Part 15

"Forgive you!" he said, getting to his feet and seizing her by the hand. "Here--sit down a minute--you can't do that, you know--sit down and let's talk this over!"

She did not want to do so, but his grip upon her arm was strong, and rather than cross him she complied.

"You don't understand--I'm breaking it off," she said firmly.

"But what have I done?" Sebastian asked. "Come on now--don't be mad at me! Didn't I pet you enough to-night? Come--give us a kiss and forget it!"

"I don't want to kiss you!" said Peaches, drawing away from his advance. "Please, Mark! I'm trying to tell you that I had the wrong dope--I never loved you enough to marry you, and to-night I got a gleam of light I can't go through with it."

"Not go through with it!" he replied sullenly. As the fact that she really meant what she said slowly penetrated to his befuddled brain a look of anger took the place of the maudlin affection which had been in his face a moment before. "Not go through with it--but you--you promised. Why, the wedding invitations go out to-morrow--impossible not to go through with it!"

"I'm sorry--but you heard me," said she. "I don't love you."

"But I love you!" he burst out. "And as for love--you don't know anything about it. What can a great big kid like you know about love? You'll love me when we are married! Stop your nonsense and give us a kiss!"

He made a lunge at her, which she managed to evade, moving over to the opposite end of the sofa. But quick as a cat Markheim was after her. He was just drunk enough to have lost his head, but not drunk enough to be clumsy. It was at this moment that Peaches began to be afraid of him.

"No, no!" she cried, trying to get away from his pudgy hands. "I tell you I don't love you--please! Let me alone. Mark, don't make me afraid!"

"Why should you be afraid?" he asked thickly. "You are going to marry me--do you hear? I've stood your offishness long enough. I've kept away from you whenever you said. I've been a fool! But you are mine, understand? Mine! You've promised. Everyone knows it, and by heaven I'll take you when I see fit. Come here!"

Peaches felt as if she were caught in the meshes of some horrid dream. With a sudden wrench she broke loose from him, darting round the end of the sofa. But with an amazing agility Markheim vaulted the back and was after her, hot in a pursuit made silent by the thickness of the heavy carpet, their panting breath the only noise in the big room. A single lamp was the only light, but it was enough to show her his face, purple, bestial--suggesting a chasm of horror.

Swift as she was she could not escape him. He was at the door behind her, barring her way, smiling terribly. Then at the French windows as quickly as she reached them, his hot moist hands upon hers, even as she seized the knob. Then back across the room again in fierce pursuit. He seemed to have gone quite mad and become possessed with an uncanny swiftness and strength. Then Peaches stumbled across a great chair, and in another instant his arms were about her, his hot breath upon her face.

"Help!" she cried, struggling to release her hands, which he held behind her back. "Help! Sebastian--you beast--let me go, let me go!"

And then the whirlwind happened. Some terrific force like a giant cloud of vengeance tore the satyr from her; and there was Sandro, his face white and fierce. With a single gesture he had thrown Markheim half across the room, and stood with squared fists waiting for the assault which came almost at once.

"You rotter!" sang out the newcomer. "Take your dirty hide out of here!"

With a howl of rage and surprise Markheim picked himself up and came at his manservant with purple face and popping eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he shouted. "Leave the room!"

"Not until I've given you the thrashing of your life!" replied the valet. "Come and get your punishment if you won't clear out!"

And Markheim came. With a roar he flew at the man, striking blindly, wildly, and uttering a volley of language which was in itself a shower of blows. How long they fought Peaches hardly knows. Crouched against the mantelshelf as if seeking the protection of the calmly smiling Virgin above, she watched the two men struggle to a finish. She was fascinated, terrified, and at the same time fiercely exalted. The end came abruptly, with Markheim sprawling on the floor, and Sandro slowly raising himself to a towering figure of contemptuous victory above his employer.

"Get up!" he said, panting, as he administered a kick to the prostrate body of the other man. "That will do, I expect. Get up!"

Moaning, Sebastian obeyed, his face streaked with blood from a cut upon his forehead, his left eye swollen and rapidly turning as purple as the tattered remains of his dressing gown.

