"I'm not sarcastic; quite the reverse. I'm very serious. You know how much I used to think of you—"

"But that was long ago, and you were such a foolish boy," she cried, interrupting nervously.

"Yes, I know; a boy must have his foolish streaks. How a fellow changes as he gets older, and how he looks back and laughs at the fancies he had when a boy. Same way with a girl, though, I suppose." He said it so calmly, so naturally that she took a sly peep at his face. It revealed nothing but blissful imperturbability.

"I'm glad you agree with me. You see, I've always thought you were horribly broken up when I—when I found that I also was indulging in a foolish streak. I believe I came to my senses before you did, though, and saw how ridiculous it all was. Children do such queer things, don't they?" It was his turn to take a sly peep, and his spirits went down a bit under the pressure of her undisguised frankness.

"How lucky it was we found it out before we ran away with each other, as we once had the nerve to contemplate. Gad, Dorothy, did you ever stop to think what a mistake it would have been?" She was bowing to some people in a brougham, and the question was never answered. After a while he went on, going back to the original subject. "I shall see Mrs. Garrison to-night and talk it over with her. Explain to her, you know, and convince her that I don't in the least care what the gossips say about me. I believe I can live it all down, if they do say I am madly, hopelessly in love with the very charming fiancee of an Italian prince."

"You have me to reckon with, Phil; I am the one to consider and the one to pass judgment. You may be able to appease mamma, but it is I who will determine whether it is to be or not to be. Let us drop the subject. For the present, we are having a charming drive. Is it not beautiful?"

To his amazement and to hers, when they returned late in the afternoon Mrs. Garrison asked him to come back and dine.

"I must be dreaming," he said to himself, as he drove away. "She's as shrewd as the deuce, and there's a motive in her sudden friendliness. I'm beginning to wonder how far I'll drop and how hard I'll hit when this affair explodes. Well, it's worth a mighty strenuous effort. If I win, I'm the luckiest fool on earth; if I lose, the surprise won't kill me." At eight he presented himself again at the Garrison house and found that he was not the only guest. He was introduced to a number of people, three of whom were Americans, the others French. These were Hon. and Mrs. Horace Knowlton and their daughter, Miss Knowlton, M. and Mme. de Cartier, Mile. Louise Gaudelet and Count Raoul de Vincent.

"Dorothy tells me you are to be in Brussels for several weeks, and I was sure you would be glad to know some of the people here. They can keep you from being lonesome, and they will not permit you to feel that you are a stranger in a strange land," said Mrs. Garrison. Quentin bowed deeply to her, flashed a glance of understanding at Dorothy, and then surveyed the strangers he was to meet. Quick intelligence revealed her motive in inviting him to meet these people, and out of sheer respect for her shrewdness he felt like applauding. She was cleverly providing him with acquaintances that any man might wish to possess, and she was doing it so early that the diplomacy of her action was as plain as day to at least two people.

"Mamma is clever, isn't she?" Dorothy said to him, merrily, as they entered the dining-room. Neither was surprised to find that he had been chosen to take her out. It was in the game.

"She is very kind. I can't say how glad I am to meet these people. My stay here can't possibly be dull," he said. "Mile. Gaudelet is stunning, isn't she?"

"Do you really think so?" she asked, and she did not see his smile.

The dinner was a rare one, the company brilliant, but there was to occur, before the laughter in the wine had spent itself, an incident in which Philip Quentin figured so conspicuously that his wit as a dinner guest ceased to be the topic of subdued side talk, and he took on a new personality.



XI

FROM THE POTS AND PLANTS



The broad veranda, which faced the avenue and terminated at the corner of the house in a huge circle, not unlike an open conservatory, afforded a secluded and comparatively cool retreat for the diners later in the evening. Banked along the rails were the rarest of tropical plants; shaded incandescent lamps sent their glow from somewhere among the palms, and there was a suggestion of fairy-land in the scene. If Quentin had a purpose in being particularly assiduous in his attentions to Mlle. Gaudelet, he did not suspect that he was making an implacable foe of Henri de Cartier, the husband of another very charming young woman. Unaccustomed to the intrigues of Paris, and certainly not aware that Brussels copied the fashions of her bigger sister across the border in more ways than one, he could not be expected to know that de Cartier loved not his wife and did love the pretty Louise. Nor could his pride have been convinced that the young woman at his side was enjoying the tete-a-tete chiefly because de Cartier was fiercely cursing the misfortune which had thrown this new element into conflict. It may be unnecessary to say that Mrs. Garrison was delighted with the unmistakable signs of admiration manifested by the two young people.

It was late when Quentin reluctantly arose to make his adieux. He had finished acknowledging the somewhat effusive invitations to the houses of his new acquaintances, and was standing near Dorothy, directly in front of a tall bank of palms. From one point of view this collection of plants looked like a dense jungle, so thickly were they placed on the porch at its darkest end. The light from a drawing-room window shone across the front of the green mass, but did not penetrate the recess near the porch rail. He was taking advantage of a very brief opportunity, while others were moving away, to tell her that Mile. Louise was fascinating, when her hand suddenly clasped his arm and she whispered:

"Phil, there is a man behind those palms." His figure straightened, but he did not look around.

"Nonsense, Dorothy. How could a man get—" he began, in a very low tone.

"I saw the leaves move, and just now I saw a foot near the rail. Be careful, for heaven's sake, but look for yourself; he is near the window."

Like statues they stood, she rigid under the strain, but brave enough and cool enough to maintain a remarkable composure. She felt the muscle of his forearm contract, and there swept over her a strange dread. His eyes sought the spot indicated in a perfectly natural manner, and there was no evidence of perturbation in his gaze or posture. The foot of a man was dimly discernible in the shadow, protruding from behind a great earthen jar. Without a word he led her across the porch to where the others stood.

"Good-night, Mrs. Garrison," he said, calmly, taking the hand she proffered. Dorothy, now trembling like a leaf, looked on in mute surprise. Did he mean to depart calmly, with the knowledge that they needed his protection? "Good-night, Miss Garrison. I trust I shall see you soon." Then, in a lower tone: "Get the people around the corner here, and not a word to them."

The ladies were quite well past the corner before he ventured to tell the men, whom he held back on some trifling pretext, that there was a man among the plants. The information might have caused a small panic had not his coolness dominated the nerves of the others.

"Call the gendarmes," whispered de Cartier, panic stricken. "Call the servants."

"We don't want the officers nor the servants," said Philip, coolly. "Let the ladies get inside the house and we'll soon have a look at our fellow guest."

"But he may be armed," said the count, nervously.

"Doubtless he is. Burglars usually are. I had an experience with an armed burglar once on a time, and I still live. Perhaps a few palms will be damaged, but we'll be as considerate as possible. There is no time to lose, gentlemen. He may be trying to escape even now."

Without another word he turned and walked straight toward the palms. Not another man followed, and he faced the unwelcome guest alone. Faced is the right word, for the owner of the telltale foot had taken advantage of their momentary absence from that end of the porch to make a hurried and reckless attempt to leave his cramped and dangerous hiding-place. He was crowding through the outer circle of huge leaves when Quentin swung into view. The light from the window was full in the face of the stranger, white, scared, dogged.

"Here he is!" cried Quentin, leaping forward. "Come on, gentlemen!"

With a frantic plunge the trapped stranger crashed through the plants, crying hoarsely in French as he met Quentin in the open:

"I don't want to kill you! Keep off!"

