XVII. A FEW MEN AND A WOMAN
A stealthy figure joined his highness at the foot of the steps,coming from the darkness below the veranda. It was Courant. What hesaid to the prince when they were safely away from the house causedthe Italian's face to pale and his hands to twitch with rage. TheFrench detective had heard and understood the conversation of theman and woman on the porch, and he had formed conclusions that droveall doubt from the mind of the noble lover.
Quentin looked up and down the street for his cab. It was not insight, but he remembered telling the man to drive to the cornerbelow. The rainstorm that had been threatening dry and dustyBrussels all day was beginning to show itself in marked form. Therewere distant rumbles of thunder and faint flashes of lightning, andnow and then the wind, its velocity increasing every minute, dasheda splattering raindrop in one's face. The storm for which the cityhad been crying was hurling itself along from the sea, and its fullfury was almost ready to break. The few pedestrians were scurryinghomeward, the tram cars were loaded and many cabs whirled by in theeffort to land their fares at home before the rain fell in torrents.Phil drank in the cool, refreshing breeze and cared not if it raineduntil the streets were flooded. At the corner stood a cab, thedriver softly swearing to himself. He swung down and savagely jerkedopen the door.
"Back to the Bellevue," said the fare airily, as he climbed into thevehicle. The cab had started off into a cross-street, when Philimagined he heard a shout in the distance. He looked forth but couldsee no one in the rushing darkness, The rattle of the cab, thegrowing roar of the night and toe swish of the rain, which was nowfalling quite heavily, drowned all other sounds and he leaned backcontentedly.
Suddenly the cab came to a stop, loud voices were heard outside andhe was about to throw open the door when a heavy body was flungagainst the side of the vehicle. The next instant the half-loweredglass in the door was shattered and a voice from the rainy nightcried:
"Don't resist or you will be shot to pieces."
"What the dev--" gasped Quentin, barely able to distinguish the formof a man at the door. Some strange influence told him that the pointof a revolver was almost touching his breast and the word died inhis mouth.
"No outcry, Monsieur. Your valuables without a struggle. Be quick!There are many of us. You have no chance," came the hard voice, ingood English.
"But I have no valuables--"
"Your diamond ring and your watch, at least, monsieur. The ring isin your vest pocket."
"Search me, you scoundrel! I have no ring, and my watch is in myroom. I'm mighty slim picking for such noted gentlemen as you. Ipresume I have the honor of meeting the diamond collectors the townis talking so much about." He was now aware of the presence ofanother man in the opposite window, and there was the same uncannyfeeling that a second revolver was levelled at his person.
"Step outside, Monsieur. It is cruel to force you into the rain, butwe assure you it is very refreshing. It will make you grow. Whateveryou choose to call us we are wet to the skin. This must not,therefore, be a fruitless job. Step forth, quickly, and do notresist."
Quentin hesitated for an instant, and then seeing resistance wasuseless, boldly set foot upon the curbing. A flash of lightningrevealed four or five men in the group. One of them had the drivercovered with a pistol, and two of them were ready to seize thepassenger. He observed, with amazement, that one of the men was apoliceman in full uniform.
"Officer!" he exclaimed. "Don't you see what they are doing?"
"O, Monsieur," said the spokesman, pleasantly, "you may tell thepolice of Brussels that they cannot hunt us down until they huntthemselves down. What's that? A carriage? Quick! Your watch, yourring!"
Far down the street could be seen the lamps of an approaching cab,and Quentin's heart took a bound. He had not feared injury, for hewas willing to submit to the searching without resistance, but nowhe thrilled with the excitement of possible conflict. A second flashin the sky revealed altered conditions in the setting of the tragicscene. The driver was on his box and the policeman was climbing upbeside him. A short man, masked to the chin, had pushed aside theman with the revolver and a harsh voice cried as the darkness shutout the vivid picture:
"Short work of him! The knife!" "The club, Carl! Hell! Into the cabwith him!" shouted another voice, and Phil began to strike out withhis fists. But the attack was too sharp, the odds too great.Something crashed down upon his head, he felt himself lunge backwardinto the open cab door, and then a heavy body hurled itself upon hishalf-prostrate form. Another stinging blow caught him over the ear,and, as he lost consciousness, a tremendous force seemed to becrushing the breath from his body.
