The Kingdom of Earth E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

John Peters is the dissolute Crown Prince of Bergeland. The nephew of the rapacious and immoral King. Grace Pellisier is an English American actress who meets a thoughtful, serious, hiker in the mountains of Switzerland. Bernhardt is the energetic Chief of the Secret Service, protecting the aging King, and constantly searching for „The Watcher,” the leader of the revolutionary republicans. Written during a period of intense anti-monarchy which saw the end of the Russian Tzar, Oppenheim is using the politics of Europe to imagine an alternative path to bloody revolution. And so on, and with the material of conspiracies, love and adventure the story is woven around the Prince with that peculiar polish in dialogue and fascinating coloring characteristic of the popular author.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER I

THEY sat side by side on one of the many seats which fringed the tiny lake high up among the mountains. The sun shone down upon them from a cloudless sky. A little band on the balcony played the liveliest of music. The people around laughed and talked and flirted. The hum of the skates upon the clear, black ice was a music in, itself. The man and the girl were perhaps the soberest couple there.

“You mean,” she asked, breaking a silence which had; lasted for several minutes, “that you are going away at once?”

“I fear so,” he answered. “Not only that, but I am going back into a different life. I wonder, can you realize what it means, when one comes to my age, to go back into a different life?”

“How old are you she asked.

“I am thirty-three,” he answered. “I feel older, I believe that I look older. I am very sure that after a few years of the life that lies before me I shall never know what it is to feel young again.”

“Is there any compulsion, then,” she asked, “about your going?”

“There is the compulsion which pulls always at a man who tries to do what he believes is right,” he answered. “For myself, I believed until a few hours ago that my life was my own, to do what I would with, to shape according to my pleasure. If I may, I will tell you this, that up here among the mountains there have come to me only lately ideas and hopes which were rapidly growing dear to me; and now all this is changed. Something has been thrust upon me which I cannot refuse to take, something which means the abnegation of many of my desires. I am called, perhaps, into a greater sphere of life than any I could reasonably have hoped to occupy, and yet–”

“And yet?” she whispered softly.

“If I could have had my own choice,” he said, “there is another and a simpler road which I would have chosen toward happiness.”

Then again there was silence between them. The girl waited, but he said no more. Then she rose and glanced toward the clock which hung from the little pavilion.

“Come,” she said, “it will be time for luncheon in half an hour, and we have had only one waltz this morning. There goes the music.”

They glided away, and the exercise soon brought back the colour to her cheeks. Every one watched them, for not only were they the most graceful performers, but they were interesting people. The girl, rich, half American, popular, and beautiful; the man, good-looking, absolutely distinguished, entirely mysterious. Only, at the hotel she was the friend of everybody, easily the most popular and sought-after person among either sex. He, on the contrary, affected reserve, lived in private rooms, and showed himself very seldom, except on his return from long skiing expeditions, or on the ice. They waltzed until the music stopped, and then stood together for a moment near the wooden steps.

“You are coming back to luncheon, at all events?” she asked.

He shook his head gravely and pointed outside, to where a sleigh with four horses, and laden with luggage, was waiting.

“I am posting to Maloya,” he said. “I want, if I can, to catch the Engadine Express. I came down here because it was my only chance of saying good-bye to you.”

She looked him full in the face. “It is to be good-bye, then?” she asked.

He answered her with the grave, uncompromising Puritanism which somehow or other she had always associated with him. “It is to be good-bye, Miss Pellisier,” he said, holding her hand for a second in his.

A few moments later she heard the tinkle of his sleigh-bells as he rode away. A small crowd of men gathered round to help her off with her skates, and afterward she walked up to the hotel, the centre of a very lively party indeed; but when she got into her room she locked the door, and she was half an hour late for luncheon!

*     *

*

“On the contrary,” the girl declared, lowering her lorgnette, and looking up toward the man who had addressed her, “I am extremely interested. I love watching a crowd of people at any time. I think that this is quite delightful!”

“If only that idiot of a waiter would bring our coffee,” her companion remarked, glancing around irritably. “We have been here nearly twenty minutes.”