Quentin's arm shot out and the fellow went tumbling back among the pots and plants. He was up in an instant. As the American leaped upon him for the second blow, he drove his hand sharply, despairingly, toward that big breast. There came the ripping of cloth, the tearing of flesh, and something hot gushed over Phil's shoulder and arm. His own blow landed, but not squarely, and, as he stumbled forward, his lithe, vicious antagonist sprang aside, making another wild but ineffectual sweep with the knife he held in his right hand. Before Quentin could recover, the fellow was dashing straight toward the petrified, speechless men at the end of the porch, where they had been joined by some of the women.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" he shrieked, brandishing his knife. Through the huddled bunch he threw himself, unceremoniously toppling over one of them. The way was clear, and he was down the steps like a whirlwind. It was all over in an instant's time, but before the witnesses to the encounter could catch the second breath, the tall form of Philip Quentin was flying down the steps in close pursuit. Out into the Avenue Louise they raced, the fugitive with a clear lead.

"Come back, Phil!" cried a woman's voice, and he knew the tone because of the thrill it sent to his heart.

He heard others running behind him, and concluded that his fellow guests had regained their wits and were in the chase with him. If the pursued heard the sudden, convulsive laugh of the man behind him he must have wondered greatly. Phil could not restrain the wild desire to laugh when he pictured the sudden and precipitous halt his valiant followers would be compelled to make if the fugitive should decide to stop and show fight. One or more of them would doubtless be injured in the impossible effort to run backward while still going forward.

Blood was streaming down his arm and he was beginning to feel an excruciating pain. Pedestrians were few, and they made no effort to obstruct the flight of the fugitive. Instead, they gave him a wide berth. From far in the rear came hoarse cries, but Quentin was uttering no shout. He was grinding his teeth because the fellow had worsted him in the rather vainglorious encounter on the porch, and was doing all in his power to catch him and make things even. To his dismay the fellow was gaining on him and he was losing his own strength. Cursing the frightened men who allowed the thief to pass on unmolested and then joined in the chase, he raced panting onward. The flying fugitive suddenly darted into a narrow, dark street, fifty feet ahead of his pursuer, and the latter felt that he had lost him completely. There was no sign of him when Quentin turned into the cross street; he had disappeared as if absorbed by the earth.

For a few minutes Philip and the mob—quite large, inquisitive and eager by this time—searched for a trace of the man, but without avail. The count, de Cartier and the Honorable Mr. Knowlton, with several of Mrs. Garrison's servants, came puffing up and, to his amazement and rage, criticised him for allowing the man to escape. They argued that a concerted attack on the recess amongst the palms would have overwhelmed the fellow and he would now be in the hands of the authorities instead of as free as air. Quentin endured the expostulations of his companions and the fast-enlarging mirth of the crowd for a few moments in dumb surprise. Then he turned suddenly to retrace his steps up the avenue, savagely saying:

"If I had waited till you screwed up nerve enough to make a combined attack, the man would not have been obliged to take this long and tiresome run. He might have called a cab and ridden away in peace and contentment."

A laugh of derision came from the crowd and the two Frenchmen looked insulted. Mr. Knowlton flushed with shame and hurried after his tall countryman.

"You are right, Quentin, you're right," he wheezed. "We did not support you, and we are to blame. You did the brave and proper thing, and we stood by like a lot of noodles—"

"Well, it's all over, Knowlton, and we all did the best we could," responded Philip, with intense sarcasm which was lost on Mr. Knowlton. Just then a sturdy little figure bumped against him and he looked down as the newcomer grasped his arm tightly.

"Hello, Turk! It's about time you were showing up. Where the devil have you been?" exclaimed he, wrathfully.

"I'll tell y' all about it w'en I gits me tires pumped full agin. Come on, come on; it's private—strictly private, an' nobody's nex' but me." When there was a chance to talk without being overheard by the three discomfited gentlemen in the rear, Turk managed to give his master a bit of surprising news.

"That guy was Courant, that's who he was. He's been right on your heels since yesterday, an' I just gits nex' to it. He follers you up to th' house back yonder an' there's w'ere I loses him. Seems like he hung aroun' the porch er porticker, er whatever it is over here, watchin' you w'en you wuz inside. I don't know his game, but he's th' guy. An' I know w'ere he is now."

"The dickens you do! You infernal little scoundrel, take me there at once. Good Lord, Turk, I've got to catch him. These people will laugh at me for a month if I don't. Are you sure he is Courant? How do you know? Where is he?" cried Phil, excited and impatient.

"You ain't near bein' keen. He doubled on you, that's w'at he done. W'en you chased him off on that side street he just leaps over th' garden wall an' back he comes into a yard. I comes up, late as usual, just in time t' see him calmly prance up some doorsteps an' ring th' bell. Wile th' gang an' you wuz lookin' fer him in th' gutters an' waste paper boxes, he stan's up there an' grins complackently. Then th' door opens an' he slides in like a fox."

"Where is the house? We must search it from top to bottom."

"Can't do that, Mr. Quentin. How are you goin' to search that house without a warrant? An' w'at are you goin' to find w'en you do search it? He's no common thief. He's in a game that we don't know nothin' about, an' he's got cards up his sleeve clear to th' elbow. Th' people in that house is his friends, an' he's safe, so w'at's th' use? I've got th' joint spotted an' he don't know I am nex'. It's a point in our favor. There wuz a woman opened the door, so she's in th' game, too. Let's lay low, Mr. Quentin, an' take it cool."

"But what in thunder was he doing behind those palms? That wasn't a very sensible bit of detective work, was it?"

"Most detectives is asses. He was hidin' there just to earn his money. To-morrow he could go to th' juke an' tell him how slick he'd been in hearin' w'at you said to th' young lady w'en you thought nobody was listenin'. Was he hid near a window?'

"Just below one—almost against the casing."

"Easy sailin'. He figgered out that some time durin' th' night you an' her would set in that window an' there you are. See? But I wonder w'at he'll say to th' juke to-morrow?"

"I hate to give this job up," growled Phil. "But I must get back to the hotel. The villain cut me with a knife."

By this time they were in front of the Garrison home, and in an undertone he bade Turk walk on and wait for him at the corner below.

"Did he escape?" cried Dorothy from the steps.

"He gave us the slip, confound him, Dorothy."

"I'm glad, really I am. What could we have done with him if he had been caught? But are you not coming in?"

"Oh, not to-night, thank you. Can't you have some one bring out my hat and coat?" He was beginning to feel faint and sick, and purposely kept the bloody arm from the light.

"You shall not have them unless you come in for them. Besides, we want you to tell us what happened. We are crazy with excitement. Madame de Cartier fainted, and mamma is almost worried to death."

"Are you not coming up, Mr. Quentin?" called Mrs. Garrison, from the veranda.

"You must come in," said de Cartier, coming up at that moment with the count and Mr. Knowlton.

"Really, I must go to the hotel, I am a little faint after that wretched run. Let me go, please; don't insist on my coming in," he said.

"Mon dieu!" exclaimed the count. "It is blood, Monsieur! You are hurt!"

"Oh, not in the least—merely a—"

"Phil!" cried Dorothy, standing in front of him, her wide eyes looking intently into his. "Are you hurt? Tell me!"

"Just a little cut in the arm or shoulder, I think. Doesn't amount to anything, I assure—"

"Come in the house at once, Philip Quentin!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Knowlton, will you ask Franz to telephone for Dr. Berier?" Then she saw the blood-stained hand and shuddered, turning her face away. "Oh, Phil!" she whispered.

