“She can feed you if she likes,” growled Julius.
“Julius?” queried the girl from the Castle, peering at the man. “Not Julius Spantz, of the armoury?”
“The same,” said Truxton. Julius laughed awkwardly and withdrew. “Son of our distinguished host here. Permit me to present Herr William—”
“Enough,” snarled William Spantz, with a threatening movement toward King. His manner changed completely, however, when he turned to address the young lady. “I beg to inform you, madam, that your stay in this unwholesome place is to be brief. Pray endure it for the remainder of this day. Tonight you will be removed to more pleasant quarters, that a friend has prepared for you. I may say to you, however, that it will he necessary to place a gag in your mouth before you depart. This is to be a critical night in our affairs.” He lifted an inspired gaze heavenward. “Let me assure you, madam, that the two gentlemen who are to conduct you to the Count’s—to your new quarters, are considerate, kindly men; you need feel no further alarm. I am requested to tell you this, so that you may rest easy for the balance of the day. As for you, my friend,” turning to Truxton and smiling ironically, “I deeply deplore the fact that you are to remain. You may be lonesome in the dead hours, for, as you may imagine, we, your dearest friends, will be off about a certain business that is known to you, if I mistake not in believing that you have listened at the door these many nights. When we next gather in the room beyond, a new dispensation will have begun. You may be interested then to hear what we have to say—out there.”
Truxton was silent for a moment, a sudden, swift thought flooding his brain. Controlling the quiver of anticipation in his voice, he took occasion to say:
“I only hope you’ll not forget to come back. I should be lonesome, Spantz.”
“Oh, we’ll not forget you.”
“I suppose not. By the way, would you mind telling me what has become of your niece?”
Spantz glared at him. “She does not meet with us now. My niece is consecrating her every thought to the task that lies before her. You will not see her again.”
“It’s an infernal shame, that’s what it is,” exclaimed King, “to put it all upon that poor girl! God, I’d give ten years of my life to lead her out of this devil’s mess. She’s too good for—for that. It’s—”
“She will be out of it, as you say, tomorrow, my excellent Samaritan. She knows.” There could be no mistake as to the meaning of the prophetic words.
With a profound bow to the lady and a leer for King, he departed, bolting the door behind him. Instantly King was at her side.
“An idea has come to me,” he whispered eagerly. “I think I see a way. By George, if it should only happen as I hope it may!”
“Tell me!” she insisted.
“Not now. I must think it all out carefully. It won’t do to get your hopes up and then fail.”
Whatever the thought was that had come to him, it certainly had put new life and hope into him. She nibbled at the unwholesome food, never removing her eyes from his tall, restless figure as he paced the floor, his brows knit in thought. Finally he sat down beside her, calmly helping himself to a huge slice of bread and a boiled carrot.
“I’ve never liked carrots before. I love ’em now. I’m taking them for my complexion.”
“Don’t jest, Mr. King. What is it you intend to do? Please tell me. I must know. You heard what he said about taking me to the Count’s. He meant Marlanx. I will die first.”
“No. I will die first. By the way, I may as well tell you that I wasn’t thinking altogether of how we are to escape. There was something else on my mind.” He stopped and looked at her puzzled face. “Why should I save you from Marlanx just to have you hurry off and get married to Vos Engo? It’s a mean thought, I know,” hastily, “and unworthy of a typical hero, but, just the same, I hate to think of you marrying some one—else.”
“Some one else?” she questioned, a pucker on her forehead.
“Oh, I know I wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance, even if there wasn’t a Vos Engo. It isn’t that,” he explained. “I recognise the—er—difference in our stations and—”
“Are you crazy, Mr. King?”
“Not now. I was a bit touched, I think, but I’m over it now. I dare say it was caused by excessive reading of improbable romances. Life rather takes it out of a fellow, don’t you know. It’s all simple enough in books, but in—”
“What has all this got to do with your plan to escape?”
