Part 4

"Oh, what's the good of pretending we are better than other people, just because we have everything," Pat retorted boldly. "If this reporter was in my own set, some young, rotten cad, and had driven up in a big motor car, and sent in his card, Uncle Henry would have received him with open arms. Because he is common and poor--"

"Will you be quiet?" Henry interrupted, resentfully. "You talk like a scullery maid, fed up on bolshevism. I don't feel a bit better than anybody else, although I am a Royce."

"Very well," murmured Pat, shrugging with hopeless resignation. Then she turned to Prince Matani, who all this time had stood by rigidly, like a soldier at attention, and who now clicked his heels together and said, brightly:

"Now, my dear Miss Patricia, you'll hear from me. Consider yourself under arrest for behaving so rudely to your uncle. And while this irrepressible reporter is being dried out, you shall be court-martialled for conduct unbecoming a--"

Pat stopped him. "Don't talk silly!" she said. Then she smiled thinly. "Perhaps I have been acting the little fool, but, please, don't rub it in." She walked away.

The Prince followed her, impetuously. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Straight upstairs and to bed," she replied, wearily. "Why do you ask?"

"Because," said the Prince, raising his voice so that Henry might hear, "I'm afraid, on account of the storm, I shall have to spend the night here."

"So you shall, Your Highness," Henry responded, readily.

Until this moment, Olinski had contributed nothing to the controversial dialogue. With complete reconciliation in progress, he moved forward, and spoke.

"I am sure none of us have anything personally against this audacious reporter," he said. "Why should we? It's his profession, nosing into other people's business, that we object to. Anyway, no one wants a reporter running over the premises like a mouse looking for cheese. And now that our dear Patricia appears to have thought the matter over, and decided that she's made a mistake, I shall prepare to make my departure."

"No; I forbid you leaving the castle on a night like this," said Henry, supplementing his remark with a hearty slap on Olinski's shoulder.

Pat looked round at me, standing unmovable and silent, in the background. The glance that I gave her, I intended as a reminder that she had my complete understanding and sympathy. Presently she drifted over to me and whispered something rapidly. I nodded and left the room unconcernedly.

A few minutes later, I returned from the library, where I had telephoned to the garage, and learned that the reporter had slipped out and disappeared into the night while the two chauffeurs were having their bread and cheese and beer. Patricia did not seem unduly surprised at the news I brought her.

"This McGinity fellow," I said to her, on the quiet, "struck me, what little I've seen of him, as being the sort of young man who could play a game to the limit."

"I shouldn't wonder," she agreed, with a smile that signified a new interest in life had arisen in her heart.

The hall cleared rapidly. Jane went upstairs with Pat. Prince Matani was shown to his room by Orkins. I accompanied them in the elevator as far as the gallery overlooking the hall, where I settled myself comfortably in the welcome silence and semi-darkness.

I had a slight headache; my head seemed to be in a whirl after the stirring events of the evening; I wanted to be left alone to meditate. There was no use of my going to bed and trying to sleep. I glanced at my watch. It was still early--ten-thirty.

Henry and Olinski had remained behind, and were now seated, conversing in low tones, at a side table, where there were books and magazines. Intermittently, I could hear the rain beating against the window panes; the noise of the wind came in little moaning gasps and flutters.

In fancy, I pictured the reporter, wet and disheartened, making his way back to the village, over an unfrequented road, against the driving wind and rain. I felt truly sorry for him. Pat was right. Henry had treated him shamefully.

As we learned afterwards, the reporter's life had really been endangered, and he had a perfect right to call for help. In his efforts to outwit Henry, and knowing he would be stopped at our lodge-gate, he had hired a fisherman's row-boat, and was seeking entrance to the castle grounds, by way of our dock, in a second attempt to gain an interview.

Caught in the sudden storm, and losing one of his oars, his frail craft had been dashed onto the rocks at the foot of the cliff. Pitched out headlong among them, he had been rendered semi-unconscious. Coming to at last, with the waves threatening to engulf him, and unable to extricate himself, he had called for help. Finally he had managed to crawl to a safety spot on the shore, where the chauffeurs had found him.

