"Buried treasure, pirate hoards and other mysteries," he said, "have no kind of attraction for me. I feel sort of discouraged when they bubble up round me. You're young, Daisy, and naturally inclined to romantic joys. Just you butt in and worry round according to your own fancy. There's only one thing I'd rather you didn't do. Don't get interfering in any serious way with Smith. Smith's a valuable man."

Later on he spoke to Gorman.

"As a public man," he said, "your time has got value. You're wanted, Gorman, and that's a fact. The cause of Ireland is a sacred trust and I'm not speaking against it; but if a subscription to the party funds would set you free for a month——Now can another patriot be hired at a reasonable salary to take your place? If he can, you name the figure and I'll write the cheque. The fact is, it'll be a mighty convenient thing to me if you'll take hold of things here. Daisy's dead set on unearthing mysteries. I don't say there aren't any mysteries. There may be. But it doesn't suit me to be wrapped up in them. Then I understand that one of your European monarchs is fidgeting round, wanting to take this island off my hands. Daisy says he's an Emperor. Now I won't have emperors worrying me. I've never gone in for emperors to any extent, and I'm not inclined to begin now. I'm a plain American citizen with democratic principles and a disordered heart. I'd be obliged to you, Gorman, if you'd stay here and kind of elbow off that Emperor when he intrudes. There's only one point about which I'd like you to be careful. I mentioned it to Daisy. She tells me that Smith answers to the name of Fritz and she regards that as a suspicious circumstance. Now, it doesn't matter a cent to me whether Smith calls himself Fritz or Leonardo da Vinci or Ivanovitch Ivanokoff. So long as he isn't signing cheques one name is as good as another. And if Smith writes letters to the Emperor—that's what Daisy says—I don't see that it hurts me any. Every man has his own little pleasures, and in a free country he oughtn't to be hindered in the pursuit. I've known men who collected stamps. It seemed foolish to me, but it didn't interfere with me. Same thing with Smith. I don't happen to care about writing letters to emperors, but Smith does. See?"

Gorman did not want to worry or annoy Smith in any way. He recognized the man's value. His mind was more actively curious than Donovan's. He wanted to know what was going on, what von Moll had been doing, what the Emperor aimed at, what Smith's real business was, but he also appreciated, no less than Donovan, good food, comfort and smooth service. He liked to be sure that his wants would be supplied, his wishes anticipated, his habits intelligently studied. Without Smith life on Salissa would be robbed of a great deal which made it attractive.

When Gorman made up his mind to stay on Salissa he wrote three letters. One of them was to King Konrad Karl and was addressed to an hotel in Paris. He said briefly that the Donovans would not sell the island and that it was not the least use trying to arrange a marriage with the Queen. He advised the King to enjoy himself as much as he could in Paris and to spend his money before it was taken from him. He added a postscript.

"If the Emperor sends a man called von Moll to negotiate with you—a sort of naval officer who likes giving orders—ask him whether he had many casualties in his last sea battle."

His next letter was to Steinwitz. In it, too, he announced the complete failure of his mission.

"The fact is," he added, by way of explanation, "that these Americans don't know enough about your Emperor to be properly impressed. Could you send along a good-sized photo of him, in uniform if possible? I am sure it would have a great effect."

Then he wrote to Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton. Knowing how all members of our governing classes delight in official fussiness he threw his letter into a telegraphic form.

"Things more complicated than anticipated," he wrote. "Will Government recognize Salissa as independent state? Query attitude President U. S. A. Urgent.—GORMAN."

He read over what he had written with extreme satisfaction. It pleased him to think that Steinwitz would immediately go out and buy an enormous photograph of the Emperor; that he would send it out to Salissa with perfect confidence in the effect it would produce. It was also pleasant to think of Konrad Karl and Madame Ypsilante making efforts to get rid of the remains of Donovan's money by scattering it about the streets of Paris. But his despatch to Bland-Potterton pleased him most of all. He imagined that gentleman, swollen with the consciousness of important news, dashing off to the Foreign Office in a taxi-cab, posing Ministers of State with unanswerable conundrums, very probably ruffling the calm waters of Washington with cablegrams of inordinate length and fierce urgency.

He rang the bell for Smith.

"I've just written some letters," he said; "will you send them off to the Ida and ask Captain Wilson to have them posted when he arrives in London or earlier if he calls at any intermediate port."

"Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Beg pardon, sir, but will you be staying on in the palace?"

"For a week or two, Smith."

"Thank you, sir. I'll make all arrangements. Your luggage will be fetched from the steamer. If you leave your keys with me I'll see to the unpacking."

Gorman had no keys.

"By the way, Smith, what's your Christian name?"

"Edward, sir."

"I asked," said Gorman, "because I'd a sort of idea that Captain von Moll called you Fritz last night."

"Very likely, sir. I didn't notice. It struck me, sir—I don't know whether you noticed it—that the German gentleman wasn't quite himself after dinner. He might have called me Fritz, mistaking me for some one else. I understand, sir, that Fritz is a common name in Germany."

"Very likely," said Gorman.

Smith left the room. In ten minutes he was back again.

"Luncheon is served, sir. In the small verandah at the south end of the palace. Shall I show you the way?"

He guided Gorman to the small verandah, a pleasant, shady place, opening off the room in which they had dined the night before.

"Is the Queen coming?" asked Gorman.

"I've sent a maid to inform her Majesty the luncheon is served, sir."

Smith stood ready for his duties at the end of the table. Gorman noticed that three places had been laid.

"Mr. Donovan coming?" he asked.

"No, sir. Mr. Donovan scarcely feels well enough. I'm expecting Mr. Phillips, sir. He's with her Majesty."

"Ah," said Gorman. "They may be late."

They were late. A quarter of an hour late. Gorman guessed the reason at once. No formal announcement was made, but he felt certain that in the course of the morning they had arrived at a satisfactory understanding and were engaged to be married. Gorman felt satisfied that the Emperor's plan for the Queen's future was not quite hopeless.

Luncheon was a difficult meal for him. He did his best to keep up a conversation, but neither the Queen nor Phillips seemed capable of understanding what he said. If they answered him at all they said things which were totally irrelevant. For the most part they did not answer. They gazed at each other a good deal and Gorman detected Phillips trying to hold the Queen's hand under the table. Philips dropped his fork three times. The Queen looked very pretty, much prettier than she had the night before when she was angry with von Moll.

Gorman, in spite of his cynicism, is a kind-hearted man. It gave him a great deal of pleasure to see a girl and a boy in a condition of almost delirious happiness. But he felt that they ought not to be entirely selfish. They intended, apparently, to go off after luncheon, to a distant part of the island, accompanied by Kalliope, whom they could not well shake off. Gorman did not want to be left alone all the afternoon.

"What about going to that cave?" he said. "I'd rather like to find out what von Moll was doing there yesterday."

The Queen and Phillips looked at each other. They had done little less except look at each other since they came in to luncheon. But this time they looked with a new expression. Instead of fatuous felicity, their faces suggested disappointment.

"I think we ought to do it," Gorman went on. "That fellow may have been up to any kind of mischief. By the way, is his cave the one the cisterns are in?"

"Yes," said the Queen.

"That seems to me to settle it," said Gorman. "We certainly ought to take the matter up vigorously and at once."

"I suppose so," said Phillips.

Gorman was really anxious to find out what had been going on in the cave. The fact that von Moll had been acting under the Emperor's orders stimulated curiosity. It had been puzzling enough to discover, in England, that the Emperor was very anxious to remove the Donovans from the island, and was prepared to adopt all sorts of tortuous ways to get rid of them. It was much more puzzling to find a German naval officer engaged in storing large quantities of rubber tubing in a cave. Gorman confesses that he was utterly unable to make any sort of guess at the meaning of the affair. He was all the more anxious to begin his investigation.

The Queen and Phillips cheered up a little when the party started for the cave. Kalliope rowed, as usual. Gorman—all successful politicians are men of tact—settled himself in the bow of the boat. The Queen and Phillips were together in the stern and held each other's hands. Gorman pretended to look at the scenery. Kalliope made no pretence at all. She watched the lovers with a sympathetic smile. She was in no way embarrassed by them.

No one—I judge by Gorman's description—was ever more helplessly in love than Phillips. But even he was roused to other feelings when the boat grounded on the stony beach in the cave. He slipped his hand from the Queen's and sprang ashore. Even from the boat, before crossing the steep stretch of stones, there were some interesting things to be seen. Von Moll had left his rubber tubing in three great coils in front of the cisterns. Gorman and the Queen followed Phillips. The three stood together and stared at the hose. Phillips estimated that there must have been three or four hundred yards of it. The ends of each coil were fitted with brass caps intended to screw together. Any one of them might have been screwed to the cocks of the cisterns.

There were also many large packing-cases, stacked at the end of the row of cisterns. These were strong, well-made cases and carefully nailed up. The only tool possessed by the party was Phillips' clasp knife, a serviceable instrument for many purposes, but no use for opening well-secured packing-cases. Gorman fetched one of the iron rowlocks from the boat, but nothing could be done with it. The cases were very heavy. Gorman and Phillips together could not lift one. It seemed likely that they contained metal of some sort.

The cisterns stood exactly where the Queen and Phillips had seen them before. But now they were full instead of being empty. Phillips and then Gorman tapped them one after another. They were all full, up to the very tops. Phillips wasted no time in speculating about what they contained. The rubber hose was unintelligible. The packing-cases could not be opened. It was at all events possible to find out what the cisterns contained. Phillips turned on one of the taps. A thin, strongly smelling liquid streamed out.

"I know that smell," said the Queen. "It's—it's——"

It is extraordinarily difficult to recognize a smell in such a way as to say definitely what it belongs to. Phillips and Gorman sniffed. Like the Queen they knew the smell but could not name it. It was Gorman who fixed it first.

"Petrol," he said.

"Of course," said the Queen. "I knew I recognized it."

"That's it," said Phillips. "I was thinking of Elliman's Embrocation; but it's petrol, of course."

"There must be gallons of it here," said Gorman. "Thousands of gallons."

Phillips, stretching his arms wide, began to make rough measurements of the cisterns.

"Now why on earth," said Gorman, "should the Emperor want to store up huge quantities of petrol in this cave?"

