Part 12

“Then, sir, I am afraid to raise it—your heart would not survive the shock. Good-bye, and thank you,” and she spurred across to where old Scartman was standing near the stables.

“I am to meet some one here at four o’clock,” she said; “has my party come?”

Boniface’s shrewd little eyes had taken her in at a single glance.

“Gentleman, I suppose?” he asked.—“None of them?” jerking his thumb toward the two lancers.—“No? then he’s not here yet.”

She glided gracefully out of saddle, and hooked up her skirt.

“Put my horse in the stall nearest the door,” she ordered; and herself saw it done. “Now, I want a room—the big one on the lower floor—for an hour or so.”

The inn-keeper bowed.

“Certainly, madame—and the gentleman?”

She considered.... “He is one high in rank, very high—indeed, no one in Valeria is higher—tell him I’m here; and admit him instantly; but don’t, do you hear me, don’t tell him I’m a woman.”

Old Scartman coughed and hesitated.

“But please you, madame,” he ventured, “if I’m to tell him you’re here, but not to tell him you’re a woman, how’s he to be sure you are you?”

“True, O patron of rendezvous!” she laughed. “If he ask for proof, you may tell him I’m the one who knows.”

“Now, that’s more to rule,” he said, with a nod and a chuckle.

They went into the house, and he opened the door into the big room.

“This is what madame wishes?”

“Yes,” said she—“and remember, no interruptions, now nor later—understand?”

He bowed with rather unusual grace, for one of his appearance and calling.

“Perfectly, madame—does madame think I look so like a fool?”

She surveyed him an instant.

“No, my good man, I don’t,” and closed the door; “but I wouldn’t care to tell you what you do look like,” she ended.

Going over to the window, she fixed the curtain so as to permit her to see in front of the house, and then, removing her veil, she drew out a tiny mirror and deftly touched to place the hair that was disarranged. As she finished, she heard horses approaching, and she saw, through the open gateway, a sudden commotion among the Lancers who were lounging at ease by the roadside, their mounts picketed under the trees. She knew that her man was coming.

A sergeant ran in and said a word to Hertz who, free now of his dust and anger, was sitting on the steps with Purkitz, hoping to get a glimpse of the face behind the veil, and staring at the windows with calm persistency.

“My God!” she heard Hertz exclaim, as both sprang up, and, frantically buttoning tunics and drawing on gloves, ran out into the road and swung to horse. There was a snap of commands, a stamping of hoofs, and the lances rose high above the wall in a line of fluttering pennons; they dipped, and the next moment the Archduke and the Regent’s Adjutant drew up before the gate.

The former raised his hand, and Hertz rode forward and saluted.

“How long have you been here, Captain Hertz?” he asked.

“Since a few minutes after three, sir.”

“Has any one come to the Inn in that time?”

Hertz’s spine went cold, and his voice trembled—she was the Archduke’s, and he had dared to ogle her.

“No one, Your Highness,” he answered—“no one but a woman—only a few minutes ago—on horseback—alone.”

“Did you happen to look at her, Captain? If you did, you might describe her.”

“I cannot, Your Highness; her face was covered with a thick, black veil.”

The Archduke smiled. “You’re a good soldier, I see; a pretty face comes first.”

“But her figure, sir—it’s wonderful, black habit and black horse—and she can ride—and her voice—”

“At least, Captain, your inability to describe her isn’t due to lack of observation,” the Archduke remarked dryly. “You have aroused my curiosity; I must see this remarkable woman—and do you remain here. I may have need of you presently; if you hear a whistle, come to me instantly.”

“Very clever, my lord,” Hertz muttered; “but you can’t cozen this bird; you’re here to meet her, and we are not expected. If the Regent knew it—whew!” and dismounting, he nodded to the sergeant.

“This looks about as harmless as a game of ping-pong,” said Armand, as they went into the courtyard; then, suddenly, an amazing idea flashed upon him; and he swung around, and motioned Hertz to him.

“What color was the woman’s hair?” he asked.

“Black. Your Highness, black as her gown.”

He dismissed Hertz with a look.

“Moore,” he said, and without moving on, “this plot is tangling fast. Can you guess who this woman is?”

“‘The one who knows,’” said the Colonel promptly.