My thoughts so occupied, and enjoying to the utmost the reposeful darkness and quiet of the gallery, but still reluctant to summon Orkins to fetch me a cigar and some whiskey, I was just beginning to feel thoroughly relaxed when I saw a slim, whitish figure, which I knew at once to be Pat's, come down the dark stairway that connected the gallery with the upper floor. That she, too, was restless and unable to sleep, was at once evident. Still, I made no move to accost her, being content to remain in my comfortable concealment. After a hurried glance down into the hall, from the head of the grand staircase, she returned the way she had come, soft and silent as a ghost.

By this time, the murmur of Henry's and Olinski's voices had risen into boisterous talk and laughter. Apparently they were bent on celebrating their scientific achievement. Prying a bit, I saw they were indulging in numerous whiskies and sodas, served by Niki, and smoking the big cigars of Henry's favorite brand. Orkins, I assumed, was on his usual round of the doors, in accordance with a time-honored custom of locking up the castle at eleven o'clock every night. Carrying the keys of some baker's dozen of doors, he usually began with the front door and ended up with the smaller ones.

With the soothing sense that the castle was being secured for the night; mightily pleased over Henry's and Olinski's startling and triumphant conquest, that extended to the very edge of the infinite universe, but wondering, too, if the riddle of Mars was really to be solved at last, and speculating what this would mean to the inhabitants of the earth, whose appetite for marvels is never satisfied; snug and secure from the battling elements, I fell into a doze.

Suddenly, I was awakened. Naturally puzzled to know what had roused me, I rose and stepped noiselessly to the gallery railing and took a view of what was occurring below, in the hall.

The front door-bell, an ancient contraption, was ringing--spasmodic, jerky rings, like a person would make who had hurried to a neighbor's house with some alarming news.

At Henry's command, Niki went to the door, unlocked it and looked out. As he did so, he gave voice to a sharp, surprised exclamation, causing me to wonder who would approach the castle at this hour, midnight, on such a tempestuous night.

V

The midnight visitor was the last person in the world I had thought of seeing, a district messenger boy, bringing a telegram for Henry. One of Henry's peculiarities was never to accept a radiogram or telegram relayed to the castle by telephone from the telegraph office in the village; it had to be delivered in person, no matter at what hour.

One glance at the messenger, as Henry bade him come in out of the rain, in tones of warm welcome, and I, like Niki, gave a sharp though suppressed exclamation. Completely enveloped in a black rubber cloak, which reached to the top of his puttees, and wearing one of those ugly rubber hats, with its broad brim turned down and extending well over his face, so that only his mouth and chin were exposed to view, he looked almost uncanny.

Catching the bright gleam of the nickel handle-bars of a bicycle parked outside, when Niki opened the door, I figured that the messenger must have had a hard pull in the storm. He had had no difficulty in entering the premises, I knew, as all district messengers were admitted at the lodge-gate without questioning. Looking uncertain and awkward, he leaned against the wall, just inside the door, while Niki handed the message to Henry. He made no move to remove his hat; either he was too embarrassed, or he didn't know any better.

There was nothing unusual, of course, in a message being delivered at this hour of the night; the unusual thing was the manner in which Henry received this one. Over his cups he had grown loquacious, but I never would have believed him capable of the silly flow, and the amount of it, that proceeded from his lips on this occasion, a condition in which Olinski contributed his share of inanities.

"Now, my friend," he began, "I will give you one million dollars if you can tell me the contents of this telegram before I open it. What do you think is in it, now?"

"I could do very nicely with the one million dollars," Olinski replied, "but I regret to say, at the present moment, my eye-sight does not carry very far beyond the end of my nose."

"You've been drinking too much," said Henry, rather crossly.

"Ah! That realization, at this very moment, crossed my mind," Olinski admitted. "And my great fear is that you have been drinking too much, yourself."

"There is the possibility, my friend," Henry returned, gruffly.

"Then you wouldn't advise our having another drink?" Olinski suggested.