“Nothing at all. It merely has to do with my ambition to become a true hero. You see, I’m an amateur hero. Of course, this is good practice for me; in time, I may become an expert and have no difficulty in winning a duchess or even a princess. Don’t misunderstand me. I intend to do all I can toward rescuing you tonight. The point I’m trying to get at is this: don’t you think it’s pretty rough on a hero to save the girl for some other fellow to snap up and marry?”
“I think I begin to see,” she said, a touch of pink coming into her cheeks.
“That’s encouraging,” he said, staring gloomily at the food he had put aside. “You are quite sure you promised Vos Engo that you’d marry him?”
“No. I did not promise him that I’d marry him,” she said, leaning back and surveying him between narrowed lids.
“I beg your pardon. You said you had promised—”
“You did not allow me time to finish. I meant to say that I had promised to let him know in a day or two. That is all, Mr. King.” There was a suspicious tremor in her voice and her gaze wavered beneath his unbelieving stare.
“What’s that?” he demanded. “You—you don’t mean to say that—Oh, Lord! I wonder! I wonder if I have a chance—just a ghost of a chance?” He leaned very close, incredulous, fascinated. “What is it that you are going to let him know? Yes or no?”
“That was the question I was considering when the brigands caught me,” she answered, meeting his gaze fairly. “I haven’t thought of it since.”
“Of course, he is in your own class,” said Truxton glumly.
She hesitated an instant, her face growing very serious. “Mr. King, has no one told you my name—who I am?” she asked.
“You are the Prince’s aunt, that’s all I know.”
“No more his aunt in reality than Jack Tullis is his uncle. I thought you understood.”
“Who are you, then?”
“I am Jack Tullis’s sister, a New Yorker bred and born, and I live not more than two blocks from your—”
“For the love of—” he began blankly; then words failed him, which was just as well. He gulped twice, joy or unbelief choking him. The smile that crept into her face dazzled him; he stared at her in speechless amazement. “Then—then, you are not a duchess or a—” he began again.
“Not at all. A very plain New Yorker,” she said, laughing aloud in sudden hysteria. For some reason she drew quickly away from him. “You are not disappointed, are you? Does it spoil your romance to—”
“Spoil it? Disappointed? No! By George, I—I can’t believe that any such luck—no, no, I don’t mean it just that way! Let me think it out. Let me get it through my head.” He leaned back against the wall and devoured her with eager, disturbing eyes. “You are Tullis’s sister? You live near—Oh, I say, this is glorious!” He arose and took a turn about the room. In some nervousness and uncertainty she also came to her feet, watching him wonderingly. He hurried back to her, a new light in his eyes. She was very desirable, this slender, uncertain person in the crumpled grey.
“Miss Tullis,” he said, a thrill in his voice, “you are a princess, just the same. I never was so happy in my life as I am this minute. It isn’t so black as it was. I thought I couldn’t win you because you—”
“Win me?” she gasped, her lips parted in wonder.
“Precisely. Now I’m looking at it differently. I don’t mind telling you that I’m in love with you—desperately in love. It’s been so with me ever since that day in the Park. I loved you
as a duchess or a princess, and without hope. Now, I—I—well, I’m going to hope. Perhaps Vos Engo has the better of me just now, but I’m in the lists with him—with all of them. If I get you out of this place—and myself as well—I want you to understand that from this very minute I am trying to win you if it lies in the power of any American to win a girl who has suitors among the nobility. Will—will you give me a chance—just a ghost of a chance? I’ll try to do the rest.”
“Are—are you really in earnest?” she murmured, composure flying to the winds.
“Yes; terribly so,” he said gently. “I mean every word of it. I do love you.”
“I—I cannot talk about it now, Mr. King,” she fluttered, moving away from him in a sudden panic. Presently he went over to her. She was standing near the candle, staring down at the flame with a strangely preoccupied expression in her eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I was hasty, inconsiderate. I—”
“You quite took my breath away,” she panted, looking up at him with a queer little smile.
“I know,” he murmured.
Her troubled gaze resumed its sober contemplation of the flame.