“Yes, and more—it is Madeline Spencer.”

“Impossible!”

“I hope so, God knows,” the Archduke answered; “I’ve had enough of that devil—Scartman, is any one awaiting me?”

The old fellow had come up at a run.

“Your Highness’ pardon,” he cried, bowing almost into the dirt; “had I known you were coming I would have been at the gate to receive you——”

“Never mind the reception, my man, answer my question—is any one awaiting me?”

“I think so, Your Highness—”

“Don’t you know—what name did she give for me?”

“‘The one who knows,’ sir—but I wasn’t to tell you, sir, she is a woman—she was most particular as to that.”

The Archduke laughed. “Well, you didn’t; I knew it—where is she?”

“I will conduct your——”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Armand, dismounting and flinging his rein to his orderly; “where is the lady?”

Old Scartman knew enough to palaver no longer.

“The large room on the right, Your Highness,” he answered promptly.

“Come along, Moore,” said the Archduke, “let us have a look at her—and pray heaven it isn’t Spencer.”

But the landlord shook his head dubiously.

“It’s queer doings, sure enough!” he muttered;—“leastwise, it’s no love meeting they’re up to;” and he followed them as far as the hall, to be within call if needed.

Shielded by the curtain, Madeline Spencer had watched the scene in the courtyard, laughing quietly, the while, at Hertz’s confusion and at what she knew was in his mind, as to the Archduke and herself; now she flung the veil lightly around her head, and put her chair where the sun would be behind her. Moore’s presence had surprised and disappointed her; but, on the whole, she preferred him to Bernheim—and particularly if one of them were to be at the interview. Though she had rather counted upon Armand coming alone, if only to show his contempt for the permission to bring an escort—that he had sent the troop of Lancers she did not credit for a moment, though it might do to twit him with it.

Cool player that she was, and skillful beyond most women, yet even her heart beat a little faster, and her hand showed the trace of a tremble, as she heard the rattle of swords and spurs in the hall-way, followed by the sharp knock upon her door. And she let the knock come a second time before she answered it. She had not seen Armand since that night in her reception room in the Hotel Metzen, when the King and he had surprised her and Lotzen together, and, after tumbling the Duke’s schemes about his ears, had sent him to Lotzenia in disgrace and her across the border; and, now, the sight of him, and the sound of his voice, had stirred again the old fondness that would not down. And though, to his face, she might laugh at his anger and mock at his contempt, and feel it so then, yet afterward, in the depression that in such natures always follows periods of excitement, the recollection of it hurt her sadly, scorn it as she might, despise it as she did—destroy him as she meant to do, and would.

“Entrez!” she called, “entrez!” and with the words, the tremble passed, and she was serene and undisturbed again.

“Your Royal Highness!” she said, very low, and swept him a quick curtsy.

Instead of offering his hand to raise her, he answered with a slight bow.

“Madame desired to see me?” he asked; and crossing over obliged her to turn so that the light from the window fell upon her sideways. And, despite the heavy veil, that gave him only a black mask of crape instead of her face, he was satisfied he had surmised correctly.

Suddenly she caught the veil and flung it away.

“You know me, I see,” she laughed, “so we will dispense with this covering—it is very warm.”

For a little while, he looked at her in forbidding silence.

“What ill wind blew you back to Dornlitz?” he asked presently; and she almost cried out in surprise at the deliberate menace in his voice. And Moore marvelled and was glad—the old Henry was being aroused, at last.

“Ill wind?” she said—leaning carelessly against the window ledge where the sun played through her wonderful hair, and tinged the flawless face from dead-white to a faint, soft pink—“ill wind for whom, Armand?—surely not for you; why am I here?”

The Archduke gave a sarcastic laugh. “That is precisely what I should like to know.”

“You doubt the letter?”

A shrug was his answer.

She leaned a bit toward him.

“If I show you the Book of Dalberg Laws, will you believe?” she asked.

“That they are the Laws, yes.”

She smiled rather sadly.

“The facts will have to prove my honest motive, I see; and I came from Paris, hoping that I could render you this service, as a small requital for the injury I did you a little while ago.”

The Archduke laughed in her face.

“And for how much in gold coin of the realm, from some one of my enemies?” he asked.

She put the words aside with another smile.