"That pays for this cut and more, if necessary," he said, in a low voice, as he walked at her side up the steps.

"Lean on me, Phil," she said. "You must be faint." He laughed merrily, and his eyes sparkled with something not akin to pain.

Dr. Berier came and closed the gash in his shoulder. An hour later he came downstairs, to find Mrs. Garrison and Dorothy alone.

"You were very brave, Mr. Quentin, but very foolhardy," said Mrs. Garrison. "I hope from my heart the wound will give you little trouble."

His good right hand closed over hers for an instant and then clasped Dorothy's warmly, lingeringly.

"You must let us hear from you to-morrow," said she, softly.

"Expect me to fetch the message in person," said he, and he was off down the steps. He did not look back, or he might have seen her standing on the veranda, her eyes following him till he was joined by another man at the corner below.



XII

HE CLAIMED A DAY



The strange experience of the evening brought Quentin sharply to a sense of realization. It proved to him that he was feared, else why the unusual method of campaign? To what extent the conspirators would carry their seemingly unnecessary warfare he was now, for the first time, able to form some sort of opinion. The remarkable boldness of the spy at the Garrison home left room for considerable speculation as to his motive. What was his design and what would have been the ending to his sinister vigil? Before Quentin slept that night he came to the drowsy conclusion that luck had really been with him, despite his wound and Courant's escape, and that the sudden exposure of the spy destroyed the foundation for an important move in the powderless conflict.

In the morning his shoulder was so sore that the surgeon informed him he could not use the arm for several days. Turk philosophically bore the brunt of his master's ire. Like a little Napoleon he endured the savage assaults from Quentin's vocal batteries, taking them as lamentations instead of imprecations. The morning newspapers mentioned the attempt to rob Mrs. Garrison's house and soundly deplored the unstrategic and ill-advised attempt of "an American named Canton" to capture the desperado. "The police department is severe in its criticism of the childish act which allowed the wretch to escape detection without leaving the faintest clew behind. Officers were close at hand, and the slightest warning would have had them at the Garrison home. The capture of this man would have meant much to the department, as he is undoubtedly one of the diamond robbers who are working havoc in Brussels at this time. He was, it is stated positively by the police, not alone in his operations last night. His duty, it is believed, was to obtain the lay of the land and to give the signal at the proper moment for a careful and systematic raid of the wealthy woman's house. The police now fear that the robbers, whose daring exploits have shocked and alarmed all Brussels, are on their guard and a well-defined plan to effect their capture is ruined. A prominent attache of the department is of the opinion that an attempt was to have been made by the band to relieve all of Mrs. Garrison's guests of their jewels in a sensational game of 'stand and deliver.'"

"The miserable asses!" exploded Phil, when 'he read the foregoing. "That is the worst rot I ever read. This police department couldn't catch a thief if he were tied to a tree. Turk, if they were so near at hand why the devil didn't they get into the chase with me and run that fellow down?"

"Th' chances are they was in th' chase, Mr. Quentin, but they didn't get th' proper direction. They thought he was bein' chased th' other way, an' I wouldn't be surprised if some of 'em run five or six miles before they stopped t' reflect."

"If there is a gang of diamond robbers or comic opera bandits in this city I'll bet my hand they could steal the sidewalks without being detected, much less captured. A scheme to rob all of Mrs. Garrison's guests! The asses!"

"Don't get excited, sir. You'll burst a blood vessel, an' that's a good sight worse than a cut," cautioned Turk.

"Turk, in all your burglarious years, did you ever go about robbing a house in that manner?"

"Not in a million years."

"Well, what are we to do next?" demanded Quentin, reflectively, ignoring his former question and Turk's specific answer. "Shall we give the police all the information we have and land Mr. Courant in jail?"

"This is our game, sir, not th' police's. For th' Lord's sake, don't give anything up to th' cops. They'll raise particular thunder in their sleep, an' we gets th' rough ha! ha! from our frien's, th' enemy. We pipes this little game ourself, an' we wins, too, if we succeed in keepin' th' police from gettin' nex' to anything they'd mistake for a clue."

Phil thought long and hard before sitting down at noon to write to Dickey Savage. He disliked calling for help in the contest, but with a bandaged arm and the odds against him, he finally resolved that he needed the young New Yorker at his side. Dickey was deliberation itself, and he was brave and loyal. So the afternoon's post carried a letter to Savage, who was still in London, asking him to come to Brussels at once, if he could do so conveniently. The same post carried a letter to Lord Bob, and in it the writer admitted that he might need reinforcements before the campaign closed. He also inclosed the clipping from the newspaper, but added a choice and caustic opinion of the efficiency of the Brussels police. He did not allude specifically to Courant, the duke, or to the queer beginning of the prince's campaign.

Early in the afternoon Mrs. Garrison sent to inquire as to his wound. In reply he calmly prepared for an appearance in person. Turk accompanied him, about four o'clock, in a cab to the house in Avenue Louise. There were guests, and Phil was forced to endure a rather effusive series of feminine exclamations and several polite expressions from men who sincerely believed they could have done better had they been in his place. Mrs. Garrison was a trifle distant at first, but as she saw Quentin elevated to the pedestal of a god for feminine worship she thawed diplomatically, and, with rare tact, assumed a sort of proprietorship. Dorothy remained in the background, but he caught anxious glances at his arm, and, once or twice, a serious contemplation of his half-turned face.

"I'll let her think the fellow was one of the diamond robbers for the present," thought he. "She wouldn't believe me if I told her he was in the employ of the prince, and the chances are she'd ruin everything by writing to him about it."

When at last he found the opportunity to speak with her alone he asked how she had slept.

"Not at all, not a wink, not a blink. I imagined I heard robbers in every part of the house. Are you speaking the truth when you tell all these people it is a mere scratch? I am sure it is much worse, and I want you to tell me the truth," she said, earnestly.

"I've had deeper cuts that didn't bleed a drop," said he. "If you must have the truth, Dorothy, I'll confess the fellow gave me a rather nasty slash, and I don't blame him, He had to do it, and he's just as lucky as I am, perhaps, that it was no worse. I wish to compliment your Brussels police, too, on being veritable bloodhounds. I observed as I came in that they have at last scented the blood on the pavement in front of the house and have washed away the stain fairly well."

"Wasn't the story in the morning paper ridiculous? You were very brave. I almost cried when I saw how the horrid detectives criticised you."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, because I was afraid you'd think like the rest—that I was a blundering idiot."

"You did not fear anything of the kind. Do you really think he was one of those awful diamond robbers who are terrorizing the town? I could not sleep another wink if I thought so. Why, last spring a rich merchant and his wife were drugged in one of the cafes, taken by carriage to Watermael, where they were stripped of their valuables and left by the roadside."

"Did you see an account of the affair in your morning paper?"

"Yes—there were columns about it."

"Then I think eight-tenths of the crime was committed at a city editor's desk. It's my opinion these diamond thieves are a set of ordinary pickpockets and petty porch climbers. A couple of New York policemen could catch the whole lot in a week."

''But, really, Phil, they are very bold and they are not at all ordinary. You don't know how thankful we are that this one was discovered before he got into the house. Didn't he have a knife? Well, wasn't it to kill us with if we made an outcry?" She was nervous and excited, and he had it on the tip of his tongue to allay her fears by telling what he thought to be the true object of ihe man's visit.

