”

“Why should he risk his head or his heart if he can induce other men to fight for him?”

“But it seems that he has traitors in his camp. I wonder who that waiter was?”

After a long silence Dickey dolefully asked: “Say, do you believe the Saxondales turned me down on that shooting box party?”

“I can't believe it. All is well between you and Lady Jane, of course?”

“As well as it can ever be,” said the other, looking straight ahead, his jaws set.

“Oho! Is it all off?”

“Is what all off?” belligerently.

“O, if you don't know, I won't insist on an answer. I merely suspected a thickness.”

“That we were getting thick, you mean? You were never more mistaken in your life. The chances are I'll never see her again. That's not very thick, is it?”

“I saw a letter just now for you, in my box at the hotel. Looked like a young woman's chirography, and it was from London--”

“Why the devil didn't you tell me it was there?” exploded Dickey.

“Does Lady Jane make an R that looks like a streak of lightning with all sorts of angles?”

“She makes a very fashionable--what do you mean by inspecting my mail? Are you establishing a censorship?” Dickey was guilty of an unheard of act--for him. He was blushing.

“My boy, I did not know it was your property until after I had carefully deciphered every letter in the name. I agree with you; she writes a very fashionable alphabet. The envelope looked thick, to say the least. It must contain a huge postscript.”

“Or a collection of all the notes I have written to her. I'll go back, if you don't mind, however. I'm curious to know who it's from.”

Dickey went back to read his voluminous letter, and Quentin seated himself on a bench in the park. A voice from behind brought him sharply from a long reverie.

“Mr. Quentin, last night, possibly in the heat of excitement, you inferred that I was in some way accountable for the controversy which led to the meeting between Prince Kapolski and your friend. I trust that I misunderstood you.”

Quentin was on his feet and facing Prince Ravorelli before the remark was fairly begun, and he was thinking with greater rapidity than he had ever thought before. He was surprised to find Ugo, suave and polite as ever, deliberately, coolly rushing affairs to a climax. His sudden decision to abandon the friendly spirit exhibited but half an hour before was as inexplicable as it was critical. What fresh inspiration had caused him to alter his position?

“We say many things when we are under stress of excitement,” said Phil, sparring for time and his wits. Count Sallaconi was standing deferentially beside the prince. Both gentlemen had their hats in their hands, and the air was pregnant with chill formality.

“Can you recall my words, Prince Ravorelli?”

“You said that you would hold him to account if your friend--” began the count, but Quentin turned upon him coolly.

“My quarrel, if there is one, is with the prince, Count Sallaconi. Will you kindly allow him to jog his own memory?”

“I do not like your tone, Mr. Quentin,” said the count, his eyes flashingly angrily. Phil's blood was up. He saw it was useless to temporize, and there was no necessity for disguising his true feelings. They had come to the point where all that had lain smothered and dormant was to be pricked into activity; the mask was to be thrown down with the gauntlet.

“So much the better; you are not in doubt as to what I meant. Now, Prince Ravorelli, may I ask you to speak plainly?”

“Your remark of last night was one that I believe I would be justified in resenting,” said the prince, flicking the ash from his cigarette, but not taking his burning eyes from Quentin's face. There was not a tinge of cowardice in his eyes.

“It is your privilege, sir, and I meant precisely what I said.”

“Then I have to demand of you an apology and a satisfctory explanation.”

“'I presume it would be travesty on politeness if I were to ask you to be seated, so we may stand up to each other and talk it over. In the first place, I have no apology to make. In the second place, I cannot give an explanation that would be satisfactory to you. Last night I said I would hold you to account if Mr. Savage was hurt. He was not hurt, so I will not carry out my threat, if you choose to call it such.”

“You enlarge the insult, Mr. Quentin,” said Ugo, with a deadly tone in his voice.

“You may as well know, Prince Ravorelli, that I have long been acquainted with the fact that you bear me no good will. Frankly, you regard me as a man dangerous to your most cherished aspirations, and you know that I heard Giovanni Pavesi sing in days gone by. You have not been manly enough to meet me fairly, up to this instant. I am perfectly well aware that Prince Kapolski was your guest last night for no other purpose than to bring about an affray in which I was to have been the victim of his prowess and your cleverness.”

For a moment the two men glared at each other, immovably, unwaveringly. Prince Ugo's composure did not suffer the faintest relaxation under the direct charge of the American.

“My only reply to that assertion is that you lie,” he said, slowly.

“This is a public place, Prince Ugo. I will not knock you down here.”

“It is not necessary for me to give you my card. Count Sallaconi will arrange the details with any friend you may name. You shall give me satisfaction for the aspersion you have cast upon my honor.” He was turning away when Quentin stepped quickly in front of him.

“If you mean that you expect me to fight a duel with you, I must say you are to suffer disappointment. I do not believe in duelling, and I believe only in killing a man when there is no other alternative. To deliberately set about to shoot another man down is not our method of settling an issue. We either murder in cold blood or we fight it out like men, not like stage heroes.”

“I will add then, sir, that you are a coward.”

“I have been brave enough to refrain from hiring men to do my fighting. We will fight, Prince Ravorelli, but we will not fight with weapons made by man. You call me a coward and I call you a scoundrel. We have hands and arms and with them we shall fight.”