It seems odd now that any one could possibly have failed to guess what the petrol was for and why it was there. But early in 1914 very few people were thinking about a war with Germany. Gorman, as a politician, must have heard some talk of such a possibility; but no doubt he regarded all he heard as part of the game that politicians play. Gorman is a man with the instincts of a sportsman. He thought, without any bitterness, of the war threat as a move, not a very astute move, on the part of an imperialist party anxious for office. It was comparable to those which his own party played. The Queen and Phillips had never thought about European politics at all.

And nobody, at that time, had guessed at the part which submarines were to play in war. Civilians, even well-informed men like Gorman, regarded submarines as toys, chiefly dangerous to the crews who manned them. Phillips probably knew how they were propelled. Gorman did not. He had never given a thought to the subject. Like most of the rest of us he associated petrol only with motor-cars or possibly with flying machines. It did not connect itself in his mind with submarines.

"That Emperor!" said Gorman. "I'm hanged if I understand."

"The Emperor?" said the Queen. "Why should the Emperor be mixed up with it?"

"Why should the Emperor be mixed up with the island?" said Gorman. "Why should the Emperor be mixed up with you? Why should the Emperor be mixed up with anything? I don't know. I can't guess. But it was the Emperor who sent the stuff here."

Phillips was a young man of practical mind, very little given to inquiring into causes and reasons. But he had a thoroughly British respect for the rights of property and the privileges of ownership.

"Anyhow," he said, "he's no earthly right to dump his stuff here without asking leave. Salissa isn't his island."

From the tap which he had already turned on the petrol was flowing freely. It trickled down among the stones, and some of it had already reached the sea. It was spreading, a smooth, thin film across the water of the cave.

"I vote we run it all off," he said.

He looked at the Queen and then at Gorman.

"If a man puts his cow on my lawn," said Gorman, "I suppose I've a right to turn it out again."

That was approval enough for Phillips. He walked deliberately along the line of cisterns, turning on the taps as he went.

"Hold on a minute," said Gorman. "We don't want the stuff flowing over the Queen's shoes. She must get into the boat."

A few minutes later the water of the cave was entirely covered with petrol. The air was acrid with the smell of it. The Queen held her handkerchief to her nose.

"Let's get out of this as quick as we can," she said.



CHAPTER XIX

The next fortnight was something of a disappointment to Gorman. He admits that. He had made his choice between Ireland and Salissa. It certainly seemed as if he had chosen wrongly. I remember—everybody remembers—how exciting Irish affairs were during the latter half of July, 1914. The country was like a pot, full of water on the verge of boiling. Every day an event of some sort formed like a bubble far down in the depths of Irish life, rose rapidly, and burst on the surface with a little splash. The bubbles were large or small, sometimes no more than pinheads in size, but they were evidences that the boiling point was very near. The surface of the water, that region where governing persons and leaders of public opinion air themselves, was already agitated with odd-looking swirls, sudden swayings, unaccountable swellings, all very ominous of imminent turmoil.

There were landings of arms here and there, furiously denounced by the people who had run their own cargoes the week before or intended to run them the next week. There were hurried gatherings of committees which sat in private conclaves and then issued manifestos which nobody read. Minor officials were goaded into orgies of fussiness. Major officials, statesmen, escaped when they could, to the comparative calm of suffragette-haunted public meetings in England. A Buckingham Palace Conference set all sorts of people arguing about constitutional precedents. It was recognized on all sides that a settlement of the Irish question must somehow be reached. Gorman, if he had stayed at home, would have been in the thick of it all. It is perhaps wrong to say that he would have enjoyed himself thoroughly; but life would have been an interesting and exciting thing. Salissa remained provokingly dull and uneventful.

Gorman went to the cave again, on the day after he had first seen the tanks and run von Moll's petrol to waste. He went by himself. The Queen and Phillips took no further interest in the mystery for the moment. They went off together early in the day and did not return until evening. Even Gorman could not blame them. It was their last day together. It was gloriously fine. The island, with its white cliffs, its golden-sanded coves, its vineyards, its pleasant, shaded groves, was a paradise for lovers. And the Ida—Captain Wilson insisted on that—sailed the next day, carrying Phillips away with her.

Gorman achieved very little by his second visit to the cave. He took with him several tools, a short axe, a screw-driver and a hammer. He forced open some of the packing-cases which were piled near the cistern. They were filled with steel bars of various sizes, steel wrought into various shapes and odd-looking coils of copper wire. Gorman knew little of engineering or mechanics. He was merely puzzled by what he saw. It seemed to him that von Moll had used the cave as a storehouse for uncompleted machines of a complicated kind. What the machines were he did not know. Why von Moll, acting no doubt by the Emperor's orders, should have dumped them there was beyond guessing.

Though Gorman was disappointed he found life on Salissa pleasant enough. He was exceedingly comfortable, thanks to Smith's devotion to duty. He had many long talks with Donovan, which he enjoyed, for Donovan was always amusing and stimulating. He saw a great deal of the Queen, helped her to make plans for the future of the island, listened when she talked about Phillips. There was a mixture of shyness with frank simplicity in the way she spoke about her lover which Gorman found very attractive. Sometimes he went out with Kalliope's lover in the largest island boat and watched the casting of nets. Once or twice he tried to get into intimate conversation with Smith, hoping that the man, caught off his guard, might drop a hint that would give some clue to the meaning of the cisterns, the petrol, the machinery and the Emperor's curious interest in the island. But Smith took shelter behind the manner of a good servant, the most impenetrable of all defences. Gorman never got anything out of him except a deferential "Yes, sir," or, in reply to some leading question, "Don't know, sir, I'm sure." Or perhaps, "Indeed, sir!" in a tone of respectful surprise.

Gorman was at that time inclined to think that he had made a mistake in not going home on the Ida. Apart from the exciting movements of Irish affairs about which he could only speculate, he felt sure that it was in London, not on the island, that the most important developments of the Salissa mystery would take place. He wanted to know what Steinwitz was doing, and whether Konrad Karl was still enjoying his spendthrift holiday in Paris. He would have liked to be in a position to watch the fussy activities of Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton. Later on I was able to tell him something, not of Steinwitz or Konrad Karl, but about Sir Bartholomew. It was impossible to live in London during the latter part of July without perpetually bumping against Bland-Potterton. He was like the ball on a rapidly spun roulette board. He seemed to be flung about from place to place with extreme rapidity in an utterly irregular manner. It was impossible to guess where he would be or in what direction he would move. I came across him one day in Cockspur Street. He was signalling wildly for a taxi-cab. He grasped my arm with his left hand and shook it with frenzied vehemence.

"Just off to the Foreign Office," he said. "Can't wait to talk now. Haven't a minute. See you later."

There was no reason why he should have stopped to talk to me even if he had not been going to the Foreign Office. I should certainly not have tried to detain him. Bland-Potterton bores me. I did indeed see him later, though I certainly did not want to. It was at a reception, a gorgeous but uncomfortable affair in Ellesmere House. Bland-Potterton was in a corner with a highly decorated foreigner who looked like a stage brigand. I found out afterwards that he was the Megalian ambassador. Bland-Potterton was talking to him with intense earnestness.

Another day he dashed at me in the smoking-room of the club. I was half asleep at the moment and desired nothing in the world so much as to be let alone. But Bland-Potterton woke me by whispering in my ear. He might just as well have spoken in the ordinary way. There was only one other man in the room and he was quite asleep. Besides, Bland-Potterton's whisper carries further than most men's conversational voices.

"Have you," he hissed, "any news from Gorman? A letter? A message? Anything?"

"No," I said, "I haven't. Why the deuce should I? Is he gun-running, or threatening to vote against the Government, or likely to be arrested?"

"No, no, no. Nothing of that sort. Nothing to do with Ireland. It's this unfortunate business with the Emperor. But I mustn't say any more. The Embassies are nervous, you know."

"I don't know," I said. "Which Embassies?"

"The—the—the—well, practically all except the Chinese."

"Wonderful people the Chinese," I said. "So calm. We ought to imitate them more than we do."

Bland-Potterton did not think so. He went on fussing. He rushed about London, creating small whirlpools behind him as if he had been a motor-boat. I had the greatest difficulty at times in not being sucked into his wake.

All this Gorman would have enjoyed hugely. I felt sorry that he was missing it. However, in the end he had his compensation.

One day during the last week in July—Gorman is no more to be relied on for an exact date than Donovan or the Queen—a steamer arrived in Salissa. She was a remarkable looking steamer and flew a flag which neither Gorman nor Donovan had ever seen before. She had two small guns, mounted one on the fore-deck and one right aft. She had a smart, well-cared-for look, as if she were a yacht, or belonged to some navy. But she was very old. Gorman says that she reminded him of the pictures of the royal yacht in which Queen Victoria came to Ireland to open Kingstown harbour at the very beginning of her reign. She was a paddle steamer. She had an exaggerated form of fiddle bow, a long bowsprit and two tall masts on which sails might easily have been set.

Gorman is nothing of a sailor and is almost totally uninterested in ships. This steamer must have been very old-fashioned indeed to have struck him as being odd. She arrived in the harbour at midday and splashed about a good deal with her paddles as if she were rather pleased with herself and thought she had a right to the admiration of the islanders. There was only one modern thing about her. The splayed-out wires of a Marconi installation stretched between her masts.

Gorman was sitting with Donovan when the steamer arrived. They had spent a pleasant hour discussing, in a desultory manner, whether a nation gains or loses by having a titled aristocracy. Donovan preferred the British to the American system. Statesmen, he pointed out, must make some return to the rich for the money which they provide to keep politics going. It is on the whole better to give titles than to alter tariffs in return for subscriptions to party funds. The subject was not a very interesting one and both men were pleased when the arrival of the steamer gave them a new topic.

"Seems to me," said Donovan, "that Daisy might gather in some revenue by charging harbour dues. This is the second ship, not reckoning the Ida, which has put in here since I arrived."

"I don't know that flag," said Gorman. "Not that that means anything. I don't suppose there are half a dozen flags that I do know."

"There was some mention made of an Emperor," said Donovan. "Daisy seemed to think that one might come nosing round, thinking to buy the island. Perhaps that's him."

"Hardly in that steamer," said Gorman. "She looks as if she'd been built a hundred years ago. One of the first ever launched, I should think."

"Well," said Donovan, "I'm not an expert in the habits of European Emperors; but I've always been told that the state coach in which the King of England goes to open Parliament dates back quite a bit in the matter of shape. An Emperor might feel that he owed it to his historic past to sail the ocean in the nearest thing he could get to the ark of the patriarch Noah."