"Well, no matter what he intended to do, he didn't do it, and he'll never come back to try it again. He will steer clear of this house," he said, reassuringly

A week, two weeks went by without a change in the situation. Dickey Savage replied that he would come to Brussels as soon as his heart trouble would permit him to leave London, and that would probably be about the twentieth of August. In parentheses he said he hoped to be out of danger by that time. The duke was persistent in his friendliness, and Courant had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared completely. Prince Ugo was expected daily, and Mrs. Garrison was beginning to breathe easily again. The police had given up the effort to find the Garrison robber, and Turk had learned everything that was to be known concerning the house in which Courant found shelter after eluding his pursuers on the night of the affray. Quentin's shoulder was almost entirely healed, and he was beginning to feel himself again. The two weeks had found him a constant and persistent visitor at Miss Garrison's home, but he was compelled to admit that he had made no progress in his crusade against her heart. She baffled him at every turn, and he was beginning to lose his confident hopes. At no time during their tete-a-tetes, their walks, their drives, their visits to the art galleries, did she give him the slightest ground for encouragement. And, to further disturb his sense of contentment, she was delighted—positively delighted—over the coming of Prince Ugo. For a week she had talked of little save the day when he was to arrive. Quentin endured these rapturous assaults nobly, but he was slowly beginning to realize that they were battering down the only defense he had—the inward belief that she cared for him in spite of all.

Frequently he met the Duke Laselli at the Garrisons'. He also saw a great deal of the de Cartiers and Mile. Gaudelet. When, one day, he boldly intimated to Dorothy that de Cartier was in love with Louise and she with him, that young lady essayed to look shocked and displeased, but he was sure he saw a quick gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. And he was positive the catch in her breath was not so much of horror as it was of joy. Mrs. Garrison did all in her power to bring him and the pretty French girl together, and her insistence amused him.

One day her plans, if she had any, went racing skyward, and she, as well as all Brussels society, was stunned by the news that de Cartier had deserted his wife to elope with the fair Gaudelet! When Quentin laconically, perhaps maliciously, observed that he had long suspected the nature of their regard for one another, Mrs. Garrison gave him a withering look and subsided into a chilling unresponsiveness that boded ill for the perceiving young man. The inconsiderate transgression of de Cartier and the unkindness of the Gaudelet upset her plans cruelly, and she found that she had wasted time irreparably in trying to bring the meddling American to the feet of the French woman. Quentin revelled in her discomfiture, and Dorothy in secret enjoyed the unexpected turn of affairs.

She had seen through her mother's design, and she had known all along how ineffectual it would prove in the end. Philip puzzled her and piqued her more than she cared to admit. That she did not care for him, except as a friend, she was positive, but that he should persistently betray signs of nothing more than the most ordinary friendship was far from pleasing to her vanity. The truth is, she had expected him to go on his knees to her, an event which would have simplified matters exceedingly. It would have given her the opportunity to tell him plainly she could be no more than a friend, and it would have served to alter his course in what she believed to be a stubborn love chase. But he had disappointed her; he had been the amusing companion, the ready friend, the same sunny spirit, and she was perplexed to observe that he gave forth no indication of hoping or even desiring to be more. She could not, of course, know that this apparently indifferent young gentleman was wiser, far wiser, than the rest of his kind. He saw the folly of a rash, hasty leap in the dark, and bided his time like the cunning general who from afar sees the hopelessness of an attack against a strong and watchful adversary, and waits for the inevitable hour when the vigil is relaxed.

There was no denying the fact that with all his confidence his colors were sinking, while hers remained as gallantly fluttering as when the struggle began. He was becoming confused and nervous; a feeling of impotence began slyly, devilishly to assail him, and he frequently found himself far out at sea. The strange inactivity of the prince's cohorts, the significant friendliness of the duke, the everlasting fear that a sudden move might catch him unawares began to tell on his peace of mind. Both he and Turk watched like cats for the slightest move that might betray the intentions of the foe, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing. The house in which Courant found safety was watched, but it gave forth no secrets. The duke's every movement appeared to be as open, as fair, as unsuspicious as man's could be, and yet there was ever present the feeling that some day something would snap and a crisis would rush upon them. Late one afternoon he drove up to the house in Avenue Louise, and when Dorothy came downstairs for the drive her face was beaming.

"Ugo comes to-morrow," she said, as they crossed to the carriage.

"Which means that I am to be relegated to the dark," he said, dolefully.

"Oh, no! Ugo likes you and I like you, you know. Why, are we not to be the same good friends as now?" she asked, suddenly, with a pretty show of surprise.

"Oh, I suppose so," he said, looking straight ahead. They were driving rapidly toward the Bois de la Cambre. "But, of course, I'll not rob the prince of moments that belong to him by right of conquest. You may expect to see me driving disconsolately along the avenue—alone."

"Mr. Savage will be here," she said, sweetly, enjoying his first show of misery.

"But he's in love, and he'll not be thinking of me. I'm the only one in all Christendom, it seems to me, who is not in love with somebody, and it's an awful hardship."

"You will fall really in love some day, never fear," she volunteered, after a somewhat convulsive twist of the head in his direction.

"Unquestionably," he said, "and I shall be just as happy and as foolish as the rest of you, I presume."

"I should enjoy seeing you really and truly in love with some girl. It would be so entertaining."

"A perfect comedy, I am sure. I must say, however, that I'd feel sorry for the girl I loved if she didn't happen to love me."

"And why, pray?"

"Because," he said, turning abruptly and looking straight into her eyes, "she'd have the trouble and distinction of surrendering in the end."

"You vain, conceited thing!" she exclaimed, a trifle disconcerted. "You overestimate your power."

"Do you think I overestimate it?" he demanded, quickly.

"I don t—don't know. How should I know?" she cried, in complete rout. In deep chagrin she realized that he had driven her sharply into unaccountable confusion, and that her wits were scattering hopelessly at the very moment when she needed them most.

"Then why do you say I overestimate it?" he asked, relentlessly.

"Because you do," she exclaimed, at bay.

"Are you a competent judge?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, grasping for time.

"I mean, have you the right to question my power, as you call it? Have I attempted to exert it over you?"

"You are talking nonsense, Phil," she said, spiritedly.

"I said I'd feel sorry for the girl if she didn't happen to love me, you know. Well, I couldn't force her to love me if she didn't love me, could I?"

"Certainly not. That is what I meant," she cried, immensely relieved.

"But my point is that she might love me without knowing it and would simply have ta be brought to the realization."

"Oh," she said, "that is different."

"You take back what you said, then?" he asked, maliciously.

"If she loved you and did not know it, she'd be a fool and you could exert any kind of power over her. You see, we didn't quite understand each other, did we?"

"That is for you to say," he said, smiling significantly. "I think I understand perfectly."

By this time they were opposite the Rue Lesbroussart, and he drove toward the Place Ste. Croix. As they made the turn she gave a start and peered excitedly up the Avenue Louise, first in front of her companion, then behind.

"Oh, Phil, there is Ugo!" she cried, clasping his arm. "See! In the trap, coming toward us." He looked quickly, but the trees and houses now hid the other trap from view.

"Are you sure it is he?"

"Oh, I am positive. He has come to surprise me. Is there no way we can reach the house first? By the rear—anyway," she cried, excitedly. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were sparkling.

"Was he alone?" asked he, his jaw setting suddenly.

"That has nothing to do with it. We must hurry home. Turn back, Phil; we may be able to overtake him on the avenue."

