He shook his head.
“None. The party was just a whim of Maggie’s.”
They both looked across towards the ballroom, where she was dancing with Chalmers.
“Maggie is very beautiful to-night,” Naida said. “I could scarcely listen to my neighbour’s conversation at dinner time for looking at her. Yet she has the air all the time of living in a dream, as though something had happened which had lifted her right away from us all. I began to wonder,” she added, “whether, after all, Oscar Immelan had not told me the truth, and whether we should not be drinking her health and yours before the evening was over.”
“You could scarcely believe that,” he whispered, “if you have any memory at all.”
There was a faint touch of pink in her cheeks, a tinge of colour as delicate as the passing of a gleam of sunshine over a sea-glistening shell.
“But Englishmen are so unfaithful,” she sighed.
“Then I at least am an exception,” Nigel answered swiftly. “The words which you checked upon my lips the last time we were alone together still live in my heart. I think, Naida, the time has come to say them.”
Their immediate neighbours had deserted them. He leaned a little towards her.
“You know so well that I love you, Naida,” he said. “Will you be my wife?”
She looked up at him, half laughing, yet with tears in her eyes. With an impulsive little gesture, she caught his hand in hers for a moment.
“How horribly sure you must have felt of me,” she complained, “to have spoken here, with all these people around! Supposing I had told you that my life’s work lay amongst my own people, or that I had made up my mind to marry Oscar Immelan, to console him for his great disappointment.”
“I shouldn’t have believed you,” he answered, smiling.
“Conceit!” she exclaimed.
He shook his head.
“In a sense, of course, I am conceited,” he replied. “I am the happiest and proudest man here. I really think that after all we ought to turn it into a celebration.”
The band was playing a waltz. Naida’s head moved to the music, and presently Nigel rose to his feet with a smile, and they passed into the ballroom. Karschoff and Mrs. Bollington Smith watched them with interest.
“Naida is looking very wonderful to-night,” the latter remarked. “And Nigel, too; I wonder if there is anything between them.”
“The days of foreign alliances are past,” Karschoff replied, “but a few intermarriages might be very good for this country.”
“Are you serious?” she asked.
“Absolutely! I would not suggest anything of the sort with Germany, but with this new Russia, the Russia of which Naida Karetsky is a daughter, why not? Although they will not have me back there, Russia is some day going to lay down the law to Europe.”
“I wonder whether Maggie has any ideas of the sort in her mind,” Mrs. Bollington Smith observed. “She seems curiously abstracted to-night.”
Chalmers came grumblingly up to Mrs. Bollington Smith, with whom he was an established favourite.
“Lady Maggie is treating me disgracefully,” he complained. “She will scarcely dance at all. She goes around talking to every one as though it were a sort of farewell party.”
“Perhaps it may be,” Karschoff remarked quietly.
“She isn’t going away, is she?” Chalmers demanded.
“Who knows?” the Prince replied. “Lady Maggie is one of those strange people to whom one may look with every confidence for the unexpected.”
She herself came across to them, a few moments later.
“Something tells me,” she declared, “that you are talking about me.”
“You are always a very much discussed young lady,” Karschoff rejoined, with a little bow.
She made a grimace and sank into a chair by her aunt. She talked on lightly enough, but all the time with that slight suggestion of superficiality which is a sign of strain. She glanced often towards the entrance of the lounge, yet no one seemed less disturbed when at a few minutes before eleven Prince Shan came quietly in. He made his way at once to Mrs. Bollington Smith and bent over her fingers.
“It is so kind of you and Lord Dorminster,” he said, “to give me this opportunity of saying good-by to a few friends.”
“You are leaving us so soon, Prince?”
“To-morrow, soon after dawn,” he replied, his eyes wandering around the little circle. “I wish to be in Pekin, if possible, by Wednesday, so my Dragon must spread his wings indeed.”
He said a few words to almost everybody. Last of all he came to Maggie, and no one heard what he said to her. There was no change in his face as he bent low over her fingers, no sign of anything which might have passed between them, as a few minutes later he turned to one side with Nigel. Maggie held out her hand to Chalmers. The strain seemed to have passed. Her lips were parted in a wonderful smile, her feet moved to the music.
“Come and dance,” she invited.