“I’ve been in Dornlitz for more than two weeks,” she went on; “can you guess where?—yes, I see you can; the only place I could have been, and you not know of it.”

“And you mean to say the Book is in Ferida Palace?” said Armand.

“I do.”

“And you are ready to restore it to the Regent?”

“No,” said she, “I’m not ready to restore it to the Regent; I’m ready to give it to you if I were able, but I’m not—it will be for you to recover it.”

“How do you know it is the Book of Laws—did the Duke tell you?”

She laughed her soft, sweet laugh. “Oh, no, he didn’t tell me—he has no idea that I know he has it; I saw it by accident——”

“How could you recognize the Book?” he interrupted; “only three people in the Kingdom have ever seen it.”

“By intuition, mainly; and by the secrecy with which the Duke handles it—let me describe it:—a very old book; leather-covered, brass-bound and brass-hinged; the pages, of parchment—those in front illumined in colors with queer letters, and, further on, more modern writing—it is the Book, isn’t it, Armand?”

“Or Lotzen has described it to you,” he answered.

She made a gesture of discouragement.

“You are hard to convince,” she said—“you will have to be shown—will you take the trouble?”

The Archduke smiled. “Now we come to the kernel,” he remarked; “the rest was only the shell. Quite candidly, madame, I’m not inclined to play the spy in Ferida Palace; there are easier deaths to die, though doubtless none that would be more sure.”

“You didn’t used to be so timid or careful, Armand,” she mocked; “there are no dangers other than those of my boudoir—and if you fear them you may send a substitute—even one of your friend Courtney’s secret agents.—For the last few nights the Duke has been going over this Book page by page; his apartments are across a small court from mine, and his private cabinet is directly in view from my boudoir. Send some one there this evening at eleven, and with my field glass he can see everything the Duke does, and every article on his desk. Surely, that should be enough to satisfy the most suspicious.”

“Rather too much,” said he; “it brings us back to the question of motive:—why should you, who have had so much of my dear cousin’s money, and have enjoyed his kind and courteous hospitality for so long, suddenly turn against him, and betray him?—for believe me, madame, I take no stock in your pretty story of requiting injury, and coming all the way from Paris to help me find the Book.”

“But, my dear Archduke, what matters my motive, if you recover the Book—besides, now you can send the police this instant and search the Palace and seize the Book, if it’s there, and they can find it—doesn’t that in itself attest my honesty?”

“Not in the least. You know very well that I would not venture to take such drastic action against the Duke unless I were sure, not only that he had the Book, but that it would be found—hence it’s safe to tell this story. And as your motive—it all comes back to that—can’t be to assist me, it must be to assist the Duke; and so—” he shrugged his shoulders.

It had never occurred to her that he would be so difficult to convince; she had thought that her bait, and particularly the privilege to send any one to verify it, and her description of the Book, would capture him instantly. But she had failed to appreciate how thoroughly Armand despised her, and how deeply he mistrusted her, and, more than all, how intensely repugnant it would be to accept a service from her, or to have any dealings with her except à outrance.

She bent forward and looked him in the eyes.

“Why might it not be to assist myself?” she asked—“to revenge myself, if you please, Armand.”

“Yes?” he said questioningly.

“Ferdinand of Lotzen and I have come to the parting place,” she said with quick bitterness—“the brute struck me yesterday; no man ever did so twice—and none ever once, that I didn’t punish promptly. I did come from Paris thinking I might aid you, for some how I was sure he had that book; he was glad enough to have me; and then he was so kind and liberal I—you won’t believe it I know, Armand, but it’s true—I couldn’t bring myself to betray him; nor should I, but for yesterday. Now I want revenge; and I can get it quickest and best through you. There, you have my true motive; and even you should not doubt it, for, God knows, a woman hates to confess that a man has struck her.”

She turned away and looked through the window, her fingers playing nervously on the sill; while the Archduke, doubtful, yet half convinced, glanced at Moore uncertainly.

Instantly the Colonel motioned to accept, and that he would go to the Ferida; and Armand smiled, and indicated that both would go—if any went; then he crossed to the great fireplace and stood before it, staring thoughtfully into the cinders. Suddenly he straightened his shoulders, and faced around—and Moore knew that the decision was made, and finally.