"I'll have the law on you for this!" he warned, fumbling for his handkerchief.

"Come here!" commanded the servant in a voice of authority.

"Help!" squeaked Markheim. But before he could utter another sound Wilkes had him by the collar, and was dragging him to where Peaches still cowered against the wall.

"None of that nonsense!" commanded Sandro. "If you yell I'll have to give you another drubbing. Now get down on your knees and ask her pardon!"

For an instant Markheim attempted to disobey. But his captor raised his hand and as though at a signal Sebastian fell groveling on the floor before Peaches, bubbling repentance--a loathsomely servile thing from which she shrank.

"Oh, take him away!" she begged. "I hate him so! Take him away!"

"You hear what she says!" said her rescuer grimly. "Go now! Make haste or I will throw you out!"

With some difficulty Markheim got upon his feet and made for the door.

"The police!" he said. "I will have the police! Oh, my face--my face!"

He had found his handkerchief now, and staggered out of the room, holding it to his wound and mumbling imprecations.

Slowly Peaches emerged from her torpor of fright and looked at the man who an hour earlier had been a servant. He was transformed. His shoulders were squared, his eyes alive, his face flushed--he was her boy-lover again. There was no mistake. Now she knew him beyond the shadow of a doubt. If she had ever really questioned his identity, from this moment there was no room for questioning left. All the tightening of her heartstrings, long drawn taut by repression, relaxed. It was as if her whole being had suddenly been flooded with warm sunlight.

"Sandro!" she said, going toward him with outstretched arms. "Sandro, my love, my love!"

For one second she saw the unwitting, involuntary response in his eyes. Then he looked down, that she might not behold it, and drawing himself up he clicked his heels together and bowed. Though he trembled as he did so, his voice was controlled.

"Miss Pegg," he said, "I--I am happy to have served you! Good night."

"Sandro!" cried Peaches. "Why do you pretend? I know you--I know. You couldn't fool me now! My dear, I thought that you were dead. But even on the day we got here I knew you--I knew you in the hall, that first moment. Oh, why do you keep away from me like that? Don't you love me--don't you want me? Why do you pretend?"

"Don't! Please!" he entreated. "Miss Pegg, I--am just a servant in this house!"

"I don't care what you are!" she cried recklessly. "You are Sandy. I know you and I love you."

"My God!" he said, the familiar pet name striking home at last. "Don't! You cannot understand my position. I tell you I am a servant. It is some chance resemblance."

She switched on the main light then and came nearer, scanning his face closely. His hands clenched at his sides, but otherwise he remained immovable.

"You cannot make me doubt," she said at length. "You are Sandro di Monteventi, who was reported killed at----"

"Miss Pegg--don't make it too hard!" he said humbly. "Will you not accept my statement and let me go?

"No!" she said fiercely. "Because I know who you are--and because I know that you love me. There! I have told the truth!"

"It is true that I love you," he admitted. "One need not have seen you for longer than a day for that. But why do you persist I am this stranger?"

"Because I know it!" she declared.

"You could not prove it!" he said simply.

"I don't have to!" she said, going closer. "Oh, Sandy, Sandy, I love you so! I have been hungry for you such a long, long time!"

She slipped her arms round his neck. And then for a long while she was not conscious of anything except his lips upon hers, and the blessed iron strength of his arms about her. At length he drew away, just far enough to look into her eyes.

"Merciful Madonna!" he breathed. "You are too much for my poor strength. I have no right to touch you--but how I love you!"

"I knew it! I knew it!" cried Peaches, wild with triumphant happiness, "you'll never get away from me again, Sandro mio!"

But he pushed her from him roughly.

"No, no!" he said. "I--you are wrong! You have got to believe you are wrong, even though you hate yourself and me as well for the glimpse of heaven you have given me."

But she could not let him go.

"Have I got to have any other proof?" she laughed. "Oh, my dear, my dear! Good heavens--what is it?" she added in a changed tone, for he was looking over her shoulder toward the end of the room with an expression as if he had seen a ghost.