They moved a few steps away together, when Maggie came to an abrupt standstill. The two stood for a moment as though transfixed, their eyes upon the arched entrance which led from the restaurant into the lounge. A man was standing there, looking around, a strange, menacing figure, a man dressed in the garb of fashion but with the face of a savage, with eyes which burned in his head like twin dots of fire, with drawn, hollow cheeks and mouth a little open like a mad dog’s. As his eyes fell upon the group and he recognised them, a look of horrible satisfaction came into his face. He began to approach quite deliberately. He seemed to take in by slow degrees every one who stood there,—Maggie herself and Chalmers, Naida, Nigel and Prince Shan. He moved forward. All the time his right hand was behind him, concealed underneath the tails of his dress coat.
“Be careful!” Maggie cried out. “It is Oscar Immelan! He is mad!”
Some of the party and many of the bystanders had shrunk away from the menacing figure. Naida stepped out from among the little group of those who were left.
“Oscar,” she said firmly, “what is the matter with you? You are not well enough to be here.”
He came to a standstill. At close quarters his appearance was even more terrible. Although by some means he had gotten into his evening clothes, he was only partly shaven, and there were gashes in his face where the hand which had held his razor had slipped. The pupils of his eyes were distended, and the eyes themselves seemed to have shrunk back into their sockets. His whole frame seemed to have suddenly lost vigour, even substance. He had the air of a man in clothes too large for him. Even his voice was shriller,—shriller and horrible with the slow and bestial satisfaction of his words.
“So here you are, the whole nest of you together, eh?” he exclaimed. “Good! Very good indeed! Prince Shan, the poisoner! Dorminster, enjoying your brief triumph, eh? And you, Naida Karetsky, traitress to your country—deceiver—”
“That will do, Immelan,” Nigel interrupted sharply. “We are all here. What do you want with us?”
“That comes,” Immelan replied. “Soon you shall all know why I have come! Let me speak to my friend Shan for a moment. I carry your poison in my veins, but there is a chance—just a chance,” he added slowly, with a horrible smile upon his lips, “that you may go first, after all.”
Nigel made a stealthy but rapid movement forward, drawing Naida gently out of the way. Immelan was too quick, however. He swung around, showing the revolver which he had been concealing behind him, and moved to one side until his back was against one of the pillars. By this time, most of the other occupants of the ballroom had either rushed screaming away altogether, or were hiding, peering out in fascinated horror from the different recesses. The chief maître d’hôtel bravely held his ground and came to within a few paces of Immelan.
“We can’t have any brawling here,” he said. “Put that revolver away.”
Immelan took no notice of the intervener, except that for a single moment the muzzle yawned in the latter’s face. The ma�
�tre d’hôtel was a brave man, but he had a wife and family, and after all, it was not his affair. There were other men there to look after the ladies. He hurried off to call for the police. Almost as he went, Prince Shan stepped into the foreground. His voice was calm and expressionless. His eyes, in which there shone no shadow of fear, were steadily fixed upon Immelan. He spoke without flurry.
“So you carry your own weapons to-night, Immelan,” he said. “That at least is more like a man. You seem to have a grievance against every one. Start with me. What is it?”
There were some of them who wondered why, at this juncture when he so clearly dominated his assailant, Prince Shan, whose courage was superb and whose sang froid absolutely unshaken did not throw himself upon this intruder and take his chance of bringing the matter to an end at the moment when the man’s nerve was undoubtedly shaken. Then they looked towards the entrance, and they understood. Creeping towards the little gathering came Li Wen and another of the Prince’s suite, a younger and even more active man. The two came on tiptoe, crouching and moving warily, with the gleam of the tiger in their anxious eyes. Maggie caught a warning glance from Nigel and looked away.
“You are my murderer!” Immelan cried hoarsely. “It is through you I suffer these pains! I am dying of your accursed poison!”
“If that were true,” Prince Shan replied, with the air of one willing to discuss the subject impartially, “might I remind you of Sen Lu, who died in my box at the Albert Hall? For whom was that dagger thrust meant, Immelan? Not for the man whom you had bought to betray me, the only one of my suite who has ever been tempted with gold. That dagger thrust was meant for me, and the assassin was one of your creatures. So even if your words were true, Immelan, and the poison which you imagine to be in your body were planted there by me, are we less than quits?”
Immelan’s lie was unconvincing.