"I wanted to take you to the Park, Dorothy."

"Well?"

"That's all," he went on, calmly. "The prince can leave his card and call later in the—well, this evening."

"What—you don't mean—Philip Quentin, take me home instantly," she blazed.

"Not for all the princes in the universe," he said. "This is my afternoon, and I will not give up a minute of it."

"But I command, sir!"

"And I refuse to obey."

"Oh—oh, this is outrageous——" she began, frantically.

Suddenly his gloved left hand dropped from the reins and closed over one of hers. The feverish clasp and the command in his eyes compelled her to look up into his face quickly. There she saw the look she feared, admired, deserved.

"There was a time when you wanted to be with me and with no other. I have not forgotten those days, nor have you. They were the sweetest days of your life and of mine. It is no age since I held this hand in mine, and you would have gone to the end of the world with me. It is no age since you kissed me and called me a king. It is no age since you looked into my eyes with an expression far different from the one you now have. You remember, you remember, Dorothy."

She was too surprised to answer, too overcome by the suddenness of his assault to resist. The power she had undertaken to estimate was in his eyes, strong, plain, relentless.

"And because you remember I can see the hardness going from your eyes, the tenderness replacing it. The flush in your cheek is not so much of anger as it was, your heart is not beating in rebellion as it was, and all because you cannot forget—you will not forget."

"This is madness," she cried, shivering as with a mighty chill.

"Madness it may be, Dorothy, but—well, because we have not forgotten the days when we were sweethearts, I am claiming this day of you and you must give it to me for the same reason. You must say to me that you give it willingly," he half whispered, intensely. She could only look helplessly into his eyes.

From the rumble Turk saw nothing, neither did he hear.



XIII

SOME UGLY LOOKING MEN



Prince Ugo Ravorelli was not, that day, the only one whose coming to Brussels was of interest to Quentin. Dickey Savage came in from Ostend and was waiting at the Bellevue when he walked in soon after six o'clock. Mr. Savage found a warm welcome from the tall young man who had boldly confiscated several hours that belonged properly to the noble bridegroom, and it was not long until, dinner over, he was lolling back in a chair in Quentin's room, his feet cocked on the window sill, listening with a fair and increasing show of interest to the confidences his friend was pouring forth.

"So you deliberately drove off and left the prince, eh? And she didn't sulk or call you a nasty, horrid beast? I don't know what the devil you want me here for if you've got such a start as that. Seems to me I'll be in the way, more or less," said Dickey, when the story reached a point where, to him, finis was the only appropriate word.

"That's the deuce of it, Dickey. I can't say that I've got a safe start at all, even with her, and I've certainly got some distance to go before I can put the prince out of the running. You may think this is a nice, easy, straightaway race, but it isn't. It's going to be a steeplechase, and I don't know the course. I'm looking for a wide ditch at any turn, and I may get a nasty fall. You see, I've some chance of getting my neck broken before I get to the stretch."

"And some noted genius will be grinding out that Lohengrin two-step just about the time you get within hearing distance, too. You won't be two-stepping down the aisle at St. Gudule, but you'll agree that it's a very pretty party. That will be all, my boy—really all. I don't want to discourage you and I'm willing to stay by you till that well-known place freezes over, but I think an ocean voyage would be very good for you if you can arrange to start to-morrow."

"If you're going into this thing with that sort of spirit, you'll be a dead weight and I'll be left at the post," said Quentin, ruefully.

"Was the prince at the house when you returned from the drive?"

"No; and Mrs. Garrison almost glared a hole through me. There were icicles on every word when she told poor Dorothy he had been there and would return this evening."

"Was she satisfied to finish the drive with you after she had seen the prince?" Quentin had not told him of the conversation which followed her demand to be taken home.

"She was very sensible about it," he admitted, carefully. "You see, she had an engagement with me, and as a lady she could not well break it. We got along very nicely, all things considered, but I'm afraid she won't go out again with me."

"She won't slam the door in your face if you go to the house, will she?"

"Hardly," said the other, smiling. "She has asked me to come. The prince likes me, it seems."

"But he likes to be alone with her, I should say. Well, don't interfere when he is there. My boy, give him a chance," said Dickey, with a twinkle.

The duke headed off the two Americans as they left the hotel half an hour later. He was evidently watching for them, and his purpose was clear. It was his duty to prevent Quentin from going to the Garrison home, if possible. After shaking hands with Savage, the little man suggested a visit to a dance house in the lower end, promising an evening of rare sport. He and Count Sallaconi, who came up from Paris with the prince, had planned a little excursion into unusual haunts, and he hoped the Americans had a few dull hours that needed brightening. Phil savagely admitted to himself that he anticipated a good many dull hours, but they could not be banished by the vulgarity of a dance hall. The long, bony, fierce-mustached count came up at this moment and joined in imploring the young men to go with them to the "gayest place in all Brussels."

"Let's go, Phil, just to see how much worse our New York places are than theirs," said Dickey.

"But I have a—er—sort of an engagement," remonstrated Quentin, reluctantly. The duke gave him a sharp look.

"Do not be afraid," he said, laughing easily. "We will not permit the dancing girls to harm you."

"He's not afraid of girls," interposed Dickey. "Girls are his long suit. You didn't tell me you had an engagement?" Quentin gave him a withering look.

"I have one, just the same," he said, harshly.

"You will not accompany us, then?" said the count, the line between his eyebrows growing deeper.

"I have to thank you, gentlemen, and to plead a previous engagement. May we not go some other night?"

"I am afraid we shall not again be in the same mood for pleasure," said the duke, shifting his eyes nervously. "The count and I have but little time to give to frivolity. We are disappointed that you will not join us on this one night of frolic."

"I regret it exceedingly, but if you knew what I have to do to-night you would not insist," said Phil, purposely throwing a cloak of mystery about his intentions for the mere satisfaction of arousing their curiosity.

"Very well, mes Americains; we will not implore you longer," responded the count, carelessly. "May your evening be as pleasant as ours." The two Italians bowed deeply, linked arms and strolled away.

"Say, those fellows know you haven't an engagement," exclaimed Savage, wrathfully. "What sort of an ass are you?"

"See here, Dickey, you've still got something to learn in this world. Don't imagine you know everything. You don't, you know. Do you think I am going to walk into one of their traps with my eyes open?"

"Traps? You don't mean to say this dance hall business is a trap?" exclaimed Dickey, his eyes opening wide with an interest entirely foreign to his placid nature.

"I don't know, and that's why I am keeping cut of it. Now, let's take our walk, a nice cool drink or two and go to bed where we can dream about what might have happened to us at the dance hall."

"Where does she live?" asked Savage, as they left the rotunda.

"Avenue Louise," was the laconic answer.

"Why don't you say Belgium or Europe, if you're bound to be explicit," growled Dickey.

A dapper-looking young man came from the hotel a few paces behind them and followed, swinging his light cane leisurely. Across the place, in the shadow of a tall building, the two Italian noblemen saw the Americans depart, noting the direction they took. It was toward the Avenue Louise. A smile of satisfaction came to their faces when the dapper stranger made his appearance. A few moments later they were speeding in a cab toward the avenue.

"That is her house," said Phil, later on, as the two strolled slowly down the Avenue Louise. They were across the street from the Garrison home, and the shadowy-trees hid them. The tall lover knew, however, that the Italian was, with her and that his willfulness of the afternoon had availed him naught. Nor could he recall a single atom of hope and encouragement his bold act had produced other than the simple fact that she had submitted as gracefully as possible to the inevitable and had made the best of it.

