“That’s because I happen to know so many people here,” she smiled. “But you may have them both if you like.”
“Thanks.” His bluish chin tilted and his quick eyes laughed into hers. “But your programme would be just as full if you’d arrived here with an ancient chaperone and knowing no one. There’s the band starting now. Shall we dance?”
“Yes, let’s.”
They were just about to move off when Diana saw Prince Ali being led into the room by General Lord Edward Bennington, the senior member of the Club Committee present.
Immediately the Prince caught sight of her he left Lord Edward with almost indecent haste, and walked stiffly over to the corner where she was standing. Swithin Destime politely stood aside as the tall Turk took Diana’s programme, screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye, and ran his glance over the heavily pencilled card.
He made no comment that it was already full, but calmly struck a line through four sets of initials, then handed it back with a haughty little smile.
“I see that this is number seven,” he observed. “But I should like a glass of wine before I dance, so I have taken numbers nine, ten, eleven and twelve. Had you had the kindness to remember that I came here especially to dance with you, it would not be necessary for you to apologise to these gentlemen whom I am compelled to rob of your company.”
Swithin Destime’s blue eyes suddenly went hard and cold. “Number nine …” he said icily, but Diana intervened before he had time to say more.
“Your Highness, may I present Captain Swithin Destime.”
For a second the two men stared at each other angrily. Then Swithin lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry sir,” he said. “I had not realised …”
The Prince gave a curt nod and turned away.
As Swithin and Diana moved off across the floor, he smiled again. “I nearly put my foot in it that time didn’t I? Who is this dago Prince, or am I being rude about a friend of yours?”
“Not a bit, and I’m terribly sorry that I shall have to cut your second dance.” Diana proceeded to explain, and he nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, if he’s a ‘Royal’ I suppose he’s entitled to ride rough-shod over all of us, especially as he is a guest of the Club. But if it were anyone else I’d see them damned before I let them rob me of that second dance you were good enough to give me. If there’s a third extra perhaps you would let me have that instead.”
“Certainly I will,” she assured him. “Really I’ve no wish to dance with Prince Ali. He’s probably an awful bore, but in addition to being a prince he is such a big bug in Turkish affairs just now and so many of my father’s business interests are in the Near East that it might make it awkward for him if I refused to dance with the man at all.”
“Have you ever been out there—to Constantinople I mean?”
“Yes, several times with father in the yacht.”
“How did you like it?”
“I loved the old palaces and mosques, but some of the slums are pretty grim.”
“I know,” he agreed. “The East doesn’t change much really although they say that Mustapha Kemal is making a big difference there now.”
“Do you know it then?” she asked with interest.
“Yes, I was in the country for some time just after the War, and five years ago I put in a few months there before I qualified as interpreter in Turkish, Arabic and Greek.”
“Dear me, you are a clever person!” She caught the swift glance of his quick intelligent eyes again.
“Not really,” he almost apologised. “But there are so many things that can be useful to a soldier outside the ordinary training for his job, and it just happens that I am pretty keen.”
As the music stopped he led her through to another room where they found a comfortable corner and sat down.
“Tell me some more about this Turkish Prince,” he went on after a moment. “I like to get all the dope I can about his part of the world.”
“I don’t know much really,” she confessed; “except what I heard my father and Mr. Hazeltine say about him in the car coming down from London tonight. He is a General of course, and I gather one of considerable ability. Mustapha Kemal is said to think very highly of him and looks on him as one of his right-hand men. That is what makes him so important to us in one way, but he has got a foot on the other side of the fence as well because he is a nephew of the ex-Sultan, and all the old Turkish party who hate Mustapha Kemal’s innovations respect him on that account.”
“By Jove! I should have been in a fine mess if you hadn’t stopped me being downright rude to him then—if he’s as big a bug as all that. How old is he I wonder?”
Diana shrugged. “About forty, I should think. It is difficult to tell with Orientals. He may be a good bit more but he can’t be much less because Frank Hazeltine was saying that he served with distinction in the War.”
At that moment, to Swithin’s intense annoyance, the band struck up again. The dance to which he had looked forward so much ever since he had learned from Peter Carew that Diana was coming that evening was over all too soon. It seemed that they had hardly exchanged a dozen words, but as she stood up he made the most of his opportunity.
“Look here,” he said; “say there isn’t a third extra, I’m going to ask you for compensation. If I get Peter and another girl to make a four, would you dine one night and do a show? I’d look forward to it tremendously if you would.”
His vivid blue eyes held hers for a moment and she nodded. “Yes, why not? If I have to dance four dances with Prince Ali it is I who shall need some compensation, and I should enjoy that.”
“Thank you most awfully.” They had reached the doorway of the ball-room and as he spoke she was carried away from him by an impatient partner.
Not being a keen dancer he had few other names on his card and for the next three he was free so he joined some other men at the buffet. Prince Ali was quite near him, punishing the champagne.
Three other Turks had accompanied the Prince down from London. One, a fat-faced, jolly-looking fellow was laughing with him and keeping his glass well supplied. The other two stood a little in the background watching him intently and Swithin happened to overhear a fragment of their conversation.