The argument was sound; but Gorman was not inclined to think that the Emperor was paying a visit to Salissa in person. He was just going to say so when Smith came on to the balcony. He carried a pair of field glasses in his hand, which he laid on the table beside Donovan's chair.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "I brought up the glasses thinking you might want to look at the strange steamer."

"Do you know the flag, Smith?" asked Gorman.

"No, sir, can't say I do. But she looks like a foreigner. Not English. Shall you want anything more, sir?"

Gorman did not at the moment want anything which Smith would supply. He wanted information, but it was useless to ask for that. Smith, who seemed uninterested in the steamer, left the balcony.

Donovan gazed at the steamer through the glasses.

"Well," he said, "if it's not an Emperor, it's the next thing. That's our little friend Konrad Karl standing on the deck."

He handed the glasses to Gorman.

King Konrad Karl stood beside the gun on the after-deck of the steamer. He looked neat and cool. He was dressed with care in well-fitting light grey clothes, a soft grey hat and white shoes. The glasses were powerful. Gorman could even see that he wore a pale mauve tie.

"I'm pleased to see that monarch," said Donovan. "He seemed to me less starched than most members of your aristocracies when I met him in London. Where's Daisy? She'll be sorry if she misses the opportunity of welcoming a fellow monarch to her shores."

"I'm afraid," said Gorman, "that she's off at the far side of the island. She told me this morning that she was going over there to plan out an electric power station. There's a waterfall somewhere. I haven't seen it myself. The Queen's idea is to make use of it to light the island."

Donovan took up the glasses when Gorman laid them down. He watched the steamer.

"The King is wasting no time," he said. "He's coming ashore right now. They're lowering a boat. I wonder what brings him here."

"He's probably come to persuade you to give the island back to him, re-sell it."

"That deal," said Donovan, "is closed. I'll be obliged to you, Gorman, if you'll make that plain to him."

"I expect the Emperor has sent him."

"I'd expect some pretty lively bidding," said Donovan, "with the Emperor and a king in the ring, if the island was up for auction. But it's not. I'm not going back on my bargain. I'm very well satisfied with Salissa as a place of residence. I feel I might live a long time on Salissa. Come to think of it, there's no reason why any one should ever die here. It's worry and annoyance preying on the human heart, which kill men."

A boat put off from the steamer's side as Donovan spoke. It rowed towards the palace steps. King Konrad Karl sat in the stern.

"Gorman," said Donovan, "it will prolong my days if you go down and meet that king. Make it plain to him that it's no kind of use his trying to talk me round, because I'm not going to listen to him. He's welcome to stay in the palace as long as he likes. But he's not to worry me. If he seems any way determined on talking business, you quote the certificate of that doc."



CHAPTER XX

King Konrad Karl took Gorman's hand and wrung it heartily.

"My friend Gorman," he said. "How are you? But I need not ask. I see. You are top-tipping."

"Thanks," said Gorman. "Salissa agrees with me. And Paris does not seem to have done you any harm."

"Paris! Ah, in Paris one lives, and I am in the pink. But, alas and damn, I leave Paris. I take trains. I travel fast. I embark." He waved his hand towards the steamer. "Finally, I arrive."

"How did you come to embark in that curious-looking ship? I never saw a steamer like her before."

"That," said the King, "is the navy of Megalia. I come as a King, in a state."

"I rather wonder that you trusted yourself to that navy," said Gorman. "After what you told me about the fate of the late king. It was that same steamer, I suppose, which brought the Prime Minister and the rest of them out here to cut your predecessor's throat."

"Otto? Yes. It was the navy. You are right. They killed poor Otto. No doubt they would jump up to the chance to kill me too. But just now they cannot, and I am safe as a bank in England. The Emperor——"

"Ah," said Gorman, "I thought we'd get to the Emperor soon."

"The Emperor said, 'Carry the King to Salissa in the navy of Megalia.' That is all, but that is enough. No, my friend, they will not kill me now. Afterwards perhaps. But afterwards I shall not be here. I shall return to Paris."

"I wonder you ever left Paris," said Gorman, "but I suppose that was the Emperor too."

"You are right. You hit it the first time you shoot. The Emperor sends to me Steinwitz—a cursed pig—a cur dog with mange on him—an outsider from the ranks, that is, I think you say a rank outsider—a bounder, my friend Gorman—a sweeper of chimneys—a swine——"

"I'm sure he's all that. I don't care for the man myself, but tell me what he said to you."

"Steinwitz came into my hotel. He said, 'The American will not sell Salissa. It is necessary that you marry the girl.' I said 'Good. Where is she? To-morrow I will do it.' But he said, 'The girl is not here. It is for you to go to Salissa at once. She is there.' Conceive it, my friend. I did not want to leave Paris. We were happy there, Corinne and I. But at once, in a jiffy, I am off to this place and without Corinne. It is a hard line, for me the hardest line."

"But why the deuce did you do it? Oh, I needn't ask that. The Emperor, of course. Well, I don't know whether you'll be pleased to hear it or not, but you can't marry the girl."

"But—you do not quite understand. For me there is no choice. It is: Damn it, I must. The Emperor——"

"Even the Emperor can't make the same girl marry two men. I happen to know that Miss Donovan is engaged to a young fellow called Phillips, and fifty Emperors yelling at her at once wouldn't make her give him up."

The King seized Gorman's hand and shook it heartily. His face expressed great delight.

"Where," he said, "is the young fellow called Phillips? I wish to see him at once, to embrace him. I shall bestow on him the Order of the Pink Vulture of Megalia, First Class. I shall make him a Count. Do you think, my friend, that he would wish to be a Count? His action is most noble. He is a good sporter. I will now go back to Paris. The Emperor can say no more to me. The young fellow Phillips has married the girl."

"Not quite married her," said Gorman, "but it's nearly the same thing."

The King waved his hand airily.

"It is quite the same thing. No man of honour—the young fellow Phillips is above all a man of honour—would go backwards from his word. Besides there is your English court of broken promises of marriage. He would not face that. I write at once to the Emperor. I tell him that I regret, that I am desolate, but I can do no more. The young fellow Phillips has cut me up—no, has cut out—that is, he has cut me in. Then I return to Paris. To-day I shall start. The navy of Megalia will get up steam and——"

The King stopped abruptly. The smile died on his face. He had all the appearance of extreme dejection.

"My friend," he said, "it will not work. I forgot one thing. I am up in a tree. What am I to do?"

"What's the matter?" said Gorman. "You were just saying you'd go back to Paris. That strikes me as an excellent plan. What's the matter with it?"

"I had forgotten one thing," said the King. "If I cannot marry the girl, I am no longer any use. The Emperor will not care a damn what happens to me. The Admiral of Megalia is there, Gorman, on the navy. The Emperor's command no longer protects. The admiral will say, 'Hell and Hurrah! Now is my chance.'"

"Do you mean to say you think the admiral will assassinate you?"

"It is as certain as two and two and four. If I return to my navy I follow poor Otto at once. The admiral will know that if I cannot marry the girl the Emperor will not care about me. Perhaps it is better after all that I marry her."

"I've told you already that you can't."

"Pooh! You are thinking of the young fellow Phillips. A word to the admiral and Phillips will no longer blockade the way."

"Look here," said Gorman, "there's no use talking that kind of nonsense. Your admiral appears to be a man with a taste for murder, but he can't be allowed to run amok in that way. And Miss Donovan would not marry you even if Phillips was out of the way. Get that into your head once for all."

"Great Scott and damn!" said the King. "Do you think I want to marry her. No, my friend, there is nothing I desire less except to follow poor Otto. I do not want to marry the girl. To be married to her would make me bored, but it would make me much more bored to die."

"The thing for you to do," said Gorman, "is to stay where you are. Don't go on board your navy. Donovan has asked you to stay at the palace. You'll be safe here. We won't even ask the admiral to dinner if you'd rather we didn't."

"It will be dull, dull as the water of a ditch," said the King mournfully.

"You needn't stay here for ever," said Gorman. "There'll be an English ship back in a short time and you can go home in her. Madame will be waiting for you all right."

"Poor Corinne!" said the King. "I left her in Paris. Steinwitz said so, and he spoke for the Emperor. 'You go to marry,' he said, 'therefore Madame must stay.'"

"From his point of view he was right there," said Gorman, "and it's just as well that Madame did not come with you. Donovan is a broad-minded man; but you couldn't expect him to put up you and Madame in the palace. It would be trying him rather high."

"Ah," said the King. "Poor Corinne! She will be desolate."

"Well," said Gorman, "you'd better come along now and see Donovan. He ought to be down here to receive you, of course. But these Americans—I'm sure you'll understand—they're not accustomed to kings."

"Say no more," said the King, "not a word. I go to pay my respects. I bow. I abase myself. I am a king. It is true. But I have no money, only a little, a very little left. He is not a king, but he has money. Gorman, I am not a Bourbon. I am able to learn and forget. He who can write a cheque is a greater man than he who can confer the Order of the Pink Vulture of Megalia. I have learned that. Also I can forget, forget that I am a king."

We must do Konrad Karl justice. No king was ever more willing to forget his rank than he was. The real trouble with him was that he seldom remembered it.

"Come along then," said Gorman, "but don't get talking business to Donovan."

"Business! Why do you so often misunderstand me, you who ought to know me well? First you think that I desire to marry that girl—as if it were possible that I should. Then you fear that I will talk business. Am I one that talks business ever, to any one, if I can help it?"

"I mean," said Gorman, "don't say anything about buying the island or marrying the girl. Donovan's heart is dicky, or he thinks it is, which comes to the same thing—and any sort of worry upsets him."

"I see it," said the King. "I understand. Trust me. Mumm will be the word. Mumm extra sec. Mumm at 190 shillings a dozen. You can trust me."

King Konrad Karl made himself most agreeable to Donovan. He did not once mention the sale of the island or hint at a marriage with the Queen. He talked about the scenery. He discussed the character, manners and customs of the inhabitants. He inquired whether Donovan were satisfied with the palace, admitted frankly that the accommodation was not all that could be desired. In just such a way an English gentleman might converse with a satisfactory tenant to whom he had let his country house for the hunting season. Donovan repeated the invitation which Gorman had given in his name, and pressed the King to treat the palace as his own during his stay in Salissa. The King accepted the invitation with profuse thanks. Donovan rang a bell which lay on the table beside him.

"I'll tell Smith," he said, "to get your luggage ashore right now and fix up a room for you."