“Count Sallaconi is my second, I do not care to hear another word--”

“If Count Sallaconi comes to me with any ridiculous challenge from you, I'll knock him down and kick him across the street. My friend shot the face off of your poor tool last night. I do not care to repeat the tragedy. I shall not strike you here and now, because the act might mean my arrest and detention on no one knows what sort of a trumped-up charge. You need not bother me with any silly twaddle about swords and pistols I shall pay no attention to it. Ordinarily Americans do not delay actual combat. We usually fight it out on the spot and the best man wins. I will, however, give you the chance to deliberate over my proposition to settle our differences with our hands.”

Ravorelli calmly heard him to the end. Then he turned and strode away, smiling derisively.

“You are the only American coward I have ever seen. I trust you appreciate, the distinction,” he said, his white teeth showing in malicious ridicule. “Your friend, the hero of last night, should be proud of you.”

Quentin watched them until they were lost in the crowd near the Palace, his brain full of many emotions. As he walked into the hotel his only thought was of Dorothy and the effect the quarrel would have on their friendship.

“Which will she choose?” he mused, after narrating to Savage the episode of the park. For the first time Dickey noticed the pallor in his face, the despair in his eyes, the wistful lines about his lips.

“There's only one way to find out, old man,” said he, and he did not succeed in disguising the hopelessness in his voice.

“Yes, I guess I'm up to the last trench. I'm right where I have to make the final stand, let the result be what it may,” said the other, dejectedly.

“Don't give up, Phil. If you are to win, it will take more courage than you are showing now. A bold front will do more than anything else just at this stage. The result depends not entirely on how eager she is to become a princess, but how much she cares for the man who cannot make her a princess.”

“There's the rub. Does she care enough for me?”

“Have you asked her how much she cares?”

“No.”

“Then, don't ask. Merely go and tell her that you know how much she cares. Go this afternoon, old man. O, by the way, Lady Jane sends her love to you, and wants to know if you will come with me to Ostend to-morrow to meet her and Lady Saxondale.”

XVI. THE COURAGE OF A COWARD

“Tell Mr. Quentin I cannot see him,” was Miss Garrison's response when his card was sent to her late that afternoon. The man who waited nervously in the hall was stunned by this brief, summary dismissal. If he was hurt, bewildered by the stinging rebuff, his wounds would have been healed instantly had he seen the sender of that cruel message. She sat, weak, pale and distressed, before her escritoire, striving to put her mind and her heart to the note she was writing to him whose card, by strange coincidence, had just come up. An hour ago he was in her thoughts so differently and he was in her heart, how deeply she had not realized, until there came the crash which shattered the ideal. He was a coward!

Prince Ugo had been out of her presence not more than ten minutes, leaving her stunned, horrified, crushed by the story he laughingly told, when Quentin was announced. What she heard from Ugo overwhelmed her. She had worshiped, unknown to herself, the very thing in Philip Quentin that had been destroyed almost before her eyes--his manliness, his courage, his strength. Ugo deliberately told of the duel in his rooms, of Savage's heroism in taking up the battles of his timorous friend, of his own challenge in the morning, and of Quentin's abject, cringing refusal to fight. How deliciously he painted the portrait of the coward without exposing his true motive in doing so, can only be appreciated when it is said that Dorothy Garrison came to despise the object of his ridicule.

She forgot his encounter with the porch visitor a fortnight previous; she forgot that the wound inflicted on that occasion was scarcely healed; she forgot all but his disgraceful behavior in the presence of that company of nobles and his cowardice when called to account by one brave man. And he an American, a man from her own land, from the side of the world on which, she had boasted, there lived none but the valorous. This man was the one to whom, a week ago, she had personally addressed an invitation to the wedding in St. Gudule--the envelope was doubtless in his pocket now, perhaps above his heart--and the writing of his name at that time had brought to her the deadly, sinking realization that he was more to her than she had thought.

“Tell Miss Garrison that, if it is at all possible, I must see her at once,” said Quentin to the bearer of the message. He was cold with apprehension, hot with humiliation.

“Miss Garrison cannot see you,” said the man, returning from his second visit to the room above. Even the servant spoke with a curtness that could not be mistaken. It meant dismissal, cold and decisive, with no explanation, no excuse.

He left the house with his ears burning, his nerves tingling, his brain whirling. What had caused this astonishing change? Why had she turned against him so suddenly, so strangely? Prince Ugo! The truth flashed into his mind with startling force, dispelling all uncertainty, all doubt. Her lover had forstalled him, had requested or demanded his banishment and she had acquiesced, with a heartlessness that was beyond belief. He had been mistaken as to the extent of her regard for him; he had misjudged the progress of his wooing; he awoke to the truth that her heart was impregnable and that he had not so much as approached the citadel of her love.

Dickey was pacing their rooms excitedly when Quentin entered. Turk stared gloomily from the open window, and there was a sort of savageness in his silent, sturdy back that bespoke volumes of restraint.

“Good Lord, Phil, everybody knows you have refused to fight the prince. The newspaper men have been here and they have tried to pump me dry. Turk says one of the men downstairs is telling everybody that you are afraid of Ravorelli. What are we going to do?” He stopped before the newcomer and there was reproach in his manner. Quentin dejectedly threw himself into a chair and stared at the floor in silence.

“Turk!” he called at last. “I want you to carry a note to Miss Garrison, and I want you to make sure that she reads it. I don't know how the devil you are to do it, but you must. Don't bother me, Dickey. I don't care a continental what the fellow downstairs says; I've got something else to think about.” He threw open the lid to one of his trunks and ruthlessly grabbed up some stationery. In a minute he was at the table, writing.

“Is Kapolski dead?” asked Dickey.