Mrs. Fitz

by J. C. Snaith

  CHAPTER V

  ABOUNDS IN SENSATION

  Astonished as I was by the coming of such a visitor, the appearance andthe manner of that much-discussed personage did nothing to lessen myinterest.

  I found him pacing the room in a state of agitation. His face washaggard, his eyes were bloodshot, he was unkempt and almost piteous tolook upon. And yet more strangely his open overcoat, which hisdistress could not suffer to keep buttoned, disclosed a rumpled shirtfront, a tie askew and a dinner jacket which evidently had been donnedthe evening before.

  "Hallo, Fitz," said I, as unconcernedly as I could.

  He did not answer me, but immediately closed the door of the room.Somehow, the action gave me a thrill.

  "There is no possibility of our being overheard?" he said in a hoarsewhisper.

  "None whatever. Let me help you off with your coat. Then sit down inthat chair next the fire and have a drink."

  Fitz submitted, doubtless under a sense of compulsion. My four years'seniority at school had generally enabled me to get my way with him.It was rather painful to witness the effort the unfortunate fellow putforth to pull himself together; and when I measured out a pretty stiffbrandy-and-soda his refusal of it was distinctly poignant.

  "I oughtn't to have it, old chap," he said, with his wild eyes lookinginto mine like those of a dumb animal. "It doesn't do, you know."

  "Drink it straight off at once," said I, "and do as you are told."

  Fitz did so with reluctance. The effect upon him was what I had notforeseen. His haggard wildness yielded quite suddenly to an outburstof tears. He covered his face with his hands and wept in a painfullyoverwrought manner.

  I waited in silence for this outburst to pass.

  "I've been scouring the country since nine o'clock last night," hesaid, "and I feel like going out of my mind."

  "What's the trouble, old son?" said I, taking a chair beside him.

  "They've got my wife."

  "Whom do you mean by 'they'?"

  "I can't, I mustn't tell you," said Fitz, excitedly, "but they have gother, and--and I expect she is dead by now."

  Words as wild as these to the accompaniment of that overwroughtdemeanour suggested an acute form of mental disturbance only tooclearly.

  "You had better tell me everything," said I, persuasively. "Perhaps Imight be able to help a little. Two heads are better than one, youknow."

  I must confess that I had no great hope of being able to help theunlucky fellow very materially, but somewhat to my surprise he answeredin a perfectly rational manner.

  "I have come here with the intention of telling you everything. I musthave help, and you are the only friend I've got."

  "One of many," said I, lying cordially.

  "It's true," said Fitz. "The only one. Like that chap in the Bible,the hand of every man is against me. I deserve it; I know I've notplayed the game; but now I must have somebody to stand by me, and I'vecome to you."

  "Well," said I, "that is no more than you would do by me in similarcircumstances."

  "You don't mean that," said Fitz, with an expression of keen misery."But you are a genuine chap, all the same."

  "Let's hear the trouble."

  "The trouble is this," said Fitz, and as he spoke the look of wildnessreturned to his eyes. "My wife went in the car to do some shopping atMiddleham at three o'clock yesterday afternoon expecting to be back atfive, and neither she nor the car has returned.

  "And nothing has been heard of her?"

  "Not a word."

  "Had she a chauffeur?"

  "Yes, a Frenchman of the name of Moins whom we picked up in Paris."

  "I suppose you have communicated with the police?"

  "No; you see, the whole affair must be kept as dark as possible."

  "They are certainly the people to help you, particularly if you havereason to suspect foul play."

  "There is every reason to suspect it. I am afraid she is alreadybeyond the help of the police."

  "Why should you think that?"

  Fitz hesitated. His distraught air was very painful.

  "Arbuthnot," said he, slowly and reluctantly, "before I tell youeverything I must pledge you to absolute secrecy. Other lives, otherinterests, more important than yours and mine, are involved in this."

  I gave the pledge, and in so doing was impressed by a depth ofresponsibility in the manner of my visitor, of which I should hardlyhave expected it to be capable.

  "Did you see in the papers last evening that there had been an attempton the life of the King of Illyria?"

  "I read it in this morning's paper."

  "It will surprise you to learn," said Fitz, striving for a calmness hecould not achieve, "that my wife is the only child of Ferdinand XII,King of Illyria. She is, therefore, Crown Princess and HeiressApparent to the oldest monarchy in Europe."

  "It certainly _does_ surprise me," was the only rejoinder that for themoment I could make.