A revolver cracked, but he did not hear it, nor did he know thatfriends were at hand. Before the miscreants could hurl his body intothe cab a vehicle whirled up, the feeble glare from its lanternsthrowing light upon the scene. The man who had fired from the doorof the second cab leaped to the ground, followed by a companion, andin a moment they were among the scuffling robbers. Whatever mighthave been the original intentions of Quentin's assailants, they werenot prepared to offer battle. Their aim was to escape, not to fight.A couple of shots were fired, a rush of feet ensued and the earthseemed to swallow all but the two newcomers and the limp figure thatlay half inside the cab.
In an instant Quentin was drawn from the cab by the taller of thetwo, the smaller having made a short dash in pursuit of the bandits.Blood rushed from the head of the unconscious man and he was a deadweight in the arms of his rescuer.
"Good God, Phil! Have they killed you? Here, Turk! Never mind thosefellows! Come here, quick; we must get him to a surgeon. I'm afraidthey've fixed him. Into our cab with him! Gad, he's like a rag!" Itwas Dickey Savage, and he was filled with dread. Turk, explodingwith impotent rage, and shivering with fear that his master wasdead, came to his assistance and they were soon racing for theBellevue. A pair of wondering, patient, driverless horses watchedthe departure, but they did not move from the spot where they hadbeen checked by the first attack. Across the doubletree behind themhung the limp form of their driver, a great, gaping wound in hishead. He had driven them for the last time, and they seemed to knowthat his cold lips could never again command them to "go on." Drivenalmost to the hilt, in the floor of the cab, was an ugly knife. Itspoint had been intended for Quentin's throat, but the hand thatstruck the blow was not as true as the will of its owner.
In a high state of alarm and excitement the two men in the cab tooktheir friend to his room, their advent creating great commotion inthe hotel The wildest curiosity prevailed, and they were besiegedwith questions from hotel men, guests and the crowd that had foundshelter from the storm. Within ten minutes the news was spreadingforth over the city that a wealthy American had been held up andmurdered by the daring diamond thieves. Police and reporters hurriedto the hotel, and the uproar was intense. The house surgeon was soonat work with the bloody, unconscious victim; Savage and Turk, withtheir friend, the millionaire, keeping the crowd away from thecouch. It was impossible to drive the people from the room until thepolice arrived.
There were two ugly gashes in Quentin's head, one of which, it wasfeared at first, would disclose a fracture of the skull. Dr.Gassbeck, the surgeon who had attended a wounded prince in the samehotel less that twenty-four hours before, gave out as his opinionthat Quentin's injuries were not dangerous unless unexpectedcomplications appeared. Several stitches were taken in each cut, andthe patient, slowly recovering from the effects of the blows and theanesthetics, was put to bed by his friends.
Savage observed one thing when he entered the hotel with the woundedman. Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi were among the first to comeforward when the news of the attack spread through the office andcorridors. The prince, in fact, was conversing with some gentlemennear the doors when the party entered. It was he who sent messengersto the central police office and who told the detectives where andhow he had last seen the victim of the diamond thieves.
Dickey sat all night beside his rolling, moaning frie
nd, unnerved,almost despairing, but the morning brought the change that gladdenedhis heart and gave him a chance to forget his fears andapprehensions long enough to indulge in an impressive, thoughinadequate, degree of profanity, with continued reference to acertain set of men whom the world called thieves, but whom hedesignated as dogs.
About ten o'clock a telegram from Ostend came to the hotel for him.It read: "Are you not coming to Ostend for us? Jane." An hour latera very pretty young lady in Ostend tore a telegram to pieces,sniffed angrily and vowed she would never speak to a certain youngman again. His reply to her rather peremptory query by wire washardly calculated to restore the good humor she had lost in notfinding him at the dock. "Cannot come. Awfully sorry. Can't leaveBrussels. Hurry on. Will explain here. Richard Savage." Hersister-in-law and fellow-traveler from London was mean enough totease her with sly references to the beauty of Brussels women andthe fickleness of all mankind. And so there was stored away for Mr.Savage's benefit a very cruel surprise.
The morning newspapers carried the story of Quentin's adventure tothe Garrison home, and Dorothy's face, almost haggard as the resultof a sleepless night, grew whiter still, and her tired eyes filledwith dread. She did not have to recall their conversation of thenight before, for it had not left her mind, but her thoughts wentback to a former conversation in which he had ridiculed the bandits.The newspaper fell from her nerveless fingers, and she left thetable, her breakfast untouched, stealing miserably to her room, toescape her mother's inquisitive eyes.