"I would scarcely sanction it," said Henry. "Another drink between us, and we'll both be cock-eyed drunk."

Olinski laughed loudly.

"What are you laughing at?" Henry demanded, in a surly voice.

"That American expression, cock-eyed, it is so--so funny, and--and so beautifully illustrative of the way you look--to me, now."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I have drunk so much already I look--cock-eyed?" Henry retorted.

"There is that possibility, my dear friend," Olinski rejoined, rocking with mirth. "There--there is more than the possibility. You really do look--cock-eyed."

"No matter if I'm cock-eyed, or squint-eyed," said Henry, "my business is to ascertain the contents of this telegram--seeing you are too drunk yourself to tell me beforehand."

"Its contents, we can only conjecture," said Olinski. "My only hope is that it does not contain bad news. I am really distressed, for I have an intuition that it does contain bad news. Perhaps--er--another drink would alleviate my distress."

"You've had quite enough," said Henry. "My only anxiety is that we shall not be able to sleep off our cups before the sun, and sister Jane, have risen." As he finished speaking, he ripped the telegram open.

"That would be a great calamity," muttered Olinski, whose remark coincided with a smothered exclamation of rage from Henry. "Who is it from? What's happened?" Olinski inquired.

"It's from that damn reporter, McGinity," Henry roared. "For the third time tonight, he asks for an interview, and a confirmation of our discovery."

"But I thought he was in the garage--getting dried out," Olinski said.

"Apparently he's at the village." Henry glanced more closely at the telegram. "Yes; he's at the village, and he wants an answer--quick. Says he must have my confirmation before two-thirty this morning, which is the 'deadline' on his paper. Did you ever hear of such unmitigated gall?"

"These American reporters are capable of acting very shrewdly on occasions," said Olinski, whose brain seemed to be clearing somewhat.

"And so am I," thundered Henry. He tore the telegram into a thousand bits and scattered them over his own and Olinski's head. "I shall ignore his message," he continued. "Any sort of garbled, advance publicity will entirely spoil the effect of the news of our discovery. We shall announce it the day before the demonstration, so that it will come like a thunder-clap, and echo from one end of the world to the other."

"Still, our position, as far as this reporter, McGinity, is concerned, is very difficult," Olinski remarked, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "Some one, unbeknown to us, has, what you Americans call, 'tipped' his paper off. He may publish the rumor without the facts, which would be ruinous."

"He wouldn't dare!" Henry cried, hotly. "Besides, he has no facts to go on. How could he have? It's too tremendous for the human mind to grasp, without the main facts leading up to our discovery. With all our precaution for secrecy, how in the world could this reporter find out that we have not only received, but decoded, these strange radio messages from Mars, and definitely exchanged messages by short waves with a race of people as human as ourselves? He's trying to trick me into giving him the facts, as he did with my discovery of the comet. I'll bet you a million, he doesn't know what it's all about--hasn't the remotest idea--"

Olinski interrupted by lifting a finger to his lips, and giving a prolonged, "Shh!"

"Why the devil shouldn't I talk as I like?" Henry retorted, defiantly. On second thought, however, he glanced round the hall. Niki was just moving towards the front door, near which the district messenger still stood, patiently waiting for the telegram to be signed for; shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to another, and staring curiously, from under the rim of his rubber hat, at the various objects of art in the hall. Two suits of armor, on either side of the fire-place, seemed to hold his attention.

Leaning over towards Olinski, Henry voiced his growing suspicions in a low tone. "You don't imagine that this messenger boy wanted to listen, do you? Or had any motive in listening?"

He had no sooner spoken when he sprang from his chair, as if some idea, an intuition, had flashed across his mind. He started towards the front door, where Niki and the messenger were standing.

Olinski halted him by saying, in a low voice: "Here! Here! What are you doing, my friend? It's damned silly to think this messenger would be interested in what we've been talking about."

"Leave it to me," Henry counseled in a hoarse whisper. "I've my own ideas. I shan't be rough with him, but I shall be firm." Then he turned to Niki, at the same time, jerking his thumb in the direction of the messenger.