Automatically she turned to follow the direction of his gaze, and almost instantly encountered another pair of eyes set deep in a white face that stared in at the window. In another instant it was gone, and like a flash her companion had seized her by the elbows and was holding her with a gaze that riveted her attention.

"See here!" he said rapidly. "I've got to leave you. They've got me this time, I'm afraid. But I'll make a dash for it. Say nothing if I get away. Silence will help me most. And no matter who I am, I love you. It will not hurt you to know that. Good-by!"

Abruptly he was gone, slipping from the great room as noiselessly as he had entered it, his going swift as a shadow, and leaving Peaches temporarily paralyzed and at a loss. With a tremendous effort she pulled her wits together and started for the doorway through which he had vanished. To reach it she had to pass the mantelpiece, and as she did so she automatically raised her eyes to the painting whose calm beauty had been the cause of so much turmoil, and a curious glitter on the lower edge of the frame caught her eye. The flash was such a brilliant one that despite her pre-occupation she stopped to examine its source. And then with a little cry of triumph she stretched out her hand toward it.

On the lower carvings of the ornate Florentine frame lay a little gold penknife studded with diamonds--her own jeweled penknife, the one with which Sandro di Monteventi had cut that long-faded rose in the garden at San Remo--the precious trinket which she had given him for a keepsake. The proof! It was the proof positive! In a single flash a great deal became clear. He had left it there earlier in the evening--at the time the picture was missed--perhaps at the time it was put back!--and missing it he had later returned to retrieve it when he fancied that every one was asleep, and so had stumbled upon her scene with Markheim, and come to her rescue. Seizing the tell-tale toy she kissed it wildly and started for the door.

"Sandro! I have proof!" she cried, though she knew he could not hear her.

"Proof of what, signorina?" said a voice in the doorway. And there, blocking the entrance to the corridor, was the figure of a bearded man. With a cry Peaches shrank back, instinctively hiding the knife in the palm of her hand. The intruder had a sinister look. His hat was pulled well down over his eyes and his coat collar was pulled up about his ears.

"What do you want?" demanded Peaches huskily. "What are you doing here?"

She was retreating toward the bell as she spoke, the man's gaze following her action without protest. Coming well into the room he removed his hat, shaking a few drops from it as he did so. The shoulders of the coat were also wet. Evidently it was raining heavily outside. His face as revealed in the stronger light was less alarming, and he spoke in an even tone.

"Ring by all means!" said he. "Bring help as soon as possible! As for who I am," he went on, throwing back his wet coat and revealing a silver badge, "I am Pedro, the missing night watchman, and I have a warrant of extradition for the arrest of Sandro di Monteventi, alias The Eel--wanted by the International Secret Service for the theft of the Scarpia panels and sundry charges."

"Go on, ring, miss," said a second man, following in on the heels of the first; a man whom Peaches instantly recognized as the face at the window. "Ring, please--we know he is in the house--and incidentally don't you try to get away. We want to talk to you--you seemed to know him rather well."

XV

With a violent movement Peaches rang the bell. And almost at once the house was again in confusion. The two newcomers, backed by the cursing Markheim and aided by Mr. Pegg, made straight for the room occupied by Sandro. Peaches followed in their wake, and saw them batter down the door--to find an empty room and a gaping window.

Of course! The idiots! Now if they had only had sense enough to wake me up I could have told them better! But no, they let me sleep--sleep, mind you, when all this, as it were, human motion picture was proceeding right under my very nose! I feel outraged, indignant, as I consider the lack of forethought and consideration which this lack of attention evidenced. Of course the duke escaped--the ninnies should have left some one outside in the garden--and their excuse that they did not believe that he could escape so rapidly from the third story of the house would have been made quite unnecessary if I had been there to inform them of his nocturnal wanderings as known to me.

Really, as I listened to Peaches' recital I became quite distinctly vexed. The fate by which I seemed doomed to remain a bystander looking on at life from a safe distance or merely to be told about it at secondhand or to read of it in printed form was really too annoying. Despite my utmost endeavor I was apparently to be cheated of active participation in the great drama of existence.