“The poor man has so much to do,” the girl answered composedly. “The place is simply packed. Don’t worry about the coffee, but go on telling me who the people are–the heavy gentleman, with the pasty face and the long hair, for instance.”

Her companion readjusted his eye-glass and leaned forward in his chair. “He is a pianist from Australia,” he announced. “I have forgotten his name. The lady with him sings at the opera. The people behind are stock-brokers–very rich indeed. They have a magnificent place in Hertfordshire, and he motors up to town every day–nearly forty miles.”

“The small man with the pince-nez?”

He shook his head. “You have me this time. He is probably, by his black tie and dinner-coat, a travelling American. A Sunday-night restaurant crowd is the most cosmopolitan in the world, you must remember.”

“I know,” she answered. “That is the most delightful part of it. One can see one’s own people anywhere. It is these other types which fascinate me.”

He looked at her curiously. She represented to him an enigma which as yet he had made no progress whatever in solving. She was still a young woman–she could scarcely be more than twenty-five–an aristocrat by birth, wealthy, and astonishingly beautiful. She had read many books on abstruse subjects, the titles of which even were unknown to him, she was reported to have given large sums of money to the English labour party, and she was a member of a very advanced society of Socialists; and with it all she was a painstaking and accomplished actress at one of the best known and most exclusive of London theatres. Her desire to come here, her interest in this gathering, puzzled him. Yet it was without doubt honest. Perhaps she was going to take after her maternal grandmother, a brilliant French novelist. Some likeness to the miniatures and paintings of that wonderful old lady he seemed to be able to detect in the broad forehead, the dark, soft eyes, the small but determined mouth, of the girl who sat by his side, her eyes following always the constant stream of people who passed out from the restaurant to their seats in the lounge.

The scarlet-coated band began to play; the girl’s attention wandered for a moment to the music. Most of the people by now had found seats, and the scene was, in its way, a brilliant one. Through the glass partition which separated the restaurant from the lounge, one could catch glimpses of the late diners, seated at tables lit with shaded lamps and laden with flowers; the foyer itself was crowded now with groups of men and women, the hum of whose conversation at times almost drowned the music. The girl, with her aunt and escort, occupied seats only a few yards from the central aisle, under a huge palm-tree. They themselves were sufficiently observed. The man, Colonel Sir Gilbert Ferringhall, was known–by sight–to almost every one. He was the representative of an ancient and rich family, a popular member of the best service clubs, a great sportsman, and the intimate friend of his sovereign. The aunt was noticeable, perhaps, for nothing but a quiet and tired distinction. The girl was not only the most beautiful person in the room, but she was beautiful in a wholly singular and unusual way. Her neck was long almost to a fault, but it was white and shapely, and around it there hung simply one roughly cut, gleaming blue stone, fastened by a thin gold chain. Her dress was of the same shade of deep blue, toned down by a gossamer-like web of black. Her features were pale, but less with an actual pallor than with the ivory tint which goes with perfect health. Her teeth were whiter and her lips more scarlet than the usual English type. Her eyes were deep and soft, but she had a trick of half closing them, as though she were short-sighted. Her face, as a whole, notwithstanding its perfections, seemed to lack the animal happiness of her age and sex. The expression of the mouth, of the eyes when she looked at you, was elusive. Even Ferringhall, who during a long career of popular bachelorhood had made almost a science of his studies in femininity, felt himself unable to place her.

The stream of people on their way out from the restaurant began to thin. A hopeless family gathering was followed by a straggling line of nondescripts. The girl stifled a yawn and sipped her coffee, which had just arrived. Suddenly the animation returned to her face. She leaned a little forward in her seat and touched her companion upon the arm.

“Tell me,” she demanded eagerly, “who is that?”

Ferringhall abandoned his conversation with her aunt, and adjusting his eye-glass followed the motion of her head. A tall, well-built man had issued from the dining-room alone, and was glancing indifferently around in search of a seat. He was clean-shaven, his hair was as black as coal, and there were lines upon his face deeper than any which time alone could have engraved. His skin was dry and slightly bronzed, his eyes were bright and penetrating. He walked with a distinct military bearing; his movements, as he quietly took possession of a chair exactly opposite to them, were characterized by a certain deliberation which seemed almost temperamental. He crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and lighting a cigarette looked leisurely around him. His eyes met the girl’s, full of vivid and unrestrained curiosity, not unmingled with recognition. Ferringhall was bending toward her.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that as a showman I am turning out a failure. The man’s face seems familiar to me, but I cannot place him.”