"Niki, will you kindly remove this young man's hat," he commanded.

The valet quickly obeyed his master's order.

"My God!" Henry gasped, staggering as if under the force of a blow. Quickly recovering, he stepped up to the messenger. "I might have guessed it would be you," he said. "You are, without exception, the most asinine and brazen reporter that ever was at large. How dare you enter my house under false representation, in this disguise?"

McGinity made no reply; just stood his ground.

"I dare say you know it's actionable, your coming here like this," Henry went on. "I'll report you to the telegraph company the first thing in the morning," snapping his fingers under the reporter's nose.

"The telegram was faked. I'll admit that," said McGinity, in a low and even voice. "But I'm not wearing a district messenger's uniform." He threw back his great rubber-cloak. "Just my own clothes, dried out, thanks to you."

"I'll report you to your City Editor," Henry persisted, angrily.

"I'm acting on my own responsibility," McGinity informed him. "My seeming persistence in making personal contact with you is based on the soundest principle in the news-getting game--'get your man.'"

"You'll get no information out of me," stormed Henry.

"Please don't forget, Mr. Royce," said the reporter, "that I've overheard what you and Mr. Olinski have been talking about for the last ten minutes."

"You--you listened?" Henry exclaimed, aghast.

"You can hardly imagine that I did not want to listen," the reporter replied; "especially as your conversation gave me sufficient information of your discovery, on which to build a big story. I can see it now, with headlines extending clear across the front page of the Daily Recorder. It's a great story, Mr. Royce, and I'm in luck to get it exclusive, before our deadline. An amazing discovery, a scientific achievement that will echo down the ages. Please, allow me to congratulate you, sir, also Mr. Olinski."

As McGinity concluded, he bowed low, bending from the waist, first to Henry, and then to Olinski. He bowed elegantly, as though he were an important guest having cocktails with the two old gentlemen, and not as an intruder, likely to be kicked out of the house at any moment.

Watching from the gallery, I was astonished at the young man's display of good breeding; so different from what I had expected to find in a reporter. I could see that Henry's anger was getting beyond his control. The reporter's civility seemed to flick him on the raw.

"I've half a mind to break your damned neck," he shouted, shaking his fist menacingly under McGinity's nose.

"Any attempt to do so--to break my neck--might detain me here unnecessarily," the reporter rejoined, calmly. "You would facilitate matters exceedingly if you would allow me to use your house phone to call my office in the city. I'll have the call reversed, so it won't cost you a penny. You see--" glancing at his watch "--I want to phone this story in in time for our last edition, the deadline for which, as I've already told you, is two-thirty."

Henry did not speak; he only growled, like an infuriated beast, ready to spring on its adversary.

"Very well, then," the reporter continued, "if you will not let me use your phone, I shall return to the village, and phone from there. I have about two hours before the paper goes to press. So I'll say good-night." He bowed again, very politely, and turned towards the door. But he never got to the door. Niki blocked his way.

"At him, Niki!" Henry cried furiously.

Niki's mighty arm shot out, and the blow he gave the reporter on the jaw was cruel and merciless; it was a knockout. McGinity staggered back against the wall, then crumpled in a heap on the floor. He never stirred after that.

"Now, you!" exclaimed Henry, shaking his fist at the reporter's prostrate figure; "you're not going to interfere any longer with my affairs. No story tonight, my boy! Deadline or no deadline!"

Olinski strode over to Henry. "What are you going to do with him?" he asked, excitedly.

"Lock him up for the rest of the night," Henry replied.

"Very good," Olinski agreed. "Then, in the morning, we shall bring him to terms. Bribe him, if necessary."

"That's it," Henry concurred. "That's it, exactly. A good idea. And he'll fall for it. Oh, he'll fall all right. Meantime," he added with a sardonic grin, "I shall make him as comfortable as possible for the night."

"Where on earth are you going to put him?" asked Olinski.

"Where there are no possible means of escape," replied Henry.