“If he drinks much more he is going to become troublesome,” said one morosely, and the other nodded.
“Yes, it’s extraordinary how vicious he can be when he lets himself go on champagne. He becomes so damned unreasonable, and I’d rather be back at Brusa with my regiment than have the job of trying to coax him into behaving properly when he gets like that.”
Peter Carew came up to Swithin at that moment so he heard no more, but he observed a little later that General Lord Edward Bennington was beside the Prince asking if he would not like to dance. To which Prince Ali replied with the barest civility that he had no intention of doing so yet.
“Are you dancing the next one, Peter?” Swithin asked.
“No, worse luck. My leg’s not fit yet from a fall I had last week so I’ve got to go easy on the dancing and limit myself to a couple each with a few young women that I like. Why?”
“Only that I’m not either and I thought we might stroll down to the river for a breath of air. What about it?”
“By all means if you like.” Peter finished his drink and the two men sauntered out into the garden.
Immediately the band broke into the opening bars of number nine Prince Ali abandoned the champagne at the buffet in search of other pleasures. He had ordered one of his aides-de-camp to keep Diana in sight. Directly her whereabouts were reported he joined her and, placing a strong right arm firmly round her waist, swept her away across the floor.
His height gave him an easy command of the passages which opened out among the kaleidoscopic throng and she admitted to herself at once that he danced divinely. She soon found too that he could throw off his abrupt haughty manner when he chose to do so.
After one turn round the floor he had her laughing at his des
cription of an elderly General whom he had met at Aldershot the day before. A nice old gentleman whose mentality had not advanced since he had posted his last vedette as a cavalry subaltern in the South African War. Then to her surprise he told her that he was a hopeless sailor and had been terribly sick when crossing the Channel. That he should confess to any weakness seemed to make him infinitely more human. For the rest of the dance he entertained her with shrewd, witty criticisms upon a number of people who had been present at the Foreign Office dinner that evening, and although she had at first disliked him, she had to admit to herself that he had both brains and charm.
As the music ceased he swung her in a last graceful pirouette, released her swiftly, made a semi-mocking bow and then, catching her arm again, led her with quick decisive steps out into the garden.
The two Turkish A.D.C.s whom Swithin had noticed near the buffet were standing together by the window. Seeing the Prince go out, one made a rueful little grimace to the other and then they both followed at a distance.
As Diana and Prince Ali crossed the lawn he took her hand and drew it through his arm. She tried half-heartedly to withdraw it but he gave it a gentle pat of protest and murmured:
“Now please; you are far too nice to be unkind. Think of all the hard work which I have to do here. These boring official receptions, the old women and the stupid men I have to talk to. Surely, you would not rob me of these few moments of charming relaxation?”
Her sympathy was aroused at once. He was quite a nice person really she decided, and she had often thought that it could not be much fun to be a royalty—passing one’s days and nights in one long succession of dull duties. Why should she not treat him like a human being and let him hold her hand if he wanted to.
At the river bank he paused, looking down for a moment at the dark, smoothly flowing waters. Then he said suddenly; “If only we had been in Istanbul I would have ordered a launch to be in readiness and carried you off to supper with me.”
Diana laughed a little nervously. His tone was bantering, but there was just the faintest timbre in his voice which suggested that he meant exactly what he said. She was exceedingly thankful that they were not in Turkey for, despite his admirable European attire, his eyes spoke the unmistakable language of the Oriental and she had no certainty as to what he meant to imply by the generic term of “supper”. She knew instinctively too that he would have cared nothing for her point of view or any scandal which might have resulted had they been standing on the edge of the Bosphorus instead of the Thames.
He took her arm again and turning, gently propelled her along the river bank, until they came to a little arbour which stood almost hidden in the shadow of a group of trees.
“We will sit here,” he said, “and smoke a cigarette.”
To Diana’s relief the music started again just then so she did not sit down but replied quickly: “No, you dance so beautifully that I do not want to miss one moment of the band. I would much rather go back to the ballroom.”
“Thank you,” he smiled, obviously pleased by her flattery but not to be lured away from his purpose. “We will dance again later if you wish. I prefer now that we should stay here.”
“Then I must get my coat,” she parried. “By the river here it’s quite cold.”
As she spoke she glanced back over her shoulder at the lighted windows of the Club. The lawn was almost empty and in the distance the guests were hurrying back into the ballroom. The heavy shadows of the trees hid the little arbour in which they stood from all but two men, the Prince’s A.D.C.s who were standing near some bushes about twenty yards away.
“Cold? But I will make you warm,” he laughed suddenly and his voice had a little guttural note which made her catch her breath in fear. Then before she could reply her slender body was gripped tightly in his powerful arms.
“Please!” she gasped, throwing back her head with a jerk. “Please!” But he only laughed again and she felt his hot breath on her cheek. Then his mouth was pressed down firmly upon her own.
She beat her clenched fists on his shoulders and tried to force him away but he gave a grunting chuckle and buried his face gluttonously in the curve of her white neck.
“Stop!” she flared at him, “Let me go—D’you hear? Let me go!” She tried to keep her voice low, dreading the scandal if someone came upon them with her struggling in his arms, but despite herself she had raised it to a higher pitch in her excitement and next moment everything seemed to happen at once.