I have always admired Smith. He is not only competent in practical affairs. He has nerve and coolness of a very high order. He found himself in a difficult position when Donovan's bell sounded. He knew that the King had landed, knew that he was with Donovan and Gorman on the balcony. In Smith's position I think I should have sent some one else to take Donovan's orders, one of the island girls, or one of the boys who were by that time presentable footmen. I should, I feel sure, have concealed myself, feigned sickness, made any excuse, rather than face the King in the presence of Donovan and Gorman. But Smith is greatly my superior. He appeared at once in answer to the summons of the bell. He stood half-way between Donovan's chair and the door which opened on the balcony. He did not even glance at the King. But the King recognized him at once.

"Ah," he said. "It is, yes. Hell's delight! It is the excellent Fritz. It is so long since I have seen you, Fritz, I began to think you were dead."

"No, your Majesty, not yet," said Smith. "I hope your Majesty is quite well, and Mr. Steinwitz, if you'll excuse my asking. I hope Mr. Steinwitz is quite well."

"That swine," said the King, "is, as always, swallowing in the mire."

"You'll excuse my asking, your Majesty," said Smith, "but I like to hear about Mr. Steinwitz. It was Mr. Steinwitz who got me my present situation—a very good situation, your Majesty."

"Smith," said Donovan, "get the King's luggage ashore. He's going to stay here for a bit. You must make him as comfortable as you can."

"Yes, sir," said Smith. "I'll see to that, sir, at once. Anything else, sir?"

"Not now," said Donovan.

"Thank you, sir," said Smith.

Then he left the balcony. Many men, perhaps most men, would not have gone far away, would have lingered near one of the open windows which gave on the balcony, nervously anxious to hear what was said about them. Smith was not in the least nervous. He went straight to the landing steps and was to be seen a few moments later rowing out to the steamer. He probably guessed pretty accurately what questions Donovan and Gorman would ask. He must have known what King Konrad Karl would tell them. He would discover in due time what they decided to do. There was no real need for eavesdropping. Yet I think most men would have tried to listen.

"Seems to me," said Donovan to the King, "that you're acquainted with Smith. I'm not asking questions. It's no affair of mine, anyway. Don't say a word unless you like. I'm not curious."

"I am," said Gorman, "infernally curious. Who is Smith?"

"For five years," said the King, "perhaps for more—who knows—he has walked on my shadow. He has been a beagle hound, nose down, on my smell, pursuing it. Never until last April has he run off the tracks."

"Blackmail?" said Donovan.

The King looked puzzled, though "blackmail" is a word he might have been expected to know. Gorman explained.

"Getting money out of you," he said, "for hushing up any inconvenient little episodes, undertaking not to tell stories he happened to have heard. You know the sort of thing I mean."

"No man," said the King sadly, "can get money out of me. It is like—how do you say?—the riding breeches of the Scottish soldiers, not there. Nor do I say hush about my little episodes. Pooh! my friend Gorman. These episodes, what are they? The English middling classes like to pretend that there are no episodes. But there are, always, and we others—we do not say hush."

"If it wasn't blackmail," said Donovan, "what kept him tracking you?"

"Ask my friend Gorman," said the King. "He knows."

"I do not," said Gorman, "unless——"

King Konrad Karl smiled pleasantly.

"Unless——" said Gorman. "Oh, damn it all. I suppose it was the Emperor."

"You have it," said the King. "He is of the Emperor's secret service. He and Steinwitz. Steinwitz I do not like. He is an arrogant. He assumes always the attitude of the dog on top. But of Fritz I make no complaint. He is always civilian."

"I'd gather that," said Gorman, "from the little I've seen of him. If we must have a spy here—and of course there's no help for that since the Emperor says so—it's better to have an agreeable one. His job at present, I suppose, is to keep an eye on Donovan and the island generally."

"That Emperor," said Donovan, "seems to me to butt in unnecessarily. But I'm obliged to him. Smith is the best servant I've struck since I first took to employing a hired help."

"It will be sad," said the King, "when you kill him. A great loss."

"I don't know," said Donovan, "that I mean to kill him. He's a valuable man."

"The proper thing to do," said Gorman, "is to put him on board the Megalian navy and leave him to the admiral."

"Seems a pity," said Donovan. "I don't see how I could make my way along the rugged path of life without Smith. He hasn't done me any kind of harm so far. I think I'll wait a bit. It would worry me to have to step down and take hold now. My heart——"

"What I can't get at even yet," said Gorman, "is the idea in the Emperor's mind. He piles up scrap iron and ridiculous-looking cisterns in a cave. He deluges the place with petrol. He sets a spy on Donovan. Now what the devil does he do it for?"

The King shrugged his shoulders.

"Real Politik, perhaps," he said. "But how do I know? I am a king, certainly. But I am not a whale on the sea of Real Politik. Your whale is a fish that bores, always. Perhaps if you ask Fritz he will know."

"By the way," said Donovan, "what's the man's real name?"

"Once," said the King, "he was Calmet, M. de Calmet. At that time he was French. Later he was Heyduk, a Captain in the army of Megalia. Also he was Freidwig, and he came from Stockholm. He was for some time the Count Pozzaro. I have also heard——"

"That's enough for me," said Donovan. "I'll stick to Smith as long as he'll answer to it. Seems simpler."

Gorman rose from his chair and crossed the balcony. He stood for a minute or two looking out at the bay. Smith's boat, rowed steadily, reached the side of the steamer. Smith climbed on board.

"I shouldn't wonder," said Gorman, "if we've seen the last of our friend Smith."

"I hope not," said Donovan. "Why do you think so?"

"Well," said Gorman, "if I were in his shoes I think I should stay in the Megalian navy. It'll be rather awkward for him now we've found him out."

"He will return," said the King.

"I shouldn't," said Gorman. "Of course that admiral, being the kind of man he is, it's risky to stay with him; but then Smith has got to take risks whatever he does. And he may have some sort of safe conduct from the Emperor which will make the admiral nervous about cutting his throat."

"He will return," said the King. "It is plain that the Emperor has said to him: 'Follow the smell of the American.' He will not leave it."

"Oh, of course," said Gorman. "I'm always forgetting the Emperor. If he has given definite orders of that kind they'll be obeyed. I daresay Smith is telegraphing for definite instructions at this moment. They have a wireless installation, so I suppose he can."

"Behold," said the King. "My luggage descends to the boat. Smith will follow. Did I not tell you?"

Two sailors were lowering various suit-cases and bags into the boat. A few minutes later Smith dropped from the steamer's side and took the oars.

"Donovan," said Gorman, "the Emperor is evidently really anxious about your smell."



CHAPTER XXI

I do not think that the Emperor's plan for restoring Salissa to the Crown of Megalia by means of a marriage would have worked, even if there had been no such person as Maurice Phillips. The Queen did not like Konrad Karl. She was not, of course, openly disagreeable or uncivil to him. She was too sweet-tempered and good-hearted to be disagreeable to any one, and she had a strong sense of what was due to a guest in her house. But it was plain enough not only to Gorman, but to the King himself, that she did not like him. This does not appear to have been the King's fault. Konrad Karl had many of the instincts of a gentleman. It is an odd fact, but I think undeniable, that a man may be a blackguard and remain a gentleman. There was, for instance, no fault to be found with Konrad Karl's behaviour towards the Queen, though he had come to the island intending to insult her by marrying her. He did his best to talk pleasantly to her, and he could be very pleasant when he chose. He never attempted to flirt with her. His manner was always respectful and he tried to help her in various ways, even going to her school in the mornings and giving the children drawing lessons. She could not herself have told why she disliked him. She certainly had no idea that there was any question of his marrying her. But she slipped into the habit of spending most of her time in the boat with Kalliope. Konrad Karl used to go down to the palace steps and see her off. He never ventured into a boat himself. He had an uneasy feeling that the Megalian admiral was watching him and would kidnap him at once if he left the security of the land.

The Queen's unfriendliness did not trouble him much.

"The American girl," he said to Gorman, "would not have done for me, or do I say she would have done for me? Which is it?"

"Well," said Gorman, "either expresses your meaning and I quite agree with you. She would not have done for you, and in the long run if you didn't do for her she would certainly have done for you."

"The English language is wonderful," said the King. "She would not, and she would. It is the same in English. But my meaning is true. It is well I did not marry her. I must give many thanks to Phillips. If Phillips had not done for her I should have been done for."

"As it is," said Gorman, "it's the Emperor who's done."

"Ah," said the King. "I give in. I give up. I give out. That word 'done'—it is too much for me."

It was not like the King to give in to an English idiom. As a rule he rushed at one the minute he heard it with reckless confidence. But he was depressed and lonely on Salissa. He chatted cheerily enough to Donovan. He was always bright and talkative at meals. But he confessed to Gorman several times that he missed Madame Ypsilante very much.

It was Gorman's curious fortune at this time to receive the love confidences of three different people. Phillips had poured raptures into his ear during the voyage to the island. The Queen, having no one else to treat as a confidant, often talked to him about Phillips. The King was expansive about Madame Ypsilante. One evening he became very sentimental, almost lachrymose. He and Gorman were sitting together near the flagstaff, smoking and looking out towards the harbour where the Megalian navy still lay at anchor.

"Ah," said the King, "my poor Corinne! She will languish. I think of Corinne and I see that her eyes are full of mourning, like the eyes of a wood dove. Gorman, I cannot bear the weight. It will be better that I take the risk, that I go on the navy. The admiral will make me walk a plank. That is certain. But it might be that I should survive. And then I should rejoin Corinne, poor Corinne who mourns."

"I don't expect she's mourning as much as all that," said Gorman. "She's got those pearls, you know."

"I," said the King, "I alone am her pearl. But, alas, I cannot even write to her. She will think that I am dead and her heart will fall to pieces."

"She's much more likely to think that you've married Miss Donovan," said Gorman.

"Of course she will think that. It was what I came to do. That she will not mind. But if she thinks that I am dead, that the admiral has cooked a goose for me; then she will indeed be sad. Gorman, my friend, what shall I do to reassure her?"

"I can't possibly advise you," said Gorman. "I don't understand women. I should have thought she'd much rather you were dead than married to Miss Donovan."

"Ah no," said the King. "Believe me, my friend, you know much; but you do not know the heart of Corinne."

The King's faith was very touching. But Gorman still maintains that he was not far wrong about Madame Ypsilante's feelings. She might not actually have preferred the King's death; but she certainly did not want to see him married to Miss Donovan.