“It is familiar to me, also,” the girl said. “I want to know who he is.”

Her aunt leaned a little forward. “Unless you wish him to come and speak to us,” she remarked drily, “I should look somewhere else for a few moments.”

“If I thought that my looking would bring him,” the girl answered, “I would simply go on staring.”

Ferringhall raised his eyebrows a little dubiously. “I wonder,” he said, “what there is about the man that attracts you so much?”

She smiled very slightly and turned toward him. “Look at the others,” she answered, “and look at him. Look at them!” The slight sweep of her hand seemed to gather into one conglomerate mass the whole motley crowd of chattering, laughing people. “They are of the Kingdom of the Earth–every one of them. Isn’t it there in their faces? You’ve seen them go by in streams. They were like a flock of sheep, picturesque in their way, perhaps, but there isn’t one whom you’d recognize to-morrow.”

“And our friend opposite?” Ferringhall asked.

“You do not need me to tell you that there are different things in his face,” she answered.

“He hasn’t the appearance of a saint, exactly,” Ferringhall said thoughtfully.

She shrugged her shoulders daintily. “What man has?” she declared, with emphasis.

“To what kingdom then–” he began.

She smiled a little vaguely. “You are inclined to be elementary to-night,” she remarked. “Do you want me to believe that you know of no other kingdoms than the kingdoms of heaven and earth?”

He stroked his moustache reflectively. He was beginning to realize that the position of escort to this young woman, beautiful though she was and unaccountably distinguished, had its drawbacks.

“You mean–” he commenced cautiously.

“Oh! never mind what I mean,” she interrupted, laughing. “It is so tiresome to explain.”

A flash of inspiration lent venom to his tongue.

“You think that he”–inclining his head toward the man opposite–“would have understood?”

“I am sure that he would,” she answered lightly.

He turned to talk to her aunt. Courtesy demanded it, even if he had not himself felt the necessity of inflicting some sort of a rebuke upon this brilliant but flippant young person. But in the midst of his conversation he broke off suddenly. The girl and he exchanged glances. They had both been witnesses to the same incidents.

Two young men, they were little more than boys, had come out of the restaurant arm in arm. Simultaneously, in the midst of their conversation, they had caught sight of the man who sat smoking alone, with his head resting upon his hand and his eyes fixed upon vacancy. Apparently surprised, they nevertheless acted without hesitation. They drew a little apart, their bodies seemed to stiffen, their heels came together as though by instinct, and they bowed very low indeed to the man, whose eyes had now been attracted by their coming. What followed was the strangest part of the affair. The man to whom their salute was proffered, calmly and deliberately ignored it; his eyes, cold and set, seemed to look through the two young men. He neither smiled nor inclined his head in any way. It was more than any ordinary cut. It was a deliberate refusal to recognize in himself the person to whom those two young men had bent their knees. After the first moment’s pause, they had hurried on. They passed through the rest of the room, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and climbed the stairs. The girl looked appealingly toward her companion.

“You know Mr. Vlasto, don’t you, Sir Gilbert?” she said. “You must go after them and find out who that is. I cannot leave this room before I know.”

Ferringhall was himself interested. With a bow to the elder lady he hurried after the two young men. He found them standing in a retired corner of the entresol, talking in a low tone, and went over to them at once.

“My young friend,” he said, resting his hand upon the shoulder of the elder of the two, “you are in luck. I congratulate you!”

The young man laughed a little dubiously. “I am not quite so sure about that, my dear Sir Gilbert,” he said.

“You will be presently,” Ferringhall answered. “Miss Pellisier sent me to you.”

The young man looked wistfully down into the foyer. “Is she here to-night?” he asked quickly. “I didn’t see her. We’ve just come out of the restaurant.”