But no one could look at Peaches' pale and suffering beauty for long and remain unindulgent. And as I lay in the great bed enjoying the tea and toast which she had so thoughtfully brought me I restrained the comments which sprang to my lips and merely asked, "What happened then?"

"We came downstairs," said Peaches slowly, twisting the amber beads about her throat, "Mark, pa and myself along with these two cowbird detectives. I tell you, Free, I just could hardly believe the story they told. But I had to, in the end. You see, for one thing, as I sat there I began to realize I had seen the Pedro once before."

"Where?"

"In a London movie house--and in a hotel bedroom at Monte Carlo," said she significantly.

"There!" I cried. "I foiled him twice, you see! Now it's a lucky thing I wasn't there last night, isn't it? Humph! I'd probably have defeated justice again! But what did he say?"

"He's been after Sandro for years," she narrated. "I am afraid there isn't the shadow of a doubt, Free, but that Sandy is the cleverest picture thief in the world. They have almost got him half a dozen times, but never with conclusive evidence. And thank God, they didn't get him this time, either--not yet at least! Why, do you know, they are certain that he took the Scarpia panels? It seems, if you remember, that they thought that they had been found in the cellar. But it wasn't the originals that they found. They were reproductions--synthetic pictures, like a near-ruby--do you get me?"

"But the recovery was reported in the papers," I objected.

"The French Government hushed the matter up in order to try and catch him off his guard," she went on. "And, Free, that's just what he has done in this very house."

"How do you mean--explain yourself grammatically if possible," said I.

"I mean that the Madonna of the Lamp which is hanging in the library at this moment is the bunk," replied Peaches earnestly. "It's a fake--painted on new canvas and nicely antiqued. The cops took it down and showed it to us."

"And what did he want to steal a fake for?" I demanded.

"He didn't want to steal a fake, you dear old prune!" said Peaches, half laughing. "He wanted to steal the original, and that's exactly what he did."

"And got away with it!" I gasped, astonished into a colloquialism. "But when and how on earth?"

"Very simple, but clever," she told me, quite as if it were to the young man's credit. "He had this fake all ready on a stretcher in his room. He took the original, stretcher and all, out of the frame and upstairs, where he unmounted it and hid it--it isn't large, you know. And then, before he could slip the substitute into place, you and I came in from the garden--from the garden where we had been waiting for him to--to----"

Here she broke off and began to laugh hysterically.

"Come, come, my dear!" I cried. "Don't do that--just remember what a lucky escape you have had. So we interrupted him before he could put the substitute in place! Well, land of goodness! I do recall that he was all dressed when he came down stairs at Mr. Markheim's command! Go on, do, my dear!"

"Well," said Peaches, complying with renewed composure, "this Pedro-bird claims that Sandy slipped it in while we were all out in the hall with the servants and he was in and out apparently taking care of Markheim's orders. If the secret-service men hadn't been on the job Sandy would in all probability have simply stayed his two weeks out as a quiet well-behaved servant, and then gone away with a first-class reference and the original Madonna, and the substitution might never have been found out, or it might have been years--until some feast was held by a lot of experts at Mark's invitation--who knows! And he's been doing this sort of thing for years and years!"

"Extraordinary! Most extraordinary!" I exclaimed, pulling off my nightcap and starting to rise. "I must really dress and descend to take a look at that picture and the scene of the crime!"

"You can't!" said Peaches, suddenly listless. "You can't--we are both locked in!"

I could scarcely believe my ears. But Peaches was in earnest, there was no doubt about that.

"Locked in!" I repeated incredulously. "What on earth are you saying, Alicia Pegg?"

"I was saying a mouthful!" she responded. "Pa has locked us in."

"But what for?" I demanded with proper indignation.

"I told him I was going to follow Sandro," said Peaches, as if the explanation was the most obvious thing possible and she were just a trifle impatient of my stupidity.

"Are you crazy?" I cried. "Follow him--follow that thief--that--that scoundrel? Aren't the police following him? Isn't that following enough?"