The King drew a last mouthful of smoke from his cigar and then flung the end of it into the sea.

"Gorman," he said, "what is it that your great English poet had so beautifully said? 'If you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy.' That is Corinne and me. 'A garden of Eden just made for two.' That is Paris. I have always admired the English poets. It is so true, what they say."

He gazed out across the bay as he spoke. The sun was setting. The water was exquisitely calm. It was a moment for the most luscious sentiment. Even Gorman, to whom sentiment is an abhorrent kind of indecency, felt uncomfortable.

A small boat slipped round the southern headland of the bay. She was rowing fast. The King jumped to his feet suddenly. He pointed to the boat. He waved his arms wildly.

"Buck up," he shouted, "it is—I will eat my hat—it is Corinne! She comes to me!"

"Nonsense," said Gorman. "That's Miss Donovan's boat. She's coming home for dinner. Sit down and don't get excited."

"I am sorry," said the King, "but I cannot. It is impossible for me to keep on my hair when Corinne is coming."

"Corinne isn't coming," said Gorman. "How could she?"

"I see her. I see her. The dickens, and Great Jupiter, my eyes see her."

"You can't tell one woman from another at that distance. What you see is either Miss Donovan or Kalliope."

The boat drew rapidly nearer. Gorman stared at her.

"There are three women," he said. "I wonder who the other is."

"Corinne. Corinne," said the King.

To Gorman's amazement the King was right. The boat reached the landing steps. In her were the Queen, Kalliope and a very dishevelled Madame Ypsilante. That lady was never, at any time of her life, an outdoor woman. When she travelled it was in the wagons-lits of trains-de-luxes, and in specially reserved cabins of steamers. Her journey to Salissa had been performed in far less luxurious ways and her appearance had suffered. Her complexion was streaky. Her hair straggled about a good deal, and several damp-looking locks hung like thick bootlaces around her face. Her dress was crumpled and had two large patches of dirt on it. But all this made no difference to the King. He folded her in his arms and kissed her directly she got out of the boat.

"Corinne," he said, "now I shall be no longer sad."

Madame returned his kisses with vigour.

"My Konrad," she said, "and you are not married after all."

It was that remark, her greeting to the King, which made Gorman feel sure that he had been right about her feeling, that she really did not like the idea of the marriage.

Konrad Karl took her by the hand and led her into the palace.

The Queen was still sitting in the stern of the boat. Since Madame Ypsilante fell into Konrad Karl's arms the Queen had turned her back on the landing slip and gazed steadily out to sea. Only when the sound of their footsteps made her sure that her guests were going into the palace did she venture to look round cautiously.

"It's all right," said Gorman. "You can come on shore."

He held out his hand to her.

"And do tell me," he said, "where you found her. She looked to me rather as if she had been washed up some time yesterday and had spent last night in a cave."

"Who is she?" said the Queen.

"Her name," said Gorman, "is Ypsilante, Madame Corinne Ypsilante."

"She told me that much. But I want to know what is she?"

The question was an awkward one to answer. Gorman did the best he could.

"A friend of the King's," he said.

"Well," said the Queen. "He'll be able to marry her now. The poor thing was in dreadful distress. She thought he was going to marry me. And she's engaged to him. She told me so herself."

I am sure that Gorman did not smile; but there must have been a twinkle in his eyes which betrayed him. The Queen is extremely quick at reading such signs. She turned on him sharply.

"Aren't they engaged to be married?" she asked.

"Kings," said Gorman, "are in a peculiar position with regard to these matters. Their matrimonial arrangements are not made in what we regard as the normal way. To speak of a king as being 'engaged' is——"

"I'm a queen."

"Of course. Of course."

"And I'm engaged to be married; so why can't he be? Anyhow he is, for she told me so. I asked her and she said yes!"

Gorman did not feel equal to arguing about the precise nature of Madame Ypsilante's claims on the King.

"You haven't told me yet where you found her," he said.

"Kalliope and I," said the Queen, "were picnicking in a little bay a long way from this, quite the other side of the island. There was a fishing boat standing in towards the shore. It came to our beach and she got out. That's all."

"Quite simple after all," said Gorman. "I suppose you were scarcely even surprised."

"Well, I was rather," said the Queen, "just at first until she told me."

"Told you what?" said Gorman. "You're skipping all the interesting part."

"Don't be stupid," said the Queen. "She told me about being engaged to the King and thinking that he was going to marry me. Of course, when she thought that she came here as quick as ever she could to see him. Any one would. Not that I'd ever think such a thing about Maurice. But then he wouldn't. Still, I quite understand her coming here in a boat. But I do wonder what made her think he was going to marry me. He never even tried. Who could have told her such a thing?"

"Probably the Emperor," said Gorman.

The Queen burst out laughing.

"I believe," she said, "that if the house fell down and Kalliope eloped with Smith and father took to rowing races with old Stephanos you'd put it all down to the Emperor."

"I would," said Gorman.

"Anyhow, I'm going to dress now. Come along, Kalliope."

Madame Ypsilante, very much to Gorman's relief, did not appear at dinner. She went straight to bed, intending, so the King said, to stay there for twenty-four hours at least.

Later in the evening, after the Queen had left them, Konrad Karl, Donovan and Gorman sat together smoking. For a while no one spoke. At last Konrad Karl, who had no gift of silence, began:

"My poor Corinne! She was desolate. I told you, Gorman, that she would be desolate, but you would not believe. Yet it was so. Steinwitz said, 'No. You cannot go with the King.' But she was more than too much, she was the equal of Steinwitz. She told him all she thought of him. It was much."

"I don't like Steinwitz," said Gorman, "but what I know of Madame's conduct in moments of strong emotion I'm inclined to pity the man."

"Then," said the King, "she was like a bee, making lines for Salissa."

"She did pretty well," said Gorman, "considering that she could only get a fishing boat for the last part of the journey. I wonder she got here so soon. But look here, you know—it seems a beastly thing to say, but——"

Here Donovan roused himself.

"I'm not a narrow-minded man," he said, "and I hope I'm not the victim of prejudice; but I'm afraid——"

King Konrad Karl waved his hand. Then he stood up, swallowed half a glass of brandy and laid down his cigar.

"I am Konrad Karl of Megalia," he said. "I am a black sheep, very black. I am a blackguard. You say it, Donovan. You say it, Gorman, my friend."

"I didn't," said Gorman.

"Cut that part," said Donovan. "Nobody wants to start in abusing you."

"I am," said the King with an air of simple pride, "I am a blackguard, the blackest guard of all. Good. But I am a King and I am a gentleman. Good. I know that poor Corinne must go. She cannot stay here. That is what you would say, and you are right. I know it. There are les convenances. There is the charming Miss Donovan."

"That's it," said Donovan. "If it were simply a matter of Gorman and me——I don't like saying these things—but——"

"But you are right," said the King. "Right as nails. Corinne must go. But I go with her. To-morrow we depart, she and I. We take a boat. I row with oars. We fly. The navy of Megalia pursues. It overtakes. Good. We die. Perhaps the navy mistakes. It pursues by another route, a way we have not gone. Good. We live. Either way you shut us. No. We shut you. No. I have it. We are shut of us."

"That's rather a hopeless programme," said Gorman. "I don't suppose you can row much."

"I cannot row at all," said the King.

"The navy is a pretty rotten-looking tub," said Gorman. "But it can hardly help catching you. You won't even be out of sight before it has steam up."

The King sat down, looking very miserable. He made no pretence of liking the prospect before him.

"And Corinne," he murmured, "will be sick, as a dog is sick. She is sick always at sea."

Gorman and Donovan felt sorry for him. Donovan was particularly irritated at the situation in which he found himself.

"If it wasn't for my daughter——" he said. "But, damn it all, what can I do?"

"I wonder," said Gorman, "if it would be possible to—well, shall we say regularize the situation?"

He looked inquiringly at Donovan and then at the King. Donovan grasped the idea first.

"That's it," he said. "Look here," he turned to the King. "Why the hell don't you marry her at once? Then everything would be all right."

"Marry her!" said the King. "But that——Oh, damn! Oh Great Scott! That is impossible. You do not understand."

"It's the right thing to do," said Donovan, "besides being the only possible way out of the hole we are in. And I don't see the impossibility. If you're holding back on account of any mediaeval European notions about monarchs being a different kind of flesh and blood from other people——"

"It is not that," said the King.

"If it is," said Donovan, "you may just go off in a boat and be drowned. I shan't pity you."

"But it is not that." The King jumped about with excitement. "I am a king, it is true. But I am a man of liberated soul. I say 'Kings, what are kings?' Democracy is the card to play, the trump. I play it now and always. I have no prejudices. But when you say to me: 'There is no impossibility, marry Corinne,' I reply: 'You do not understand. There is one thing more to reckon with.' Donovan, you have forgotten——"

"I haven't forgotten," said Gorman. "I never get a chance of forgetting. It's the Emperor, as usual."

"You have shot the bull in his eye," said the King. "Donovan, it is that. Gorman knows. There is the Emperor. Therefore I cannot marry Corinne."

"I'd see that Emperor a long way," said Donovan, "before I'd allow him to dictate to me."

"Ah," said the King, "but you do not understand the Emperor."

"I don't believe any one does," said Gorman.

"Well," said Donovan, "I do not understand your Emperor. I own up to that. But you think over my suggestion, and you'll find, Emperor or no Emperor, there isn't any genuine obstacle."



CHAPTER XXII

King Konrad Karl slept badly that night. Donovan's plan seemed to him quite hopeless. He went to bed fully persuaded that he and his beloved Corinne would have to embark next day and make a considerable voyage in an open boat. I do not blame him for being disturbed at the prospect. I am fond of boats myself and can enjoy a ten-tonner very well; but nothing would induce me to go to sea with Madame Ypsilante in anything less comfortable than a well-equipped steam yacht of 1,000 tons. Besides there was the pursuit of the Megalian navy to be considered.

The King was not the only person who missed his proper sleep. Gorman lay awake for two hours. He was tormented by the feeling that it was barbarous to turn Konrad Karl and Madame Ypsilante adrift in a boat. Donovan was more fortunate. He slept untroubled by any worry about his guests. It seemed to him the simplest thing in the world that the King should marry Madame next day. Stephanos should perform the ceremony. Stephanos officiated at all the islanders' marriages.