Her wretched state was not improved by the visit of a veiled youngwoman later in the day. The visitor was undoubtedly a lady, but thestory she poured into the unwilling ears was so astounding thatDorothy dismissed her indignantly before it was finished. Thelow-voiced, intense stranger, young and evidently beautiful, toldher that Quentin's injuries were not inflicted by thieves, but bythe hired agents of one who had cause to fear him. Before MissGarrison could remonstrate, the stranger went into the details of aplot so cowardly that she was horrified--horrified all the morebecause, in a large measure, it sustained the charges made againsther lover by Philip Quentin. When at last she could no longer endurethe villifying recital she bade the woman to leave the house, hotlyrefusing to give countenance to the lies she was telling. Thestranger desisted only after her abject pleading had drawn from theother a bitter threat to have her ejected by the servants.
"You will not hear me to the end, but you must give me the privilegeof saying that I do not come here to do him or you an injury," saidthe visitor, tremulously. "It is to save you from him and to savehim for myself. Mademoiselle, I love him. He would marry me were itnot for you. You think jealousy, then, inspired this visit? I admitthat jealousy is the foundation, but it does not follow that I amcompelled to lie. Everything I have said and would say is true.Perhaps he loves you, but he loved me first. A week ago he told methat he loved me still. It was I who warned the American gentlemanagainst him, and my reason is plain. I want him to win. It wouldmean death to me if it were known that I came to you with thisstory. Do you bid me go, or will you hear me to the end?"
"You must go. I cannot listen to the infamous things you sayabout--about--him," said Dorothy, her voice choking toward the end.A horrible fear seized upon her heart. Was this woman mad or hadQuentin told the truth? A new thought came to her and she graspedthe woman's hand with convulsive fingers. "You have been sent hereby Mr. Quentin! O, how plain it is! Why did I not see through it atonce? Go back to your employer and tell him that--" She was cryinghysterically when the woman snatched away her hand, and drawingherself to full height interrupted haughtily:
"I have humbled myself that I might do you the greatest service inthe world. You drive me from your presence and you call me a liar.All of that I must endure, but I will not suffer you to accuse thisinnocent man while I have voice to offer up in his defense. I may besome one's slave, but I am not the servant of any man. I do not knowthis American; he does not know me. I am my own agent and not histool. What I have tried to tell you is true and I confess my actionshave been inspired by selfish motives. Mademoiselle, the man you areto marry promised to make me his wife long before he knew you."
"To make you his wife? Absurd! Men of his station do not marry, norpromise to marry, the grisettes or the--"
"'Madam! It is not a grisette to whom you are speaking. The blood inmy veins is as noble as that which flows in his, the name Ibear--and perhaps disgrace, God help me!--is as proud as any in allFrance. But I have not millions, as you have. My face, my person maywin and hold the heart, but I have not the gold with which to buythe soul. You will pardon my intrusion and you will forgive me forany pang I have caused. He would not harken to the appeals from mybreaking heart, he would not give me all his love. There was leftbut one course to preserve what rightfully belongs to me, and I havefollowed it as a last resort Were you to tell him that a woman cameto you with this story, he would deny everything, and he would belost to me, even though you cast him off in the end. It is not in mypower to command you to protect the woman who is trying to help you.You do not believe what I have told to you, therefore I cannot hopefor pity at your hands. You will tell him that I have been here, andI shall pay the penalty for being the fool, the mad woman. I am notasking for pity. If I have lied to you I deserve nothing but thehardest punishment. You have one way to punish me for the wounds Iinflict, but it is the same to me, no matter how it ends. If youmarry him, I am lost; if you cast him off and yet tell him that itwas I who first sowed the seed of distrust in your heart, I am lost.It will be the same--all the same! If he cannot wed you, he willcome to me and I will forgive. Madam, he is not good enough for you,but he is all the world to me. He would wed you, but you are not theone he loves. You are all the world to one whose love is pure andhonest. If you would save him, become his wife. O, Mademoiselle, itgrieves me so to see the tears in those good eyes of yours!Farewell, and God bless and keep you."
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