  "I want help and I want advice; I feel that I hardly dare do anythingon my own initiative. You see, it is most important that the world atlarge should know nothing of this."

  "Why, may I ask?"

  "There are two parties at war in Illyria. There is the King's party,the supporters of the monarchy, and there is the Republican party,which has made three attempts on the life of Ferdinand XII and two onthat of his daughter."

  "But I assume, my dear fellow, that the whereabouts in England of theCrown Princess are known to her father the King?"

  "No; and it is essential that he should remain in ignorance. Ourelopement from Illyria was touch and go. Ferdinand has moved heavenand earth to find out where she is, because she has been formallybetrothed to a Russian Grand Duke, and if she does not return toBlaenau he will not be able to secure the succession."

  "Depend upon it," said I, "the Crown Princess is on the way to Blaenau.Not of her own free will, of course. But his Majesty's agents havemanaged to play the trick."

  "You may be right, Arbuthnot. But one thing is certain; my poor braveSonia will never return to Blaenau alive."

  Fitz buried his face in his hands tragically.

  "She promised that, you know, in case anything of this kind happened,and I consented to it." The simplicity of his utterance had in it acertain grandeur which few would have expected to find in a man withthe reputation of Nevil Fitzwaren. "Everybody doesn't believe in thissort of thing, Arbuthnot, but I and my princess do. She will never liein the arms of another. God help her, brave and noble and unlucklysoul!"

  This was not the Fitz the world had always known. I suddenly recalledthe flaxen-haired, odd, intense, somewhat twisted, wholly unhappycreature who had rendered me willing service in our boyhood. I hadalways enjoyed the reputation in our house at school that I alone, andnone other, could manage Fitz. I recalled his passion for the "Morted'Arthur," his angular vehemence, his sombre docility. In thosedistant days I had felt there was something in him; and now in whatseemed curiously poignant circumstances there came the fulfilment ofthe prophecy.

  "Let us assume, my dear fellow," said I, making an attempt to be ofpractical use in a situation of almost ludicrous difficulty, "that itis not her father who has abducted the Princess Sonia. Let us take itto be the other side, the Republican party.

  "It would still mean death; not by her own hand, but by theirs. Theytwice attempted her life in Blaenau."

  "In any case, it is reasonably clear that not a moment is to be lost ifwe are to help her."

  "I don't know what to do," said Fitz, "and that's the truth."

  I confessed that I too had no very clear idea of the course of action.It occurred to me that the wisest thing to be done was to take a thirdperson into our counsels.

  "You ask my advice," said I; "it seems to me that the best thing to dois to see if Coverdale will help us."

  "That will mean publicity. At all costs I feel that that must beavoided."

  "Coverdale is a shrewd fellow. He will know what to do; he is a manyo
u can trust; and he will be able to Bet the proper machinery inmotion."

  My insistence on the point, and Fitz's unwilling recognition of theneed for a desperate remedy, goaded him into a half-hearted consent.In my own mind I was persuaded of the value of Coverdale's advice, inwhatever it might consist. He was the head of the police in our shire,and apart from a little external pomposity, without which one is givento understand it is hardly possible for a Chief Constable to play thepart, he was a shrewd and kind-hearted fellow, who knew a good dealabout things in general.

  Poor Fitz would listen to no suggestion of food. Therefore I orderedthe car round at once, and incidentally informed the ruler of thehousehold, and the expectant assembly by whom she was surrounded, thatFitz and I had some private business to transact which required ourimmediate presence in the city of Middleham.

  "Odo," said she whose word is law, with a mien of dark suspicion, "ifNevil Fitzwaren is persuading you to lend him money, I forbid you toentertain the idea. You are really so weak in such matters. You havereally no idea of the value of money."

  "It will do you no good with your constituents either," said MaryCatesby, "to be seen in Middleham with Nevil Fitzwaren."

  To these warning voices I turned deaf ears, and fled from the room in afashion so precipitate that it suggested guilt.

  No time was lost in setting forth. As we glided past the front of thehouse, I at least was uncomfortably conscious of a battery of hostileeyes in ambush behind the window panes. There could be no doubt thatevery detail of our going was duly marked. Heaven knew what theorieswere being propounded! Yet whatever shape they assumed I was sure thatall the ingenuity in the world would not hit the truth. No feat ofpure imagination was likely to disclose what the business really wasthat had caused me to be identified in this open and flagrant mannerwith the husband of the luckless circus rider from Vienna.