There was, as it turned out, neither a flight nor a wedding next day. Madame Ypsilante developed a feverish chill. She was plainly quite unfit for a boat voyage and in no condition to be married. The Queen and Kalliope took up the work of nursing her with enthusiasm. The Queen would not listen to a word Gorman said to her. Her view was that Madame Ypsilante was the heroine of a splendid romance, that she had fled to her fiance across land and sea, braving awful dangers, enduring incredible hardships for dear love's sake. She felt that she would have done the same thing herself if Phillips, by any trick of fate, had been marooned on a South Pacific island. There was plainly no use trying to hint at delicate proprieties to a girl in such a mood. Gorman, after one or two attempts, gave it up.

He had, indeed, quite early in the day, other things to attend to. At about ten o'clock there were signs of great activity on board the Megalian navy. The crew—there appeared to be about fifteen men altogether—was paraded on deck and addressed from the bridge by the admiral. The speech must have been an exciting and important one, for the admiral gesticulated violently. When he stopped, the crew cheered. Gorman watched the proceedings. He was interested—as an expert—in the effects of oratory.

When the cheering was over, the admiral gave two or three orders. The crew immediately began to run about the deck in a confused and tumultuous manner. After a while they settled down to the work of getting the covers off the steamer's two guns. Some shells—Gorman supposed they must be shells—were carried on deck. The guns were swung round and pointed at the palace. Then they were loaded. A solemn business, very carefully carried out under the immediate eye of the admiral.

King Konrad Karl came running to Gorman. He was in a state of considerable excitement.

"That admiral," he said, "has it in mind to stone the palace. He has stones for those guns. I know it."

"If it was a matter of stones," said Gorman, "but they look to me more like shells."

"Shells, stones, it is the same. He will batter, destroy, slay. Gorman, my friend, it must not be."

"Why the devil does he want to do it?" said Gorman. "Now don't say Real Politik or the Emperor. I simply can't believe that either one or the other would set that pirate shooting at us."

"It is Real Politik, without doubt," said the King. "And it is the Emperor. But it is also me, me, Konrad Karl of Megalia. I am—what is it you say in English?—I am wanted. And I go. I offer myself. I become a ewe lamb of sacrifice. I say good-bye. I leave Corinne. I go. Then the admiral will not stone the palace."

"Don't start for a minute or two yet," said Gorman. "The pirate is sending a boat ashore. We may as well hear what he has to say."

It was the admiral himself who landed. He was in full dress. His uniform was almost entirely covered with gold braid. Gold cords with tassels at their ends hung in festoons across his chest and down his back. He carried a large sword in a highly gilt sheath. On his head was a cocked hat with a tall pink feather in it, perhaps a plume from the tail of the Megalian vulture.

Gorman received him with great respect and led him up to Donovan's room.

The admiral saluted Donovan gravely, and held out a large paper carefully folded and sealed. Donovan offered him a cigar and a drink, in a perfectly friendly way. The admiral replied by pushing his paper forward towards Donovan. He knew no English. That was the only possible way of explaining the fact that he ignored the offer of a drink. Donovan nodded towards Gorman, who took the document from the admiral and opened it.

"Seems to me to be a kind of state paper," he said. "Rather like an Act of Parliament to look at; but it's written in a language I don't know. Suppose we send for the King and get him to translate."

"If it's an Act of Parliament," said Donovan, "we'd better have Daisy up too. She's responsible for the government of this island."

The admiral guessed that his document was under discussion. He did not know English, but he knew one word which was, at that time, common in all languages.

"Ultimatum," he said solemnly.

"That so?" said Donovan. "Then we must have Daisy."

I am inclined to think that Miss Donovan will never be a first-rate queen. She is constitutionally incapable of that particular kind of stupidity which is called dignity. In that hour of her country's destiny, her chief feeling was amusement at the appearance of the admiral. She did not know, perhaps, that the guns of the Megalian navy were trained on her palace. But she ought to have understood that dignified conduct is desirable in dealing with admirals. She sat on the corner of the table beside her father's chair and swung her legs. She smiled at the admiral. Now and then she choked down little fits of laughter.

King Konrad Karl took the matter much more seriously.

He unfolded the paper which Gorman handed to him. He frowned fiercely and then became suddenly explosive.

"Deuce and Jove and damn!" he said. "This is the limitation of all. Listen, my friends, to the cursed jaw—no, the infernal cheek, of this: 'The Megalian Government requires——'"

He stopped, gasped, struck at the paper with his hand.

"Go on," said Gorman. "There's nothing very bad so far. There is a Megalian Government, I suppose?"

"But I—I am the Megalian Government," said the King.

"It will be time enough to take up those points of constitutional law afterwards. Let's hear what's in the paper first."

The King read on. His anger gave way by degrees to anxiety and perplexity.

"I cannot translate," he said. "The English language does not contain words in which to express the damned cheek of these flounders. They say that you," he pointed to the Queen, "and you, Donovan, and you, my friend Gorman, must go at once on the Megalian navy. It will carry you to Sicily. It will put you there in a dump, and you must embark before noon. Great Scott!"

"Oh, but that's just silly," said the Queen. "We shan't take any notice of it."

"In that case the admiral shoots," said the King. "At noon, sharp up to time, precise."

"Well," said Donovan, "I guess I don't mean to move."

"But," said the King, "he can shoot. The navy of Megalia has shells for its guns. It has six. I know it, for I bought them myself when I sat on that cursed throne. Six, my friends."

"That's a comfort, anyway," said Donovan. "According to my notion of the efficiency of that navy it will miss the island altogether with the first five and be darned lucky if it knocks a chip off a cliff with the sixth."

The Queen stopped swinging her feet and laughing at the admiral. She was much more serious now. There was a gleam in her eyes which caught Gorman's attention.

"Father," she said, "I'm going to hoist the American flag. I have one in my room."

"Seems a pity," said Donovan. "Your blue banner is nice enough."

"No one," said the Queen, "would dare to fire on the Stars and Stripes."

Miss Donovan, though an independent queen, was a patriotic American citizen. In those days there were a good many patriotic American citizens who believed that no one would dare to fire on the Stars and Stripes. King Konrad Karl knew better.

"Alas," he said, "your Stars! your Stripes! if it were the Megalian Government it would not dare. But this is not the ultimatum outrage of the Megalian Government. Behind it, in the rear of its elbow, stands——"

"Of course he does," said Gorman.

"That darned Emperor?" said Donovan.

Gorman nodded.

"Daisy," said Donovan, "I just hate to shatter your ideals, but I reckon that Emperor would as soon fire on one flag as another; and what's more, I'm not inclined to think that Old Glory is liable to do much in the way of putting up a battle afterwards. It's painful to you, Daisy, as a patriotic citizen; but what I say is the fact. In the Middle West where I was raised we don't think guns and shooting constitute the proper way of settling international differences. We've advanced some from those ideas. We're a civilized people, specially in the dry States where university education is rife and the influence of women permeates elections. We've attained a nobler outlook upon life."

The Queen was on her feet. Her eyes were flashing. Her lips trembled with indignation.

"Father," she said, "are you going to let yourself be bullied by—by that thing?" She pointed to the admiral with a gesture of contempt. "Are you going to sneak on to his ship? Oh, if I were a man I'd hoist the Stars and Stripes and fight. If they killed us America would avenge us."

"You take me up wrong, Daisy," said Donovan. "I don't say I wouldn't fight if I had a gun. I might, and that's a fact. But the way I'm fixed at present, not having a gun, I intend to experiment with the methods of peaceful settlement. I'm not above admitting that I share the lofty notions of the cultivated disciples of peace. I'm a humanitarian, and opposed on principle to the sacrifice of human life. I just hate butting in and taking hold. The disordered nature of my heart makes it dangerous for me to exert myself. But it seems to me that this is a case in which I just have to. But if I do, I want to handle things my own way. So you run away now, Daisy. Get that blue banner of yours fluttering in the breeze, defying death and destiny." He turned to Konrad Karl. "I'd be obliged to you," he said, "if you'd tell that highly coloured ocean warrior that I count on him not to start shooting till the time mentioned in his ultimatum. That leaves me an hour and a quarter to work with the nobler weapons of civilized pacifist conviction. Tell him to go back to his ship and see that his men don't get monkeying with those six shells. Gorman," he went on, "you get hold of Smith and send him up here to me."

I think it was then that Gorman first realized the strength of Donovan's personality. The Queen, though she was in a high passion of patriotism and defiance, left the room without a word. Konrad Karl spluttered a little, uttering a series of ill-assorted oaths, but he walked off the Megalian admiral and put him into a boat. Gorman himself did what he was told without asking for a word of explanation.



CHAPTER XXIII

Gorman led Smith to Donovan's room. The man must have known all about the Megalian admiral's threat. He probably understood, better than any one else on the island, the meaning and purpose of the ultimatum presented to Donovan. But he showed no signs of embarrassment or excitement. When Gorman summoned him—he was brushing a pair of Konrad Karl's trousers at the moment—he apologized for having put Gorman to the trouble of looking for him. When he entered the room where Donovan waited he stood quietly near the door in his usual attitude of respectful attention.

Donovan greeted him as if he had been a friend and not a servant.

"Take a chair, Smith, and sit down. I want to talk to you."

Smith refused to accept this new position.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather stand. Seems more natural, sir."

Gorman, who had followed Smith into the room, hovered uncertainly near the door. He very much wanted to hear what Donovan had to say; but he was not quite sure whether he was meant to be present.

"Any objection to my staying?" he asked. "I'm interested in international peace movements and Hague Conferences. I'd like to hear how you mean to work this affair."

"Sit down," said Donovan, "but don't get interrupting. Now that I've taken hold I mean to handle this damned business my own way."

Gorman sat down and lit his pipe. Donovan turned to Smith.

"You're a valuable man, Smith," he said, "and I'd like to retain your services."

"Thank you, sir," said Smith. "I've done my best to give satisfaction."

"But if you're to stay on with me," said Donovan, "we've got to have some straight talk. I'd like it to be clearly understood that your engagement with me is to be a whole-time job for the future."

"More satisfactory, sir, certainly."

"At present," said Donovan, "you're also engaged by Mr. Steinwitz."

"Not by Mr. Steinwitz, sir, if you'll excuse my correcting you. By the Emperor."

Gorman groaned deeply. Smith turned to him, solicitous, anxious to be of use.

"Beg pardon, sir, can I do anything for you, sir? Anything wrong, sir?"