“Mrs. Spencer,” he said, “we will lay aside the questions of motive and personality: You, an individual, come to me, the Governor of Dornlitz, and offer information which, if true, will lead to the recovery of an article of great value, that belongs to the Government and has mysteriously disappeared. It is my duty, as Governor, to investigate the story, and I will do it, either in person or by subordinate. If the story be true, and the article in question be recovered by your aid, then you will be entitled to the proper thanks of the Government and a suitable recompense.—So much for that. But I also wish to assure you that Armand Dalberg, himself, declines your offer and your aid; and should your information result to his personal profit and advancement, it will be a life-long regret.”

She heard him without turning—and Moore thought he detected the faintest shiver at the end; and, in truth, the words and tone were enough to chill even a colder heart than hers.

But when she faced him, it was with one of the soft and caressing smiles she could use with such fatal fascination, and which made Moore catch his breath and stare, though it touched the Archduke not at all.

“I thank His Royal Highness, the Governor of Dornlitz,” she said, dropping him another curtsy, “for his consideration and trust, and the promised reward; the latter I decline.... As for Armand Dalberg, I can assure him he will owe me no obligation: it will give me a life-long pleasure to be the means of causing him a life-long regret.”

The Archduke smiled indifferently.

“To that extent, then, I shall feel less obligated,” he replied. “Meanwhile, let us be seated, and receive madame’s instruction for to-night. I shall want the Book seen by more than one person—how many can you arrange to admit?”

“How many do you wish?”

“Three, possibly four.”

“You may bring half a dozen if you like,” she said, “though the fewer, the less chance of failure.”

“Very good—how is it to be managed?”

She drew off her gauntlets, and from one of them took a sheet of note paper—stamped with the Duke’s arms—on which she had sketched roughly so much of the Ferida and its grounds as entered into her plan. Spreading it out, she explained how they were to gain entrance to her apartments; and that there might be no mistake, she went over it again, cautioning them that it must be followed with the most careful precision. At the end, she gave the map to Moore.

“Of course, I shall not expect Your Highness to-night,” she said; “but I hope you will send Colonel Moore; it will be well to have some one who can, if necessary, use both head and sword—though I don’t anticipate the remotest difficulty in your——”

A volley of cheers from without drowned her voice. It could only be the soldiers, and yet it was such an extraordinary thing, and with the Field-Marshal, himself, within sound, that the two men looked at each other in puzzled surprise; and when the noise not only continued but actually grew louder, the Archduke frowned and went to the window.

And what he saw made him frown still more, and he swore softly to himself, as a man does, sometimes, when unpleasantly surprised and obliged to think quickly, and to act on the thinking, with a heavy penalty awaiting a mistake.

Crossing the courtyard, with Hertz and Purkitz walking on either side, were the Regent of Valeria and Mlle. d’Essoldé. And even as Armand stood there, they were out of saddle and Dehra was running lightly up the steps.

“Send Scartman to us in the big room, if you please, Captain,” she called—then stopped, her eyes fixed on two horses standing a little way off—a Field-Marshal’s insignia on the saddle cloth of one and a Colonel’s of her Household on the other. So! so! and they were too busy with appointments at four to ride with them. She caught Mlle. d’Essoldé by the arm.

“Look, Elise!” she said, “look at those saddle cloths yonder.”

The Archduke followed her motion, and understood. It was a most infernally unfortunate contretemps, but it would have to be met, and at once.

“The Regent is on the porch,” he said. “I do not care for her to know of this meeting nor its purport, until after to-night. Madame, will you please be good enough to conceal yourself; the door is the only exit, and it is impossible now—I will try to prevent Her Highness entering here, but I may fail; I likely shall. Come, Moore,” and he hurried out.

But Madeline Spencer only laughed, and, winding the veil into place, went and stood by the chimney—here was a very god-given opportunity, and assuredly she had no notion to let it pass unused.

And the landlord, slumbering in the hall, had been tardily aroused by the cheering, and coming forth, still half asleep, he met the Princess just at the entrance.

“Scartman,” she said sharply, “where are His Highness and Colonel Moore?”

The landlord awoke with a suddenness that was painful, and which left him staring at her in silly-eyed speechlessness.