“Sitting with me near the entrance,” Ferringhall answered. “You passed within a few feet of us. Come and have some coffee. Miss Pellisier wants to speak to you.”

The invitation was a flattering enough one, but the young man only shook his head. He was obviously disturbed. “Thank you very much,” he answered, “but we have to be off at once. That’s so, isn’t it, Desmond?” he added, turning to his companion for support.

Desmond–a young American by his accent–answered as desired, but without conviction. “Sure!”

“In that case,” Ferringhall remarked, “I will not detain you. By the by, though, you might gratify our curiosity in a certain matter, if you won’t think the question impertinent. Miss Pellisier and I are both sure that we know the face of the man to whom you two bowed as you came out of the restaurant–tall, distinguished-looking man, sitting by himself. I wish you’d tell us who he is!”

The young man shook his head slowly. “I am afraid,” he said, “that I cannot tell you. I did not see any one in the restaurant whom I know.”

Ferringhall was genuinely surprised. For the moment he scarcely realized the situation. “I mean the man to whom you bowed, you and your friend,” he said. “We were only a few yards away.”

“It was a mistake,” Vlasto answered coolly. “We mistook him for some one else. It was no one whom we know.”

Ferringhall was silent for a moment. These young cubs to lie to him! He turned on his heel. “Sorry I troubled you,” he said curtly. “Good night!”

He turned to descend into the crowded foyer and, nodding here and there to acquaintances, began to make his way back to his companions. Suddenly, in the act of descending the steps, he came to a full stop. His chair between the two ladies who were his guests was occupied. He raised his eye-glass and looked once more incredulously in their direction. The man who sat there was the stranger in whom the younger of his two companions had shown so much interest!

CHAPTER II

“IF I had not suddenly remembered, and bowed to you,” the girl remarked, “I suppose you would have gone away without a word?”

“I myself,” the man answered, with some slight hesitation, “was not quite sure.”

“Then you ought to have been–considering how nice I was to you at St. Moritz,” the girl declared. “But, then, I think I should have been nice to any one who could teach me to waltz. Do you remember those beautiful clear mornings, with the sunshine blazing down upon us, and the music, and that wonderful black ice? I used to think that little skating-rink, with the mountains all around, was the most perfect’ place on earth.”

“It was very beautiful,” he answered. “Did you go this year?”

She shook her head. “My aunt thought that she couldn’t stand it, so we went to Bordighera instead. By the by,” she added, turning to the elderly lady by her side, “you remember Mr. Peters? He was at St. Moritz two years ago.”

Mrs. Pellisier bowed a little dubiously. “I am very glad to meet Mr. Peters again,” she said.

“My aunt,” Grace Pellisier continued, smiling at him, “has been making spasmodic attempts to chaperon me during the last few years. Now, however, she is finally giving it up. She sails for America to-morrow, and is going to leave me to my own devices. No wonder, aunt,” she added, turning to her companion, “that you don’t remember Mr. Peters at St. Moritz. He was a most mysterious person there.”

“I wonder why you thought that?” he asked.

“Well, you were staying in the Kulm,” she replied, “but one never saw you in the dining-room or in the lounge. I never saw you in the hotel at all, in fact. You were always out skiing on the mountains, or skating. And then you disappeared quite suddenly. The mysterious Mr. Peters, they used for call you.”

“I was summoned away unexpectedly,” he remarked. “For the rest, I did not go there to make acquaintances. I had a private room.”

“Superior person,” she laughed. “What did you go there for, then?”

“The climate–and to escape from an uncomfortable situation,” he answered.

“Do you know that I have seen you once since then?” she asked.

He looked at her quickly. She met his eyes and was suddenly a little afraid of him. Certainly there was nothing kindly in his expression. “Where?” he asked.

His eyes held hers. There was something compelling in his monosyllable. She would have liked to delay her answer, but she knew that she was powerless to do so. The man’s insistence was irresistible.

“I saw you driving from the President’s reception in Paris once,” she answered. “You were coming out of the Tuileries, and you had a soldier on either side of your carriage. That was why I was so surprised to see–and to recognize–you!”

“It sounds as though I were under arrest,” he remarked grimly.

“It looked more like a guard of honour,” she answered.