"No," said Gorman, "no. The mention of the Emperor upsets me a little. That's all. Don't do it again, if you can help it, Smith. I'm sorry, Donovan. I didn't mean to interrupt."

Smith turned to Donovan again.

"Perhaps I should say, sir, the Imperial Secret Service."

"Salary?" said Donovan.

He showed no surprise, anger or disgust. Smith was equally cool. He answered the question snapped at him as if it had been the most natural in the world.

"Well, sir, that depends. The salary varies according to circumstances. And there are allowances, travelling, sir, and subsistence, sometimes."

"Average?" said Donovan, "average net profit?"

Smith thought for a minute before answering. He was apparently anxious to be accurate and honest.

"I think, sir, I may say L200 a year, taking one thing with another."

"Well," said Donovan, "I'll double that, in addition to what I'm paying you at present; on condition that you're in my service only. As I said before, Smith, you're a valuable man."

"Thank you, sir," said Smith. "Very generous of you. I appreciate the offer, but——"

He paused. He had some objection to make, but he hesitated to put it into words.

"I treble the Emperor's two hundred pounds," said Donovan.

"I beg pardon, sir. I wasn't meaning to stand out for a larger salary. That's not my point, sir. What I was going to say, sir, was——"

Again he hesitated.

"Patriotic scruples?" said Donovan. "Loyal to the Emperor? Feel kind of mean deserting the service of your country?"

"Oh no, sir, not at all. Scruples aren't in my line, sir, and I am Swiss by birth. No particular feeling of loyalty to anybody. The fact is, sir, a man must keep his self-respect. I daresay you'll understand. I had no objection to taking on a valet's job, sir, in the way of business, as an agent of the Intelligence Department. But it's rather a different thing, sir—if you catch my point—to enter domestic service as a profession. A man doesn't like to lose caste, sir."

"That's a real difficulty," said Donovan. "As an American citizen I understand your feeling and respect it. See any way out?"

"It occurs to me, sir—it's for you to decide, of course. But it occurs to me that if I might enter the Intelligence Department of Salissa, there'd be no interference with my work in the palace. Anything I could do to make you comfortable. But as agent of the Queen's Secret Service I should be——I hope you catch my point, sir. You see I held a commission at one time in the Megalian Army."

"You may consider yourself engaged, Smith," said Donovan, "or perhaps I ought to say nominated, as head of the Intelligence Department of the Kingdom of Salissa."

"Thank you, sir. When would you like me to take over my new duties?"

"You can begin right now," said Donovan.

"Very good, sir. I beg to report that England declared war on Germany this morning. The news came by wireless to the admiral."

Gorman dropped his pipe and sat upright suddenly.

"Good Lord!" he said. "England. Germany. I say, Donovan, if this is true——"

Donovan motioned him to silence with a wave of his hand.

"Salissa," he said, "is a neutral State."

"But," said Gorman, "if there's a European war——"

Donovan ignored him.

"Smith," he said, "that admiral informs me that he has orders to deport us from this island and dump us down somewhere in Sicily. That so?"

"Yes, sir," said Smith. "Those are the Emperor's orders. Very urgent orders. In the case of your refusal to obey, the admiral is to fire on the palace."

"So I understand," said Donovan. "Now what I want you to do is to go off to the steamer and negotiate with the admiral."

"Yes, sir."

"Shall we say L500? or ought I to go higher?"

"I don't think," said Smith, "that it will be necessary to give so much. If you will allow me to suggest, I'd say an offer of L10."

For the first time since the interview began Donovan was startled.

"Ten pounds!" he said. "Do you mean ten?"

"Giving me permission to rise to twenty pounds if necessary," said Smith.

"But an admiral!" said Donovan. "Remember he's an admiral."

"Yes, sir. But admirals aren't quite the same thing here as in England. Don't belong to the same class. Don't draw the same salary."

"Make it twenty-five pounds," said Donovan. "I'd be ashamed to offer less to a Tammany boss."

"Very good, sir, just as you please, sir."

"Right," said Donovan. "And now we've got that settled, and we've three-quarters of an hour to spare, before the bombardment is timed to begin. There are one or two points I'd like to have cleared up. But I wish you'd sit down, Smith, and take a cigar. As head of the Intelligence Department of this kingdom——"

"If you're quite sure, sir, that there isn't anything you want me to fetch. A drink, sir?"

"Not for me," said Donovan. "I want to talk."

Smith sat down, stretched himself comfortably in a deep chair and lit a cigar.

"What's the Emperor's game?" said Donovan. "What's he after? What the hell does he mean by monkeying round this island ever since I bought it?"

"Well," said Smith, "I haven't got what you could call official knowledge of the Emperor's plans. My orders came to me through Steinwitz, and Steinwitz doesn't talk unnecessarily."

The servant manner and the cockney accent disappeared when Smith sat down. He talked to Donovan as one man of the world to another.

"Still," said Donovan, "you've got some sort of idea."

"Last December," said Smith, "I was in London keeping an eye on King Konrad Karl. The Emperor liked to know what he was doing. One day I got orders to take delivery of some large cisterns from a firm in Germany, paying for them by cheque drawn on my own account. They were consigned to me as water cisterns. My business was to ship them to Hamburg and hand them over to Captain von Moll. That's all I was told. But I happened to find out what von Moll's orders were. He was to land those cisterns in Salissa. I satisfied myself that they were here as soon as I arrived with you on the Ida. Von Moll concealed them very well; but he was a bit careless in other ways. He seems to have lived in the palace while he was here and he left some papers lying about, torn up but not burnt. One of them was a letter from Steinwitz. Phillips, the officer of the Ida, had his eye on those papers. I swept them up and destroyed them."

"And the cisterns?" said Donovan. "What are they for?"

"If you consider the geographical position of Salissa, you'll see in a moment. The island lies a bit off the main steamer route between Marseilles and the Suez Canal; but not too far off. Now I happen to know that the Emperor places great reliance on submarines. In the event of a war with England he depends on submarines to cut the trade routes and sink transports. But submarines operating in the Mediterranean require bases of supply."

"Petrol?" said Gorman.

"And spare parts," said Smith. "That was the idea, I think. So long as the island was under the Crown of Megalia there was no difficulty. Megalia wasn't in a position to interfere with the Emperor's plans."

"The Megalian navy certainly isn't first-rate," said Donovan.

"But when you purchased the island," Smith went on, "things were different. You might object to the use the Emperor proposed to make of it. Your Government might have backed you up. How far do you think your Government will back you?"

"Darned little," said Donovan.

"So Steinwitz seemed to think. But the Emperor wasn't taking any unnecessary risks. He preferred that the island should return to the Crown of Megalia. I think that's the whole story so far as I know it. Perhaps now I ought to be getting off to see that admiral."

"You can make sure of managing him, I suppose," said Donovan.

"Oh, yes. But it may take a little time. He'll want to talk and I must consider his self-respect."

"Quite so," said Donovan. "We all like to keep our self-respect, even admirals."

Smith stood up.

"Very well, sir," he said, "and if there's nothing you want, sir——"

"Nothing," said Donovan.

"I shall be back in time to serve luncheon, sir."

The Smith who left the room was Donovan's valet, not the head of the Intelligence Department of Salissa.

"Now that," said Donovan, "is an example of the pacifist method of settling disputes, without appealing to force or sacrificing human life."

"I admire it," said Gorman. "I have a higher opinion of pacifism this minute than I ever had before."

"It's civilized," said Donovan, "and it's cheap. I don't say it can always be worked as cheap as this; but it's cheaper than war every time."

"I wonder," said Gorman, "if it would work out on a large scale. Take the case of the Emperor now."

"There are difficulties," said Donovan. "I don't deny that there are difficulties. It isn't always easy to get hold of the right man to pay, and it's no use paying the wrong one. You must find the real boss, and he has a trick of hiding behind. I remember a case of an elevated street car franchise in a town in the Middle West. We paid three times and didn't get it in the end owing to not striking the man who mattered. Still, the thing can be done, and according to my notion it's the best way out, better than fighting. You mentioned this darned Emperor. Well, I don't know. He'd have to be paid, of course; but the big grafter, the man who'd take the six-figure cheque, is likely not the Emperor. I don't know. You'd have to find that out. But the principle's sound. That's why I call myself a pacifist. There's tosh talked about pacifism, of course. There always must be tosh talked—and texts. I don't undervalue texts as a means of influencing public opinion. But the principle is the thing. It's business. Pay a big price to the man who can deliver the goods. If you pay a big enough price he'll hand over."

"That's all right," said Gorman, "when you're dealing with business men. But there are other men, men who aren't out for money, who want——"

Donovan yawned.

"There are lunatics," he said, "but lunatics don't run the world. They get shut up. Most men aren't lunatics, and you'll find that the pacifist idea works out. It's the everlasting principle of all commerce."

It is impossible to say whether Donovan's pacifist principles would have been of any use in Europe in 1914. They were not tried, and he admitted that they would not work with lunatics. But the everlasting principle of all commerce proved its value in the case of the Megalian admiral. He did not even bargain at any length. Smith returned in rather less than half an hour, with the news that the admiral had accepted L26 10s. He made only one stipulation. It may have been a desire to preserve his self-respect or a determination to observe his orders in the letter which made him insist on firing one shot before he left Salissa.

"He won't aim at the palace, sir," said Smith.

"There'd be a better chance of his missing it, if he did," said Donovan. "It makes me nervous to see men like those sailors playing about with guns."

"Yes, sir. That's so, sir. But in this case I don't think you need have any anxiety. The shot will go right over the palace. I laid the gun myself before I left the ship. I don't know if I mentioned it to you, sir, but I was in the artillery when I held a commission in the Megalian Army."

The admiral fired his shot at noon precisely. The shell soared high above the palace, passed over the cliff behind and dropped harmlessly somewhere in the sea.

The Queen and Kalliope stood behind the flagstaff from which the blue banner of Salissa flew. At the sound of the shot, while the shell's shriek was still in her ears, the Queen gave her order. Kalliope, hauling hand over hand on the halyard, ran up the Stars and Stripes. It flew out on the breeze. The Queen, flushed with pride and patriotism, defied the might of the Megalian navy.

"Fire on that if you dare," she said.

The admiral weighed his anchor, fussily, with much shouting and swearing, and steamed slowly out of the harbour. As he went he dipped his ensign, saluting the Queen's flags.

Konrad Karl, standing at the window of Madame Ypsilante's room, saved that lady from hysterics by announcing that the bombardment was over.