"That's just why," she announced. "Wherever he is--wherever he goes, I am going too. After last night I can't do anything else. And if it's to jail--all right, I'll go to jail. But I won't stay away from him, and I will find him if the secret-service can't, and I hope most heartily they will make a flivver of it. And I'll never leave him again--believe me!"

I was obliged to believe her. I had, indeed, only to look at her in order to do so. And as I looked, a gleam of human intelligence broke into my brain.

"Peaches," I said solemnly, "did you tell on Markheim?"

"Of course not!" she said, flushing hotly. "He--wasn't himself; I realize that now."

"So you just told your father that you are through with Markheim and are in love with the duke?"

She nodded dumbly.

"No wonder he locked you up!" I gasped, falling back on the pillows.

"Locked me up and said the marriage would go ahead as per schedule," she announced grimly. "Which is bunk of course. The point is--what shall we do about it?"

"Have they caught the duke?" I inquired.

"I don't believe so," said she. "There is nothing to that effect in the early afternoon newspapers from New York, though there's plenty about the robbery. Take a look!"

"Let me see!" I exclaimed, stretching out my hand for the paper.

And forthwith she spread the lurid sheets before my distressed eyes. The headlines were of the variety known as "scare." Not the German ex-Kaiser himself, or even a Bolshevist labor leader was ever presented in larger type than was the lurid announcement of the attempted robbery. And all our names were mentioned--even that of Talbot--the sacred family name, which we had kept inviolate for generations against all newspaper publicity excepting only mention in the society and political columns. For, of course, the difference between one's appearing as a social or political item and as a piece of mere vulgar news must at once be apparent to any reader of refined upbringing. And never before had the Talbots been news. I dreaded to think how my sister Euphemia would take it should the article chance to meet her eye. She might eventually forgive me much; but I seriously doubted whether her charity would ever extend over newspaper headlines. Alas! This was but a foretaste of what was to come!

But much as the reporters had to say of the splendor of Sebastian Markheim's mansion and the beauty of Sebastian Markheim's fiancée, whose coming marriage would be of the greatest social consequence, uniting the greatest fortune of the East with the greatest fortune of the Western Coast, and so on, and though it was further replete with details of the method by which the robbery had been committed, together with a florid account of the robber's high station in life, his heroic action in battle, where he was supposed to have been killed while defending a position single-handed in a rocky pass during the Austrian invasion, thereby enabling the rest of his brigade to escape--nothing indicated that his capture was at this time considered very likely. The authorities were full of assurances but rather short on facts, to all appearances.

"Well, now, Alicia, my dear," I remarked when I had satisfied myself that no detail of importance had escaped me in my perusal of the printed account of our affair--"now, Alicia, my dear," said I. "I feel it incumbent to be quite sure that you know what you are saying when you announce your intention of linking your life with that of this wild young Italian--always provided that the gallows does not get him before you do. Can't you reconcile yourself to the idea that he is a thief, no matter how titled, and that therefore he is no match for an honest American girl?"

"Oh, cut the moralizing, Free!" interrupted Peaches. "I am in love with him, I tell you. And I have sufficient faith in my own integrity to believe that this wouldn't be true if he really was the yellow dog everybody seems bent on trying to make him out. Now I've got a hunch--a mighty straight hunch that he is O. K. There's more to this than we know. Maybe the old picture belonged to his great-grandmother or something, and he's only taking it back. How do you know he isn't doing just that very thing?"

"But the Scarpia panels didn't belong to his grandmother," I answered smartly.

"But they haven't got the goods on him for those other deals," she retorted. "And if they had, I'd still be crazy about him. Freedom, this is a question of the rest of my life. You've got to take my side."

"But what are you--we going to do?" I pleaded, bewildered by her intensity. "And what is all this nonsense about our being locked in these rooms?"

"You just try to get out and see if it's nonsense," replied Peaches. "You were asleep when they locked me in, and as there is no lock on the doors between our rooms they locked you too. I wouldn't let them disturb you, not only because you were so tired but because I knew damn well that if I let you out I wouldn't get this chance to talk to you."