“Then it certainly was not I,” he said. “You come often to this place?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“We are here for the first time,” she answered. “My aunt does not care much for restaurants, but Sir Gilbert Ferringhall is an old friend, and this is by way of being a farewell dinner.”

“Where have you been living during the last two years?” he asked.

“In America some of the time,” she answered. “Earning my living at the Empress Theatre since then.”

“But you are not American?” he asked.

“No more than you are English,” she answered, smiling.

He seemed struck by the openness of her retort. “How do you know that I am not English?” he asked.

“Little things,” she answered, “and some inspiration.”

“My mother was an Englishwoman,” he answered.

“Your mother only! And your name is Peters!”

He smiled. His eyes swept the girl’s face. For the first time he realized, perhaps, that she was astonishingly beautiful. “Peters,” he said, “is not my name.”

“You called yourself that at St. Moritz,” she reminded him.

“It suited me to,” he answered.

“And now?” she asked.

“It suits me to remain Mr. Peters.”

“Even to your friends?” she asked, dropping her voice. He smiled. “I have none,” he answered.

She moved her fan a little, and the words which reached him from the back of it were almost whispered. “You might have,” she murmured.

He looked at her deliberately. “I might find people who would call themselves my friends,” he said, “but their friendship would scarcely be likely to survive the discovery of who and what I am.”

“You do not really believe that,” she murmured.

“I do,” he answered calmly.

She leaned a little toward him. Her hand flashed out for a moment only, but in that moment it seemed to gather into a common focus the crowd of loungers by whom they were surrounded. They were suddenly resolved into a type, these women in their elaborate gowns and elaborately coiffured hair, shining with jewels, the whole gallery of their charms at work to its ancient end. The men, too, came under its influence, the men, pleased with their dinner, with themselves, with their womankind, or some one else’s womankind, tolerant, fatuous, satisfied with their appeasement of a purely earthly hunger. There was no scorn in the girl’s gesture, nor in her looks. Yet the man at her side understood. He understood, too, that she understood, and something new was aroused in him.

“This is the world,” she said, “which presses upon us always, intolerably. Is crime itself much worse? Why should you not have friends?”

There was without doubt something new in the man’s face; its slow immovability seemed kindled into a certain responsiveness as he met her eyes. “Have you any idea who I am?” he asked abruptly.

“None,” she answered. “I only wish to know when you wish to tell me. I–”

Ferringhall had approached with a murmured word, and the stranger at once rose from his seat. The girl introduced the two men.

“This is Mr. Peters,” she said, “Sir Gilbert Ferringhall. Mr. Peters taught me to waltz at the skating-rink at St. Moritz two years ago. I told you that I was sure we had met before.”

“Mr. Peters’s face was familiar to me, too,” Ferringhall said. “Haven’t I also come across you somewhere?”

“Not to my knowledge,” was the quiet answer. “I am afraid that I have taken your chair. You must allow me to say good-evening.”

“Please don’t disturb yourself,” Ferringhall said. “The waiter can bring another.”

“Don’t go,” the girl said softly.

Mr. Peters bowed an unmistakable adieu. “You are very good,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I had forgotten for a moment that I have an appointment which is already overdue. I am pleased to have met you, Sir Gilbert. Your name is well known to me. I hope that some day,” he added, bowing over the girl’s fingers, “I may have the pleasure of another skate with you.”

“Won’t you come to Prince’s one afternoon–or come to the theatre and see me?” she asked a little eagerly. “I am quite a successful actress now, you know.”

He smiled, and seemed about to ask a question. Then he changed his mind. “You are very kind,” he answered. “I shall be very pleased.”

He left them after all a little abruptly, and the girl’s eyes followed him intently as he passed along the carpeted way, erect, unbending, the cynosure of many eyes, owing to his height and the uncommon quality of his good looks. Then she turned to Ferringhall.

“Well, did you find out?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he answered. “The young cubs actually had the cheek to lie to me. Vlasto told me that their bow was a mistake, they had thought that he was some one else. Still, you have discovered for yourself.”

She smiled a little doubtfully.

“I have discovered,” she said, “that his name is Peters.”