“How was I to tell—” she began, but checked herself. “Please, Mr. King, you won’t say anything more to me about—about it,—just now, will you? Shall we talk of our plans for tonight? Tell me about them.”
He lowered his eyes, suddenly disheartened. “I only ask you to believe that I am desperately in earnest.”
“I cannot comprehend how—I mean, it is so very wonderful. You don’t think me unappreciative, or mean, do you?”
“Of course not. You are startled, that’s all. I’m a blundering fool. Still, you must agree that I was frightfully bowled over when I found that you were not what I thought. I couldn’t hold back, that’s all. By Jove, isn’t it wonderful? Here I’ve been looking all over the world for you, only to find that you’ve been living around the corner from me all these years! It’s positively staggering! Why,” with a sudden burst of his unquenchable buoyancy, “we might have been married two years ago and saved all this trouble. Just think of it!”
She smiled. “I do like you,” she said warmly, giving him her hand. He kissed it gallantly and stepped back—resolutely.
“That’s something,” he said with his humblest, most conquering smile.
“You won’t leave me to my fate because you think I’m going to marry—some one else?”
He grew very sober. “Miss Tullis, you and I have one chance in a thousand. You may as well know the truth.”
“Oh, I can’t bear the thought of that dreadful old man,” she cried, abject distress in her eyes.
He gritted his teeth and turned away. She went back to the corner, dully rearranging the coat he had given her for comfort. She handled it with a tenderness that would have astonished the garment had it been capable of understanding. For a long time she watched him in silence as he paced to and fro like a caged lion. Twice she heard him mutter: “An American girl—good Lord,” and she found herself smiling to herself—the strange, vagrant smile that comes of wonder and self-gratification.
Late in the afternoon—long hours in which they had spoken to each other with curious infrequency, each a prey to sombre thoughts—their door was unlocked and Anna Cromer appeared before them, accompanied by two of the men. Crisply she commanded the girl to come forth; she wanted to talk with her.
She was in the outer room for the better part of an hour, listening to Anna Cromer and Madame Drovnask, who dinned the praises of the great Count Marlanx into her ears until she was ready to scream. They bathed the girl’s face and brushed her hair and freshened her garments. It occurred to her that she was being prepared for a visit of the redoubtable Marlanx himself, and put the question plainly.
“No,” said Anna Cromer. “He’s not coming here. You are going to him. He will not be Count Marlanx after tomorrow, but Citizen Marlanx—one of the people, one of us. Ah, he is a big man to do this.”
Little did they know Marlanx!
“Julius and Peter will come for you tonight,” said Madame Drovnask, with an evil, suggestive smile. “We will not be here to say farewell, but, my dear, you will be one of us before—well, before many days have passed.”
Truxton was beginning to tremble with the fear that she would not be returned to their room, when the door was opened and she came in—most gladly, he could see. The two women bade him a cool, unmistakable Good-bye, and left him in charge of the men who had just come down from the shop above.
For half an hour Peter Brutus taunted him. It was all he could do to keep his hands wrapped in the rope behind his back; he was thankful when they returned him to his cell. The time was not ripe for the dash he was now determined to make.
“Get a little nap, if you can,” he said to Loraine, when the door was locked behind him. “It won’t be long before something happens. I’ve got a plan. You’ll have your part to play. God grant that it may work out well for us. You—you might pray if—if—”
“Yes, I can pray,” she said simply. “I’ll do my part, Mr. King.”
He waited a moment. “We’ve been neighbours in New York for years,” he said. “Would you mind calling me Truxton,—and for Adele’s sake, too?”
“It isn’t hard to do, Truxton.”
“Good!” he exclaimed.
She rebelled at the mere thought of sleep, but, unfastening her collar and removing the jabot, she made herself a comfortable cushion of his coat and sat back in her corner, strangely confident that this strong, eager American would deliver her from the Philistines—this fighting American with the ten days’ growth of beard on his erstwhile merry face.