"Ugo has the center of the stage, and everybody else is in the orchestra, playing fiddles of secondary importance, while Miss Dorothy is the lone and only audience," reflected Dickey.

"I wish you'd confine your miserable speculations to the weather, Dickey," said the other, testily.

"With pleasure. To-morrow will be a delightful day for a drive or a stroll. You and I, having nothing else to do, can take an all-day drive into the country and get acquainted with the Belgian birds and bees—and the hares, too."

"Don't be an ass! What sort of a game do you think those Italians were up to this evening? I'm as nervous as the devil. It's time for the game to come to a head, and wa may as well expect something sudden."

"I think it depends on the prince. If he finds that you haven't torn down his fences while you had full sway, he'll not be obliged to go on with the game. He was merely protecting interests that absence endangered. Now that he's here, and if all is smooth and undisturbed—or, in other words, if you have failed in your merciless design to put a few permanent and unhealable dents in the fair lady's heart—he will certainly discharge his cohorts and enjoy very smooth seas for the rest of the trip. If you have disfigured her tender heart by trying to break into it, as a safe-blower gets into those large, steel things we call safety deposit vaults—where other men keep things they don't care to lose—I must say that his satanic majesty will be to pay. Do you think you have made any perceptible dents, or do you think the safe is as strong and as impregnable as it was when you began using chisels and dynamite on it six weeks ago?"

"I can't say that I enjoy the simile, but I'm conceited enough to think it is not as free from dents as it was when I began. I'm not quite sure about it, but I believe with a little more time and security against interference I might have—er—have—''

"Got away with the swag, as Turk would say. Well, it's this way. If the prince investigates and finds that you were frightened away just in time to prevent wholesale looting, you'll have to do some expert dodging to escape the consequences of the crime. He'll have the duke and the count and a few others do nothing but get up surprise parties for you."

"That's it, Dickey. That's what I'm afraid of—the surprise parties. He's afraid of me, or he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of having me watched. They've got something brewing or they wouldn't have been so quiet for the past two weeks. Courant is gone and—"

"How do you know Courant isn't here?"

"Turk says he has disappeared."

"Turk doesn't know everything. That fellow may have a score of disguises. These French detectives are great on false whiskers and dramatic possibilities. The chances are that he has been watching you night and day, and I'll bet my head, if he has, he's been able to tell Ugo more about your affair with Miss Garrison than you know yourself, my boy."

They turned to retrace their steps, Phil gloomily surveying the big, partially-lighted house across the way. A man met them and made room for them to pass on the narrow walk. He was a jaunty, well-dressed young fellow and the others would have observed nothing peculiar about him had they not caught him looking intently toward the house which was of such interest to them. As he passed them he peered closely at their faces and so strange was his manner that both involuntarily turned their heads to look after him. As is usually the case, he also turned to look at them.

"I saw that fellov in the hotel," said Savage.

Five minutes later they met Turk and, before they could utter a word of protest, he was leading them into the Rue du Prince Royal.

"There's a guy follerin' you," he explained. "An' th' two swells is drivin' aroun' in a cab like as if they wuz expectin' fun. They just passed you on th' avenoo, an' now they's comin' back. That's their rig—cuttin' across there. See? I tell you, they's somethin' in the air, an' it looks as though it ain't goin' to pan out as they wanted it to."

"What's the matter with you? The duke and the count went to a dance hall," expostulated Quentin.

"To make a night of it," added Savage

"Didn't you see a nice lookin' feller up there in th' avenoo, an' didn't he size you up purty close? That's him—that's Courant, th' fly cop. Git inside this doorway an' you'll see him pass yere in a couple of seconds. He's not a block behind us."

Sure enough the dapper stranger passed by the three men in shadow, looking uneasily, nervously up and across the street.

"He's lost th' trail," whispered Turk, after Courant was beyond hearing.

"The same fellow, I'll be blowed," said Dickey, in amazement. "Now, what do you suppose the game is?"

"My idea is that w'en you turned 'em down on th' dance hall job they was afraid you'd go to th' young lady's house and cut in on th' prince's cinch, so they had to git a move on to head you off. You was wise w'en you kicked out of th' dance hall racket. Th' chances are you'd 'a' got into all kinds o' hell if you'd fell into th' trap. Say, I'm dead sure o' one er two t'ings. In th' first place, they've got four or five more ringers than we know about. I seen Courant talkin' mighty secret-like to two waiters in th' hall this evenin", an' th' driver o' that cab o' theirn was a baggage hustler at th' Bellyvoo as late as yesterday."

"By thunder, I believe their game was to mix us up in a big free-for-all fight when they got us into that dance dive. That shows Dickey, how wise I was to decline the invitation," said Quentin, seriously. By this time they were some distance behind Turk, following in the path of the puzzled defective. They saw him look curiously at the lighted windows of the houses, and overtook him at the intersection of the Boulevard Waterloo. Just as they came up from behind, Courant stopped for an instant's conversation with two men. Their talk was brief and the trio turned to go back over the path just traversed by Courant The two sets of men met fairly and were compelled to make room for each other to pass. Courant came to a full stop involuntarily, but recovered himself and followed his friends quickly.

"The plot thickens," observed Phil. "It looks as though they are rounding up their forces after the miscarriage of the original plan. Gad, they are hunting us down like rats to-night."

"The hotel is the safest place for us, and the quicker we get there the better," said Dickey. "I'm not armed, are you?"

"Of course not. I hadn't thought of such a thing, but from now on I'll carry a revolver. Those fellows didn't look especially dainty, did they?"

"I can't believe that they intend to murder you or anything like that. They wouldn't dare do such a thing."

"That's th' game, Mr. Savage; I'm dead sure of it. This was th' night an' it was to ha' been done in th' dance hall, riot, stampede, everybody fightin' wild an' then a jab in th' back. Nobody any th' wiser, see?" The two paled a trifle under Turk's blunt way of putting it.

When they entered the hotel a short time later the first man they saw was Prince Ugo. With his dark eyes glowing, his lips parted in a fine smile, he came to meet them, his hand extended heartily.

"I have asked for you, gentlemen, and you were out. You return just as I am ready to give up in despair. And now, let me say how happy 1 am to see you," he said, warmly. The Americans shook hands with him, confusion filling their brains. Why was he not with the Garrisons?

"I knew you were here, Prince Ugo, and would have inquired for you but that I suspected you would be closely engaged," said Quentin, after a moment.

"Earlier in the evening I was engaged, but I am here now as the bearer of a message to you, Mr. Quentin. Miss Garrison has asked me to deliver into your hands this missive." With that he drew from his pocket a sealed envelope and passed it to Quentin. "I was commanded to give it you to-night, so perhaps you will read it now."

"Thank you," muttered the other, nervously tearing open the envelope as the prince turned to Dickey Savage. At that moment the duke and the count strolled into the rotunda, jauntily, easily, as if they had been no farther than the block just beyond, instead of racing about in a bounding cab. They approached the group" as Phil turned away to read the note which had come so strangely into his hands. Dorothy wrote:

"Dear Phil: I trust you to say nothing to Prince Ugo. I mean, do not intimate that I saw him yesterday when I went to drive with you. He would consider it an affront. I know it is not necessary to caution you, but I feel safe in doing so. You will pardon me, I am sure. My conduct, as well as yours, when we look at it calmly in an afterlight, was quite extraordinary. So fully do I trust him and so well does he love me that I know this note comes to you inviolate.