*     *

*

The third meeting was scarcely a meeting at all. Every one was a little nervous at the theatre; only a few hours before the performance some one had telephoned from Buckingham Palace that the royal box would be required. The play was a new one, the dialogue difficult. An extra prompter was put on. Grace Pellisier alone remained unmoved. It was not until the curtain went down upon the first act that she even glanced toward the royal party. Then for a moment her inimitable composure seemed to leave her. She barely repressed a start, and a ridiculous pain caught her heart. In the place of honour, and in a uniform ablaze with decorations, sat Mr. Peters! She recovered herself and left the stage. In the wings she met the manager.

“Mr. Felce,” she said, “who is the guest in the royal box to-night?”

“The Crown Prince of Bergeland, Miss Pellisier,” he answered. “Arrived this morning on a four-days’ visit. Fine-looking chap, isn’t he?”

“Arrived this morning,” she repeated, scarcely conscious of what she said.

“Sure! It was all in the paper. King met him at Victoria. I saw the soldiers as I came up. Say, Miss Pellisier, what a nerve you’ve got!” he continued admiringly. “You were the only one who wasn’t a bit shaky.”

“Nevertheless,” Miss Pellisier said, “I should like a glass of water.”

The manager darted away, and Grace walked slowly to her dressing-room. If this were the Crown Prince of Bergeland, who arrived on Monday morning, who was Mr. Peters, and what was he doing at the Savoy Hotel on Sunday night?

CHAPTER III

GRACE bought a newspaper as she crossed the street from her flat to the theatre two days later. She bought it not because she wanted it, but because the newsboy was persistent. In her dressing-room she chanced to open it while waiting for her maid. The first heading appealed to her. She read it intently–without a smile. It was merely a conventional announcement of the departure of the Crown Prince of Bergeland.

She threw the paper away from her and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were half closed, her thoughts had played truant. Was it Mr. Peters who had gone, or His Royal Highness the Crown Prince of Bergeland? In either case, she was aware of a distinct sense of depression. Her forehead slowly contracted. She was conscious of a frown. What a dull, dull world after all! She was tired of her part, tired of many things. Was she, too, to pass among the slaves–among those to whom the days drifted by without emotions? The machine-like swing of the pendulum–how she hated it!

Her maid brought her a single letter. She took it with listless fingers, yet the very sight of the handwriting thrilled her. It was bold and large; the envelope seemed scarcely large enough to hold it. It was unfamiliar, and yet she recognized it. She tore it open hastily. The envelope bore the superscription of a neighbouring hotel. The sheet of paper which it enclosed was covered with little more than a single sentence:

Thursday.

I should like to see you before I leave England. May I?

John Peters.

She sprang up and crossed the room to her writing-desk. Her feet seemed to fall upon the air. She drew out a sheet of paper and wrote:

Of course! Come to my flat to-night, 20 Redditch Mansions. I shall be in about 11.30. I send you the key in case you are there first. Wait for me!

She folded the paper about her latch-key, and addressed the envelope to John Peters, Esq., at the Savoy Hotel.

“When you have dressed me for the first act, Murray, you must take this across yourself,” she told her maid. “Wait until you are sure that it is properly delivered.”

The maid accepted the note and concealed her surprise. Whatever she may have felt or thought, she kept it to herself. They spoke of her mistress as a genius, and genius had the right to do strange things.

The man who called himself John Peters received the note an hour later. He read it in the hall and went slowly to his room. The key seemed to burn his fingers. He threw himself into an easy chair and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. His eyebrows contracted into a frown.

“Have I made a mistake?” he muttered. “Does she understand?”

He hated the thought. Presently, in a saner frame of mind, he cursed himself for it. There was a knock at the door, and Vlasto entered. He looked up inquiringly.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Everything, sir,” Vlasto answered. “Your Royal Highness is now sleeping between Calais and Paris.”

John Peters nodded. “I shall remain here,” he said, “perhaps for a week.”

Vlasto looked a little disturbed. “So long, sir?” he ventured to observe.

“Why not?”

“Every day increases the risk,” Vlasto affirmed. “Your appearance in the restaurant on Sunday night staggered us all.”