“What ails you, man?” she demanded—“tell the Archduke I’m here—we shall be in the large room.”

This brought back a bit of his senses, and he bowed to the ground, hoping to get back more of them before he need come up.

“I will find His Royal Highness at once,” he said; “I did not know he was here—I’ve been asleep—but if Your Majesty—Your Regency—Your Highness, I mean, will permit—the large room is occupied, I will——”

At that moment, Armand and Moore came out.

“So it would seem,” the Princess remarked dryly.

“Don’t blame the poor fellow, Dehra,” the Archduke laughed; “he did the best he could, doubtless, and at my order. We are here on the business I spoke of this morning—it’s finished now, and we will ride back with you, if we may.”

Dehra held out her hand, and gave him the smile she knew he loved.

“Of course you may,” she said, “and gladly; but first I want a cup of tea—Scartman, the kettle instantly!”—and before Armand could detain her, she was past him and into the room.

As she crossed the threshold, she caught the faint perfume that a woman always carries, and which often-times is so individualized, as to betray her identity instantly. It was a peculiar odor—the blended fragrance of many flowers—and she recognized that she had known it before;—but what was it doing in this room, now!—it was too fresh to be many minutes old.

“Armand,” she said, “what woman has been here?” glancing laughingly around.—“And is here still!” and pointed with her crop to the veiled figure in the shadow near the chimney.

The Archduke ground back an oath, and stepping forward bowed to Madeline Spencer.

“Madame,” said he, “will you do the Governor of Dornlitz the favor to excuse him, and to accept his thanks for your service? Colonel Moore, madame’s horse.”

“Je vous remercie, Monsieur le Prince,” she murmured, taking Moore’s arm, and moving with sinuous grace toward the door. But as she passed the Princess Regent, who had stepped aside to give her way, the veil slipped from her face, and the two women looked into each other’s eyes—the one with a smile of mocking impertinence, the other with a calmly ignoring stare, and showing, by not so much as the quiver of a muscle, her anger and surprise.

And when they had gone, the Princess turned her gaze upon the Archduke, the blue eyes ominous in their steadiness; and as he would have spoken, she repelled him with an imperious gesture, and gave him her back.

“Come, Elise!” she said, and left the room.

In the courtyard, Colonel Moore had just swung Mrs. Spencer to saddle, and was fixing her skirt. Dehra paused in the entry until the black horse had passed the gate; then she went leisurely down the steps, waved Moore to Mlle. d’Essoldé, and let the groom put her up.

Acknowledging Moore’s farewell salute, with her crop, but no smile, and with never a glance toward the window, behind whose curtain she must have known the Archduke would surely be, she rode away—the Lancers again cheering her devotedly as she passed.

XVI A TOO CONVINCING ARGUMENT

Colonel Moore went slowly up the steps and into the room, through the half open door of which he saw the Archduke standing, with chin on breast and back to the fireplace. He looked up, as the Adjutant paused at the threshold, and nodded for him to come in.

“Ordinarily it would be proper now for us to have a good, stiff drink, may be several of them,” he remarked, “but the only kind that fits this situation, so far as I’m concerned, is straight whisky, and I don’t believe this cursed place can supply it.”

“Quite right; it can’t,” said Moore; “I tried the other day—won’t anything else do?”

“No—nothing else; and it’s just as well I can’t get the whisky; I may need a clear head to night.”

“You are not going, sir!”

Armand nodded. “Going? of course I’m going—why not? and I only hope I’ll get a chance at my sweet cousin. We promised only to look—to raise no disturbance—and on Spencer’s account it is right enough that we should do nothing to betray her; but if Lotzen get in the way, Colonel, we are not obligated to avoid him.”

“Why should Your Highness walk deliberately into the tiger’s lair—when another can go quite as well, and without danger?” Moore protested.

The Archduke took a cigarette and tossed the case across to the Adjutant.

“Because I’m really hunting the tiger,” he laughed; “and I like excitement in good company—though I fear it will be a very tame affair.”

The other shook his head dubiously. “It’s not right, sir, for you to expose yourself so unnecessarily—let me go in command.”

“Nonsense, Ralph, you’re getting in Bernheim’s class; quit it. What I wish you would tell me is whether Spencer dropped her veil intentionally or by accident.”