She caught the sound of running feet on a nearby path that led farther in among the bushes. Prince Ali was wrenched backwards and she fell against a tree. She heard his collar stud snap as his assailant hauled him from her by the neck.
The Prince swung round and lashed out at the man who had attacked him. Small, lithe, panther-like, only the greyish blob of his face and his white shirt-front showing in the semi-darkness, the other sprang at him and they crashed to the ground together.
The two A.D.C.s rushed forward and hauled the little man off. Then another figure entered the fray. A tall man who promptly laid out one of the A.D.C.s. The other was yelling at the top of his voice for help.
Prince Ali was on his feet again. Diana caught one glimpse of his face, distorted by furious rage as he staggered past her and launched himself at his original assailant.
For a moment the mêlée became general. Then the lawn was full of running figures. A dozen, two dozen, fifty newcomers seemed to throw themselves into a sort of rugby scrum.
There were shouts of “Stop that! … Hi! Hang on to him! … Who is it! … For God’s sake keep quiet can’t you!” and the five combatants were dragged forcibly apart.
Diana, her dress badly torn where Prince Ali had caught at it as he was wrenched away from her, leaned panting against the tree. She was utterly horrified now at the thought of the scandal which was certain to result from this unseemly fracas. Then, with fresh distress, she recognised the two men who had attacked the Prince and his aides-de-camp as Peter Carew and Swithin Destime.
Prince Ali was still struggling with the men who had intervened. A little trickle of blood ran down his cheek from a cut which he had sustained in his fall. His eyes glared murder at the Englishman.
Swithin stood with tight-shut mouth eyeing him stonily a few feet away. He had heard a girl shouting and come to her assistance without the faintest idea as to the identity of the man he was attacking. Now in a flash he realised to the full the enormity of the thing that he had done. No matter what the justification for his act might be he, a British officer, had knocked down a guest in his own Club, and that guest was no less a person than General His Highness Prince Ali, the Envoy Extraordinary of a foreign power who was receiving the hospitality of the country. Swithin knew only too well that there was going to be real trouble for him before he heard the end of this.
CHAPTER III
A MOST DISTRESSING AFFAIR
General Lord Edward Bennington, tall, grey-haired and stooping a little, a worried frown on his lined face, walked slowly into the small card-room at the back of the Club. Frank Hazeltine followed and closed the door quietly behind him.
The five men who were already assembled there glanced at Lord Edward’s face with carefully concealed anxiety. Peter Carew, a trifle white and rather sullen-looking, was leaning over the back of a chair; Swithin Destime, his legs spread wide apart, one hand thrust deep into his trousers pocket and the other toying with an unlit cigarette, stood near him; their Commanding Officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Kerr-Crighton, a little brown man whose upturned moustache and aquiline nose made him appear not unlike an older edition of Swithin, sat perched on the edge of the table. Sir George Duncannon and Major Faulkner Wilde, a tubby fellow with beetling eyebrows who was a member of the Club Committee, completed the party.
“Well, he’s gone,” announced Lord Edward. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man display a more evil temper.”
Sir George, his hands clasped behind his back, had been thoughtfully s
tudying the pattern of the carpet. He looked swiftly at Hazeltine.
“So you failed to persuade him to come in here for a moment, Frank?”
The Foreign Office man shook his head gloomily. “I did what I could, but he would not listen to any suggestion of an apology.”
Colonel Kerr-Crighton’s hot little eyes nearly popped out of his head with indignation. “Apology be damned!” he snorted. “The fellow ought to be made to crawl himself.”
“Now Toby,” Lord Edward protested quickly; “We all know that he behaved like a cad, but he happened to be a guest of the Club and a visiting royalty to boot. Whatever the rights of the matter it would obviously have been to the best interests of the two officers concerned if the Prince had consented to accept the apology they were willing to make.”
“I cannot say how distressed I am that my daughter should have been the innocent cause of this unfortunate incident,” Sir George put in with evident feeling. Then turning to Peter and Swithin he added; “I can only repeat that the manner in which the two of you went to her assistance was most chivalrous—most chivalrous.”
Lord Edward stared at Swithin through his monocle. “I am a little in the dark as to what actually did take place. Would you mind giving me the facts as you know them.”
“Certainly sir. Carew and I were walking round the garden for a breath of air between dances. As we came out of the bushes at the end of the lower path the lawn was practically deserted and just on our right in that little arbour I heard a girl fighting and struggling with a man. It was obvious from her voice that they weren’t just fooling but that something pretty nasty was going on. I caught a glimpse of her dress and of the fellow’s back. He was a tall chap, but all cats are grey in the dark and I had not the faintest idea that it was Prince Ali. Anyhow, I grabbed him by the neck and pulled him off. He turned and hit out at me, so I slogged him under the chin. Next moment two of his A.D.C.s dashed up and then Carew entered the scrum as well. He laid one of them out and the other started to yell for help. The Prince was on his feet again by that time and had me round the body. Then a whole crowd of people came on the scene and we were pulled apart.”
The Eunuch of Stamboul Page 2