“It amused me,” John Peters said, “and I was not recognized.”

“Ferringhall was curious,” Vlasto remarked. “A dangerous man, Ferringhall, too!”

“Ferringhall was squared, anyhow. The young lady who was with him recognized me as John Peters. I skated with her at St. Moritz.”

“You mean Grace Pellisier?” Vlasto said slowly.

“Yes.”

“You have not forgotten that you were at her theatre on Monday night?”

“She did not recognize me.”

“You are very rash, sir,” Vlasto said simply. “You know what recognition might mean.”

“Ridicule and failure, I suppose,” John Peters answered. “Therefore, we must avoid it. Don’t be faint-hearted, Vlasto. I play to win, always. Remember–to win! There is no other possibility.”

“You have faith in your star, sir,” the young man remarked, with a bow.

“No one ever succeeded who hadn’t,” John Peters answered firmly. “Is there any work for us to do to-night?”

“No, sir.”

“Any letters from home?”

“None, sir. I see from the papers that there was some rioting in Varia last night.”

“Crushed severely, I hope?”

“Six peasants shot, sir, according to the papers. We shall have authentic news to-morrow.”

The elder man frowned heavily. “It seems a shame,” he said. “Poor fellows!”

“There is no other way, sir,” said Vlasto firmly.

John Peters stared into the fire with knitted brows. “It is the same always,” he muttered, “the same eternal butchery. Every nation on God’s earth has had to climb to freedom on the bodies of her dead children.”

“Willingly given, sir,” Vlasto murmured.

“Aye! willingly given, but it is death none the less.”

Vlasto smiled a little curiously. “There is no one,” he reminded his master, “who runs a greater risk than you yourself.”

John Peters nodded. The thought made him more complaisant. “I suppose so,” he admitted; “in fact, my young friend, my position when the general flare-up comes, will be just a trifle embarrassing, I am afraid. I must have made a fair number of enemies.”

Vlasto looked grave. “It is true, sir,” he admitted.

John Peters became instantly more cheerful. “I can think of at least half a dozen,” he remarked, “who will want to have a dagger in my body. Well, well, it is something to have deserved so much hatred. Can you keep a secret, Vlasto? A private secret, I mean?”

“Without a doubt, sir.”

“I am going to make a call–upon a lady.”

“To-night, sir?”

“Now. It is necessary that some one knows where I am. I am going to 20 Redditch Mansions.”

The young man’s face was disturbed. “I wish you wouldn’t, sir,” he said simply.

“Why not?” John Peters asked. “Hergmann and his friends have followed me to Paris, beyond a doubt.”

“One can never tell,” Vlasto answered. “Hergmann is a clever man, after all. He may have a suspicion.”

John Peters laughed softly. “One must trust a little to one’s star, Vlasto,” he answered, “and I have a fancy that it is my star which is calling me to-night.”

Vlasto’s eyes were fixed upon the man whom he adored. The change was there for him to see–something which seemed to soften every feature, to smooth out the hard lines, to fill with a strange light the deep, brilliant eyes. Vlasto sighed. It was like the shattering of an ideal to him, this first sign of human weakness in the man of iron.

“I shall wait for you here, sir,” he said simply. “I shall not be needed at the embassy.”

John Peters nodded.

“I shall not be long,” he said, “or, again, I may be. One cannot tell.”

He rose from his chair and lit a cigarette. The gloom on Vlasto’s face attracted his notice. “What is the matter with you, Leopold?” he asked abruptly.

“Presentiments,” the young man answered frankly. “I do not like your errand, sir. I do not recognize you in the character of a midnight adventurer.”

John Peters frowned on him. His face was suddenly dark. “Don’t talk like a fool, Leopold,” he said curtly. “The lady whom I am going to visit is of ourselves. Since when have I aped the cattle, that you should suspect me of a vulgar intrigue?”

Vlasto accepted his rebuke, but his expression was none the less serious. “There are intrigues and intrigues, sir,” he said, “and I hate all women. They have bitten the heart out of too many great men’s lives.”

John Peters walked away with a laugh. But again it seemed to him that the key which he held in his fingers was burning his flesh.