"D."

Phil's brain was in a whirl. He glanced at the handsome face of Dorothy's noble lover and then at his swarthy fellow countrymen. Could they be plotters? Could he be hand-in-hand with those evil-looking men? He had delivered the note, and yet he so feared its recipient that he was employing questionable means to dispose of him. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of the note. It was from Dorothy, and the prince had borne it to him direct from her hand.

"An invitation to dinner?" asked the prince, laughing easily. "Miss Garrison is alarmingly fond of Mr. Quentin, and I begin to feel the first symptoms of jealousy. Pardon me, I should not speak of her here, even in jest." So sincere was his manner that the Americans felt a strange respect for him. The same thought flashed through the minds of both: "He is not a blackguard, whatever else he may be." But up again came the swift thought of Courant and his ugly companions, and the indisputable evidence that the first named, at least, was a paid agent of the man who stood before them, now the prince, once the singer in far away Brazil.

"The mention of dinner recalls me to affairs of my own," continued Ugo. "To-morrow night I expect a few friends here to dine, and I have the honor to ask you all to be among my guests. We shall sit down at nine o'clock, and I only exact a promise that the end may come within a week thereafter."

The Americans could do naught but accept, but there was an oppressive sense of misgiving in their hearts. Mayhap the signal failure to carry out the plans of one night was leading swiftly and resolutely up to the success of another. For more than an hour Quentin and his friend sat silently, soberly in the former's room, voicing only after long intervals the opinions and conjectures their puzzled minds begot, only to sink back into fresh fields for thought.

"I can't understand it," said Dickey, at last, starting to bed.

"I believe I understand it perfectly. They are on a new tack. It occurs to me that they fear we suspect something and the dinner is a sort of peace offering."

"We may be getting into a nest of masculine Lucretia Borgias, my boy."

"Pleasant dreams, then. Good-night!"



XIV

A DINNER AND A DUEL



At nine o'clock the next evening Quentin and Savage found themselves in the rooms occupied by the prince, the former experiencing a distinct sense of wariness and caution.

If Quentin suspected some form of treachery at the outset, he was soon obliged to ridicule his fears. There were nearly a score of men there, and a single glance revealed to him the gratifying fact that no treachery could be practiced in such an assemblage. Among their fellow guests there was an English lord, an Austrian duke, a Russian prince, a German baron, besides others from France, Belgium and Germany.

Prince Ugo greeted them warmly, and they were at their ease in an instant under the magnetism of his manner. Duke Laselli and Count Diego were more profuse in their greetings to the young men, and it devolved upon the latter to introduce them to the distinguished strangers. There was but one other American there, a millionaire whose name is a household word in the states and whose money was at that time just beginning to assert itself as a menace to the great commercial interests of the old world. He welcomed his fellow New Yorkers with no small show of delight. The expression of relief on his face plainly exposed a previous fear that he was unspeakably alone in this assemblage of continental aristocrats.

At the table, Quentin sat between an Austrian duke and a German named Von Kragg. He was but two seats removed from Prince Ugo, while Savage was on the other side of the table, almost opposite Quentin. On Dickey's right sat the Duke Laselli, and next to that individual was the American millionaire. Directly across the broad table from Quentin was the tall rakish-looking Count Diego Sallaconi.

"Ob, nobde gap sansan wobble wibble raggle dully pang rubby dub, bob," said the baron, in his best French, addressing the statuesque American with the broad shoulders and the intense countenance.

"With all my heart," responded Mr. Quentin, with rare composure and equal confidence. He had no more conception of what the baron intended to say than he would have had if the planet Mars had wigwagged a signal to him, but he was polite enough to do anything for the sake of conversation. The baron smiled gladly, even approvingly; it was plain that he understood Phil's English fully as well as that gentleman understood his French. Quentin heard his name uttered by Prince Ugo and turned from the baron.

"Mr. Quentin, Prince Kapolski tells me he saw our friends, the Saxondales, in London last week. They were preparing to go to their place in the country. You have been there, have you not?" Prince Ugo turned his gleaming eyes and engaging smile upon the man addressed.

"On several occasions," responded the other. "Saxondale is a famous hunter and he gave me some rare sport. When do they leave London?" he asked, indifferently.

''They were to have started this week," said the Russian prince, "and there is to be quite a large party, I hear. A young American who was with them was called away suddenly last week, and, as the trip was arranged for his special amusement—by the Lady Jane, I was told—his departure upset the plans a trifle." Quentin and Savage, who had heard the remarks glanced at one another in surprise.

"I should enjoy being with them," said the former, warmly. "My friend, Mr. Savage, was invited, I think," he added, and Dickey studiously consulted the salad. He had not been invited and the announcement that the Saxondales were off for the north of England was news to him.

"Oh, certainly," exclaimed Ugo; "he was their guest. And the Lady Jane arranged it, you say, Kapolski? Draft horses could not have been strong enough to pull me away from London had she planned for my pleasure. You must discover the fault in him, my dear Quentin, and hold him to account for a very reprehensible act." Ugo knew that Dickey was listening, and the first point in a beautiful game was scored.

"Mr. Savage does not care for shooting," said Phil, flushing slightly. The Russian prince had been looking at him intently; a peculiar flash came into his eye when Quentin made the defensive remark.

"But there is game to be had without resorting to the gun," he said, smiling blandly.

"One doesn't have to go to a shooting box to bag it, though," said Sallaconi, mischievously.

"I think the hunter uses bow and arrow exclusively," added Ugo, and there was a general laugh, which sent a streak of red up Dickey's cheeks. If the Russian's news was true he had been purposely slighted by the Saxondales. And yet it was not altogether humiliation or wounded pride that brought the red to his cheek. He and the Lady Jane had quarrelled just before he left her, and while he hated her and she hated him and all that, still he did not care to hear her name bandied about by the wine sippers at this delectable table.

"What are they talking about?" asked the American millionaire of Dickey, his curiosity aroused by the laughter of a moment before.

"About as nasty as they can," growled Dickey. "That's their style, you know."

"Whew! You don't have much of an opinion of nobility. Beware of the prince," said the other, in a low tone.

"You couldn't insult some of them with a deliberate and well-aimed kick," remarked the younger man, sourly. The Duke Laselli's ears turned a shade pinker under his oily, swarthy skin, for the words penetrated them in spite of the speaker's caution.

"A toast," said the Russian prince, arising from his seat beside Ravorelli. The guests arose and glasses almost met in a long line above the center of the table. Ugo alone remained seated as if divining that they were to drink to him. For the first time Quentin closely observed the Russian. He was tall and of a powerful frame, middle-aged and the possessor of a strong, handsome face on which years of dissipation had left few weakening marks. His eyes were narrow and as blue as the sky, his hair light and bushy, his beard coarse and suggestive of the fierceness of the wild boar. His voice was clear and cutting, and his French almost perfect. "We drink to the undying happiness of our host, the luckiest prince in all the world. May he always know the bliss of a lover and never the cares of a husband; may his wedded state be an endless love story without a prosaic passage; may life with the new Princess of Ravorelli be a poem, a song, a jub late, with never a dirge between its morn and its midnight."

"And a long life to him," added Quentin, clearly. As they drank the eyes of Prince Ugo were upon the last speaker, and there was a puzzled expression in them. Count Sallaconi's black eyebrows shot up at the outer ends and a curious grimness fastened itself about his mouth and nose.