CHAPTER XXIV

Theologians are fond of speculative subjects; but I do not remember that any of them have discussed the feelings of Noah and his family when shut up in the ark. What did they talk about when they came together in the evening after feeding the various animals? No doubt they congratulated each other on their escape. No doubt they grumbled occasionally at the limited accommodation of the ark. But were they interested in what was going on outside? Did they guess at the depth of the flood, calculate whether this or that town were submerged, discuss the fate of neighbours and friends, wonder what steps the Government was taking to meet the crisis? They had very little chance of getting accurate information. The ark had only one window, and, if we can trust the artists who illustrate our Bibles, it was a kind of skylight.

The refugees on Salissa—if refugees is the proper word—were in one respect worse off than Noah's family. They had no skylight. The wireless message sent to the Megalian admiral told them that the Great Powers were at war. After that they got no news at all for more than two months. The windows, not this time of heaven, but of hell, were opened. The fountains of the great deep of human ambition, greed and passion were broken up. Lands where men, unguessing, had bought and sold, married and been given in marriage, were submerged, swamped, desolated. Salissa was a good ark, roomier than Noah's, and with this advantage, that it stayed still instead of tossing about. But not even Noah was so utterly cut off from all news of the catastrophe outside.

During August and September almost anything might have happened. Germans might have ridden through the streets of Paris and London. Russians might have placed their Czar on the throne of the Hapsburgs in Vienna. The English Fleet might have laid Hamburg in ruins and anchored in the Kiel Canal. Men might have died in millions. Civilization itself might have been swept away. But the face of the sun, rising on Salissa day by day, was in no way darkened by horror, or crimsoned with shame. The sea whispered round the island shores, but brought no news of the rushings to and fro of hostile fleets. The winds blew over battle-fields, but they reached Salissa fresh and salt-laden, untainted by the odour of carnage or the choking fumes of cannon firing.

Donovan was probably the only one of the party in the palace who was entirely satisfied with this position. With the help of Smith he had demonstrated the efficacy of pacifist methods, and saved the island from bombardment. In less than a week he removed, to his own satisfaction, the scandal of Konrad Karl's relations with Madame Ypsilante. Then he handed the reins of government to the Queen again and settled down to the business of avoiding exertion and soothing the disorder of his heart.

To Donovan it always seemed a perfectly natural and simple thing that Konrad Karl should marry Madame Ypsilante. But it turned out to be rather difficult to arrange the matter. Madame herself had no particular objection to being married. She was lukewarm and indifferent until she found out that the Queen was looking forward to the wedding as a beautiful finish to a great romance. Madame had a grateful soul and was willing to do much to please the Queen who nursed her and was kind to her while she lay in bed exhausted by her journey. Her contempt for the American miss vanished, as soon as she understood that neither her pearls nor Konrad Karl were to be taken from her. Besides, there is always pleasure to be got out of preparing for a wedding. It was impossible, indeed, to buy clothes on Salissa. But it was not impossible to accept presents from the Queen's ample wardrobe. A great deal of interesting fitting and altering was done, and in the end Madame had an ample trousseau. The Queen, with the help of Smith, made an immense and splendid wedding cake.

It was Konrad Karl who created difficulties. He said—and Donovan believed him—that he was personally quite willing to marry Madame Ypsilante. He desired to marry her. She was the only woman in the world whom he would marry of his own free will. But he remained incurably terrified of the Emperor. Donovan talked to him about the rights of free citizens. He said that the humblest man had power to choose his wife. Nothing he said had the slightest influence on Konrad Karl.

"But," the King used to reply, "you do not understand. I am a king."

"Well," said Donovan, "according to my notions that's the same thing, only more so."

"Ah, no," said the King. "Ah, damn it, no. A king is not bourgeois, what you call citizen. That is the point. It is because I am a king that the Emperor interferes. If I were a citizen, but——"

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

Gorman tried him along a different line.

"Look here," he said, "the Emperor has got himself into a nasty mess. He's in for a big war. He can't possibly have any time to spare to worry over who you marry."

"To-day, no," said the King, "but to-morrow the Emperor wins the war, and then——"

"I wouldn't be too cocksure of his winning," said Gorman.

"It is surer than any cock," said the King. "It was settled long ago. I do not understand Real Politik, but I know that much. The Emperor wins the war. Then he says to me: 'Konrad, you married her. Good. You are in a fortress for life.' And I am. You do not understand the Emperor, my friend."

"I'm beginning to," said Gorman.

It was Smith who talked over Konrad Karl in the end. I am sure that Donovan would not have approved of his argument. I doubt whether Gorman would have cared to use it. Smith said frankly that a marriage performed by Stephanos the Elder would be no marriage at all outside the Island of Salissa and could be repudiated at any time without the slightest inconvenience.

"You think," said the King, "that I wish to desert Corinne. But never."

"Beg pardon, your Majesty," said Smith. "That wasn't the idea in my mind. What I was thinking of, your Majesty, was the way the matter might be represented to the Emperor."

The King saw the point. On the whole he seems to have been pleased when his last difficulty was removed and he was actually able to marry his beloved Corinne.

I do not think they were very happy afterwards. They were, no doubt, well enough suited to each other. But neither of them was suited to a life on Salissa. Monotony preyed on them. They both suffered from a kind of homesickness, an aching hunger for streets, theatres, shops, the rattle of traffic, the glitter of city life at night. They would have been good friends if they had been able to live their proper lives. Even on Salissa King Konrad Karl remained a lover. But they bickered a great deal and sometimes openly quarrelled. Then Madame would retire to her room and sulk for hours or whole days, while the King wandered about the palace and bewailed the cruelty of Corinne.

Gorman too, in his own way, suffered from homesickness and had fits of irritation. He had lived his life in the centre of events, not great events, but such things as intrigues at Westminster, changes of Governments, and amendments, in committees, of Acts of Parliament. He had always known what was going on in the world. He found himself hopelessly shut off from all news of the greatest happenings of his time. He wanted desperately to know what England was doing, whether the French had risen to the occasion. He wanted, above all, to know about Ireland. Was Ireland in the throes of a civil war, or were her children taking their places in the ranks of the Allied Armies? Gorman was unreasonably annoyed by King Konrad Karl's certainty that the Emperor would win the war and by Donovan's passive neutrality of sentiment. For Gorman neutrality in any quarrel was no doubt inconceivable. As a younger man he might have been a rebel and given his life in some wild struggle against the power of England; or he might have held the King's commission and led other Irishmen against a foreign foe. He could never, if a great fight were going on, have been content to stand aside as Donovan did; neither praising nor blaming, neither hoping for victory nor fearing defeat.

Even more difficult to bear was Konrad Karl's conviction that the Emperor was invincible. It does not appear that the King had any particular wish for a German victory. He would perhaps have preferred to see the Emperor beaten and humiliated. But that seemed to him outside all possibility. The Emperor's triumph was as inevitable as the changing of the seasons. A man may not wish for winter or the east winds of spring; but he does not soothe himself with hopes that the long days of summer will continue. It seemed to Konrad Karl merely foolish that Gorman should speak as if the issue of the war were in any doubt.

Gorman has often spoken to me about his feelings at this time.

"I could have broken Konrad Karl's head with pleasure," he said once. "I had to hold myself tight if I did not mean to fall on him. He was so infernally certain that the Emperor would wipe the floor with us. Us! Isn't it a queer thing now? Here I am, a man who has been abusing the English all my life, and hating them—I give you my word that I've always hated the self-sufficiency and nauseating hypocrisy of the English. There's nothing I've wanted more than to see them damned well thrashed by somebody. And yet the minute anybody comes along to thrash them I'm up on my hind legs, furious, talking about 'Us' and 'We' and 'Our' army just as if I were an Englishman myself."

Gorman made every effort in his power to get news of some sort. He tried to bribe the island fishermen to sail over to the mainland in their largest boat. He offered to go with them. It was a voyage which they sometimes made. In fine weather there was no great difficulty about it. But Gorman's bribes were offered in vain. A curious fear possessed the islanders; the same fear which laid hold of the souls of simple people all over Europe at that time. They were afraid of some vast evil, undefined, unrealized, and their terror kept them close to the shadows of their homes. The most that Gorman could persuade them to do was to take him a few miles out to sea in one of their boats. There he used to stay for an hour or so, for so long as the men with him would consent to remain, going out as often as they would go with him. His hope was that he might see some ship, hail her, and get news from her crew. But no steamer, no fishing boat even, came in sight.

Of all the people on the island, Gorman was the most to be pitied except perhaps the Queen.

For awhile she was happy enough. The wedding interested and excited her. The presence of guests in the palace gave her much to think about and do. She was busy with her school. She still found pleasure in roaming over the island with Kalliope, but there came a time when she began to expect the arrival of the Ida. She knew how long the voyage to England took. She made calculations of the time required for loading the steamer with her new cargo. She fixed a day, the earliest possible, on which the Ida might reach Salissa again. That day passed, and many after it. The Ida was overdue, long overdue.

The Queen used to ask questions of every one, seeking comfort and assurance. She got little. Konrad Karl's conviction that the Emperor must be victorious was not cheering. Gorman supposed that the Ida might have been taken over by the Admiralty, or might have been forbidden to sail, or that Captain Wilson might be unwilling to take risks if enemy cruisers were at large on the high seas. Smith coolly discussed the possibility of a blockade of the English coasts by German submarines. Kalliope was the Queen's only comforter. She had no theories about war or politics, but she had a profound conviction of the certainty of lovers meeting.

"He will come once more," she said, "sure thing."

That was the Queen's conviction too. But it was weary work waiting.

There is a nook, a little hollow, high up on one of the western cliffs of the island where it is possible to sit, sheltered among tall ferns, and gaze out across the sea. There came a time towards the end of September, when the Queen used to climb up there every morning and sit for hours watching for the Ida. Kalliope went with her. They erected a little flagstaff. They carried up the blue banner of Salissa. It was the Queen's plan to signal a welcome to her lover when she saw his ship. Above the nook in which they sat the two girls laid a beacon fire, a great pile of dry wood, dragged up the cliff with immense toil. The Queen thought of leaping flames and a tall column of smoke which should catch her lover's eyes and tell him that she was waiting for him. But day after day the calm sea lay shining, vacant. Evening after evening the Queen came sadly home again, a cold fear in her heart, bitter disappointment choking her. Then Kalliope would do her best for her mistress, repeating over and over her comforting phrases.