VI

Henry moved to the wall under the staircase and pressed a button, which set the mechanism of a secret panel in the wall into action. The panel slid back. Henry stepped through the opening, and switched on the lights at the head of the secret passage stairs.

Poking his head out, he beckoned to Niki. The valet picked up the senseless form of the reporter, flung it over his shoulder as easily as he might handle a bag of flour, then passed through the secret doorway and followed Henry down the steps into the cellar.

Never, in my wildest fancy, could I have believed my extremely law-abiding and kindly dispositioned brother capable of such an act; it smacked of the sinister days of mediaeval times. Realizing the state he was in, his mind frenzied by anger and alcohol, I decided to let him carry out his own nefarious plan, and get out of the mess he had made the best way he could.

As I pictured the reporter coming out of the knockout blow, in his prison-cell below, a cold shiver ran down my spine. To me, it would have been frightening beyond endurance. While not exactly a prison, this underground section, like the secret panel in the wall, had been copied from the ancient Normandy castle, of which ours was an exact model. Opening off a narrow corridor were five cell-like rooms of stone and cement, with heavy steel doors. Four of them were in use, for wine and general storage purposes. The fifth, at the end of the corridor, was empty. The place was kept scrupulously clean, of course; it had outside ventilation and was electrically lighted.

About five minutes later Henry re-appeared, accompanied by Niki, to whom he gave instructions to remain on watch in the hall for the remainder of the night. Closing the secret panel, and apparently satisfying Olinski that he had made his prisoner comfortable for the night, they finally stepped into the elevator and went upstairs to bed.

As soon as they had gone, Niki switched off the ceiling and wall lights in the hall, leaving only the dim illumination of a lamp on the side table. He then curled himself up on a divan, and must have gone immediately to sleep.

I looked up suddenly from the sleeping watchman-valet to see a slim, whitish figure dart from the far side of the gallery, and disappear up the rear stairs, where a soft gleam of light penetrated from the corridor above. Convinced that Pat was still wandering restlessly about the castle, and wondering if she, too, had viewed the regrettable scene in the hall below, I sank back in my chair and passed into unhappy meditation.

Feeling a certain curiosity as to what she might be up to, I remained in concealment to await events. I had not long to wait. Presently she re-appeared, creeping softly down the rear stairs. In her right hand she carried a flashlight; in the left, an object which glistened and jingled as she walked, which I took to be Orkins' collection of house keys.

She wore a satiny dressing gown of ivory-white, which trailed behind her like a bridal garment as she crossed the gallery and descended the staircase. Carelessly thrown over her lovely head was a filmy, white scarf, which billowed about her shoulders like a summer's cloud. There was every indication in her movements that she was on her way to locate the reporter, alleviate his distress, or, perhaps, release him. In spite of her hazardous undertaking, I could not avoid staring after her in deep admiration.

When she espied Niki on the divan, she switched off the flashlight. After satisfying herself, apparently by his heavy breathing, that he was asleep, she proceeded to open the secret panel. Its mechanism was familiar to her; she knew her way into the vaults below.

Immediately she had disappeared through the doorway in the wall, I went into action. Quietly but swiftly, I crept down the staircase. I stepped through the panel opening and stood at the head of the stone steps, where I watched her slow and careful descent of the winding stairs, in the shaky circle of light of her torch. I felt no trepidation over her safety; she was well acquainted with the geography of the place. My only fear was that the reporter might turn her adventurous visit to his own advantage. This seemed unlikely, for he had given me the impression that he was enough of a soldier of fortune to find amusement in his present predicament, despite his brutal treatment. This thought was uppermost in my mind when I heard his voice, raised in an exclamation of surprise.

I could well understand his note of surprise as he tried to connect the circumstances that had so recently and violently placed him in his present situation, with this after-midnight visit of a beautiful young lady in trailing white, lighting her way with an electric torch and jangling a bunch of keys.

"My dear young person, are you playing ghost--or what?" he addressed her, speaking through a small opening in his cell-door, through which, in its ancient pattern, food was passed to prisoners. "I am honored by your visit, of course, but isn't it a little--unconventional?"