"I thank you, gentlemen," responded Ugo, arising. "Will you divide the toast with me in proposing the happiness of the one who is to bring all these good things into my life?" The half-emptied glasses were drained. Dickey Savage's eyes met Quentin's in a long look of perplexity. At last an almost imperceptible twinkle, suggestive of either mirth or skepticism, manifested itself in his friend's eyes and the puzzled observer was satisfied.

When, in the end, the diners pushed their chairs back from the table and passed into another room, it was far past midnight, and the real revelry of the night was at hand. Reckless, voluptuous women from the vaudeville houses and dance halls appeared, and for hours the wine-soaked scions of nobility reeked in those exhibitions which shock the sensibilities of true men. Four men there were who tried to conceal their disgust while the others roared out tha applause of degenerates.

"I am not a saint, but this is more than I can stand. It is sickening," said Quentin.

"And these miserable specimens of European manhood delight in it," said Savage, his face aflame with shame and disgust. "It is too vile for a man who has a breath of manhood in him to encourage, and yet these bounders go crazy with rapture. Gad, don't ask what kind of women they are. Ask how it is the world has ever called these fellows men."

"Did I understand you correctly, sir?" asked a cold voice at his side, and Dickey turned to look into the flaming eyes of Prince Kapolski. Count Sallaconi was clutching the left arm of the big Russian, and there was a look of dismay in his face. He flashed a glance of fierce disappointment at Quentin, and then one of helplessness across the room at Prince Ugo.

"If you understand English you probably did," said Dickey, pale but defiant.

"Come, prince," began the agitated count, but Kapolski shook him off.

"You must apologize for your comments, sir," said the prince, in excellent English.

"I can't apologize, you know. I meant what I said," said Dickey, drawing himself up to the limit of his five feet ten. The Russian's open hand came violently in contact with the young fellow's cheek, driving the tears to the surface of his eyes They were tears of anger, pain and mortification, not of submission or fear.

His clenched right hand shot outward and upward, and before the Russian knew what had happened a crashing blow caught him full in the jaw, and he would have gone sprawling to the floor had not Diego Sallaconi caught him in his arms. Quentin grasped Dickey and pulled him away, while others rushed in and held the roaring, sputtering victim.

All was confusion and excitement in an instant. Quentin and the millionaire drew their lithe countryman away from the gathering crowd, one cheek white as a sheet, the other a bright pink, and Phil hoarsely whispered to him:

"I don't know what we're in for, Dickey, so for heaven's sake let's get out of here. We don't want any more of it. You gave him a good punch and that's enough."

"You broke up the show all right enough," exclaimed the millionaire, excitedly. "The fairies ran over each other trying to get out of the room. You're as game as a fighting cock, too."

"Let me alone, Phil!" panted Dickey. "You don't suppose I'm going to run from that big duffer, do you? Let go!"

"Don't be a fool, Dickey," said his friend, earnestly. Just then a pale-faced, sickly-looking waiter came up from behind and hoarsely whispered in Quentin's ear:

"Get out, quick! The big prince made a mistake. He was to have quarrelled with you, Monsieur." He was gone before he could be questioned.

"See!" exclaimed Dickey. "It was a job, after all, and the dago is at the bottom of it!"

"Sh! Here he comes with the Russian and the whole pack behind them. It's too late; we can't run now," said Phil, despairingly. As Ugo and Kapolski crossed the room, the former, whose face was white with suppressed passion, hissed under his breath into the ear of the raging Russian:

"You fool, it was the other one—the tall one! You have quarrelled with the wrong man. The big one is Quentin, Kapolski. How could you have made such a mistake?"

"Mistake or no mistake, he has struck me, and he shall pay for it. The other can come later," growled the Russian, savagely.

"Gentlemen, this is no place to fight. Let us have explanations—" began Ugo, addressing Quentin more than Savage, but the latter interrupted:

"Call off your dogs and we will talk it over," he said.

"Dickey!" cautioned his friend.

"I do not understand you, Mr. Savage. My dogs? Oh, I see, Mr. Quentin; he is mad with anger," said the prince, deprecatingly.

"There can be no explanations," snarled Kapolski. "My card, Monsieur," and he threw the pasteboard in the young American's face.

"Damn your impudence," exploded Quentin, now ready to take the fight off the hands of the one on whom it had been forced through error. "You ought to be kicked downstairs for that."

"You will have that to recall, Monsieur, but not until after I have disposed of your valiant friend," exclaimed Kapolski.

"We are not in the habit of waiting for a chance to dispose of such affairs," said Quentin, coolly. "We fight when we have a cause and on the spot."

"Do you expect civilized men to carry arms into drawing-rooms?" sneered Kapolski. Ugo's face was lighting up with pleasure and satisfaction and Sallaconi was breathing easier.

"I'm speaking of hands, not arms," said Phil, glaring at the other.

"I'll fight him in a second," cried Dickey.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Be calm! Let this affair be arranged by your seconds and in the regular manner," expostulated Ugo. "This is very unusual, and I must beg of you to remember that you are in my rooms."

"That is the rub, Prince Ravorelli. It has happened in your rooms, and I want to say to you that if evil befalls my friend, I shall hold you to account for it," said Quentin, turning on him suddenly.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"You know what I mean. I can and am ready to fight my own battles."

"This outrageous brawl is none of my affair, Mr. Quentin, and I do not like your threat. You and I should do all in our power to prevent it from going farther. Your friend was too free with his words, I am told. If he did not like my entertainment, he should have left the room."

"Well, I didn't like it, if you want to know," said Dickey. "And I don't care a continental who heard what I said."

"Does he still want to fight with his hands?" demanded Kapolski, now cool and ironical. There was an infuriating attempt on his part to speak as if he were addressing a small, pouting child.

"Anything—anything! The only point is, you'll have to fight to-night—right now. I've two or three friends here who'll see that I get fair play." said Dickey, discretion flying to the wind.

"You shall fight and here!" exclaimed the Russian. "But you shall fight like a gentleman for once in your life. I will not claw and scratch with you, like the women do, but with any weapon you name."

Dickey's valor did not fade, but his discretion came to the surface with a suddenness that took his breath away. He turned to speak to Quentin and the millionaire. Phil's face was deathly white, and there was a pleading look in his eyes. The millionaire was trembling like a leaf.

"I guess I'll take pistols," said Dickey, slowly. "I can't hit the side of a barn, but he can't bluff me, damn him."

"Great Scott, Dickey! Don't do it, don't do it!" whispered Quentin. "This is my fight, you know it is, and I won't let you—"

"You can't help it, old boy. He'll probably get me, but I may be lucky enough to have a bullet land in him. My only chance is to aim anywhere but at him, shut my eyes, and trust to luck." Then turning to Kapolski he said, deliberately: "Pistols, and here, if the prince does not object."

"Cannot this affair be postponed—" began Ugo, desperately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then shoot low," said the millionaire.

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

"Mr. Quentin will act, Monsieur le Due. We may need a surgeon."

"Dr. Gassbeck is here."

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

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

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

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

"If he hits you, I'll kill him."

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

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



XV

APPROACH OF THE CRISIS



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like a top," lied Dickey, cheerfully.

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

"Not in the least; did it, Quentin?"

"He slept like a baby."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oho! Is it all off?"

"Is what all off?" belligerently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you recall my words, Prince Ravorelli?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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