Sometime in the tense, suffocating hours of the night they heard the sounds of many footsteps shuffling about the outer room; there were hoarse, guttural, subdued good-byes and well-wishes, the creaking of heavy doors and the dropping of bolts. Eventually King, who had been listening alertly, realised that but two of the men remained in the room—Peter Brutus and Julius Spantz.
An hour crept by, and another, seemingly interminable King was fairly groaning under the suspense. The time was slowly, too slowly approaching when he was to attempt the most desperate act in all this sanguinary tragedy—the last act for him, no doubt, but the one in which he was to see himself glorified.
There remained the chance—the slim chance that only Providence considers. He had prayed for strength and cunning; she had prayed for divine intervention. But, after all, Luck was to be the referee.
He had told her of his plan; she knew the part she was to play. And if all went well—ah, then! He took a strange lesson in the language of Graustark: one sentence, that was all. She had whispered the translation to him and he had grimly repeated it, over and over again. “She has fainted, damn her!” It was to be their “Open Sesame”—if all went well!
Suddenly he started to his feet, his jaws set, his eyes gleaming. The telegraph instrument was clicking in the outer room!
He had wrapped his handkerchief about his big right hand, producing a sort of cushion to deaden the sound of a blow with the fist and to protect his knuckles; for all his strength was to go into that one mighty blow. If both men came into the room, his chance was smaller; but, in either event, the first blow was to be a mighty one.
Taking his position near the girl, who was crouching in real dismay, he leaned against the wall, his hands behind him, every muscle strained and taut.
The door opened and Julius Spantz, bewhiskered and awkward, entered. He wore a raincoat and storm hat, and carried a rope in one of his hands. He stopped just inside the door to survey the picture.
“Time you were asleep,” he said stupidly, addressing King.
“I’d put you to sleep, Julius, if Miss Tullis could have managed to untie these infernal bonds,” said Truxton, with pleasant daring.
“I don’t tie lovers’ knots,” grinned Julius, pleased with his own wit. “Come, madam, I must ask you to stand up. Will you put your own han
dkerchief in your mouth, or must I use force—ah, that’s good! I’m sorry, but I must wrap this cloth about—”
He did not complete the sentence, for he had come within range. The whole weight of Truxton King’s body was behind the terrific blow that landed on the man’s jaw. Loraine suppressed the scream that rose to her white lips. Julius Spantz’s knees crumpled; he lunged against the wall and was sliding down when King caught him in his arms. The man was stunned beyond all power of immediate action. It was the work of an instant to snatch the revolver from his coat pocket.
“Guard the door!” whispered King to the girl, pressing the revolver into her hand. “And shoot if you have to!”
A handkerchief was stuffed into the unconscious man’s mouth; the long coat and boots were jerked from his limp body before his hands and feet were bound with the rope he carried; the bushy whiskers and wig were removed from his head and transferred in a flash to that of the American. Then the boots, coat and hat found a new wearer.
Peter Brutus was standing in the stairway, leading to the sewer, listening eagerly for sounds from either side.
“Hurry up, Julius,” he called imperatively. “They are below with the boat. They have given the signal.”
The new Julius uttered a single sentence; that was all. If Peter heard the noise attending the disposal of his comrade, he was justified in believing that the girl had offered some resistance. When a tall, grunting man emerged from the inner room, bearing the limp figure of a girl in a frayed raincoat, he did not wait to ask questions, but rushed over and locked the cell-door. Then he led the way down the narrow stairway, lighting the passage with a candle. His only reply to King’s guttural remark in the Graustark language was:
“Don’t speak, you fool! Not a word until we reach the river.”
Down the steps they went to the opening in the wall of the sewer. There, before the bolts were drawn by Brutus, a series of raps were exchanged by men outside and the one who held the keys within.
A moment later, the girl was being lowered through the hole into rough, eager arms. Brutus and his companion dropped through, the secret block of masonry was closed, and off through the shallow waters of the sewer glided the party riverward in the noiseless boat that had come up to ferry them.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 92