“I know nothing of Sen Lu’s death,” he declared. “I employ no assassins. When there is killing to be done, I can do it myself. I am here to-night for that purpose. You have deserted me at the last moment, Prince Shan—played me and my country false for the sake of the English woman whom you think to carry back with you to China. And you,” he added, turning with a sudden furious glance at Naida, “you have deceived the man who trusted you, the man who sent you here for one purpose, and one purpose only. You have done your best to ruin my scheme. Not only that, but you have given the love which was mine—mine, I say—to another—an Englishman! I hate you all! That is why I, a dying man, have crawled here to reap my little harvest of vengeance.—You, Naida—you shall be first—”
Naida was suddenly swung on one side, and the shot which rang out passed through Nigel’s coat sleeve, grazing his wrist,—the only shot that was fired. Prince Shan, watching for his moment, as his two attendants threw themselves upon the madman from behind, himself sprang forward, knocked Immelan’s right hand up with a terrible blow, and sent the revolver crashing to the ground. It was a matter of a few seconds. Immelan, when he felt himself seized, scarcely struggled. The courage of his madness seemed to pass, the venom died out of his face, he shook like a man in an ague. Prince Shan kicked the revolver on one side and looked scornfully down upon him, now a nerveless wreck.
“Immelan,” he said, “it is a pity that you did not wait until to-morrow morning. You would then have known the truth. You are no more poisoned than I am. If you had been in China—well, who knows? In England there is so much prejudice against the taking of a worthless life that as a guest I subscribed to it and mixed a little orris-root tooth powder with your vermouth.”
The man’s eyes suddenly opened. He was feverishly, frantically anxious.
“Tell me that again,” he shrieked. “You mean it? Swear that you mean it.”
Prince Shan’s gesture as he turned away was one of supreme contempt.
“A Shan,” he said, “never needs to repeat.”
There was the bustle of arriving police, the story of a revolver which had gone off by accident, a very puzzling contretemps expounded for their benefit. The situation, and the participants in it, seemed to dissolve with such facility that it was hard for any one to understand what had actually happened. Prince Shan, with Maggie on his arm, was talking to the leader of the orchestra, who had suddenly reappeared. The former turned to his companion.
“It is not my custom to dance,” he said, “but the waltz that they were beginning to play seemed to me to have a little of the lure of our own music. Will you do me the honour?”
They moved away to the music. Chalmers stood and watched them, with one hand in his pocket and the other on Nigel’s shoulder. He turned to Naida, who was on the other side.
“Nothing like a touch of melodrama for the emotions,” he grumbled. “Look at Lady Maggie! Her head might be touching the clouds, and I never saw her eyes shine like that when she danced with me.”
“You don’t dance as well as Prince Shan, old fellow,” Nigel told him.
“And the Prince sails for China at dawn,” Naida murmured.
CHAPTER XXXII
Table of Contents
Prince Shan stood in the tiny sitting room of his suite upon the Black Dragon and looked around him critically. The walls were of black oak, with white inlaid plaques on which a great artist had traced little fanciful figures,—a quaint Chinese landscape, a temple, a flower-hung pagoda. There were hangings of soft, blue silk tapestry, brought from one of his northern palaces. The cloth which covered the table was of the finest silk. There were several bowls of flowers, a couch, and two comfortable chairs. Through the open doors of the two bedchambers came a faint glimpse of snow-white linen, a perfume reminiscent at once of almond blossom, green tea, and crushed lavender, and in the little room beyond glistened a silver bath. Already attired for the voyage, his pilot stood on the threshold.
“Is all well, your Highness?” he asked.
“Everything is in order,” Prince Shan replied. “Ching Su is a perfect steward.”
“The reverend gentleman is in his room, your Highness,” the pilot went on. “All the supplies have arrived, and the crew are at their stations. At what hour will it please your Highness to start?”
Prince Shan looked through the open window, along the wooden platform, out to the broad stretch of road which led to London.
“I announced the hour of my departure as six o’clock,” he replied. “I cannot leave before in case of any farewell message. Is the woman of whom I spoke to you here?”
“She is in attendance, your Highness.”
“She understands that she will not be required unless my other passenger should desire to accompany us?”
“She understands perfectly, your Highness.”
Prince Shan stepped through his private exit on to the narrow wooden platform. Already the mighty engines had started, purring softly but deeply, like the deep-throated murmurings of a giant soon to break into a roar. It was a light, silvery morning, with hidden sunshine everywhere. On the other side of the vast amphitheatre of flat, cinder-covered ground, the Downs crept upwards, rolling away to the blue-capped summit of a distant range of hills. Northwards, the pall of London darkened the horizon. An untidy medley of houses and factories stretched almost to the gates of the vast air terminus. Listening intently, one could catch the faint roar of the city’s awakening traffic, punctuated here and there by the shrill whistling of tugs in the river, hidden from sight by a shroud of ghostly mist. The dock on which Prince Shan stood was one apportioned to foreign royalty and visitors of note. A hundred yards away, the Madrid boat was on the point of starting, her whistles already blowing, and her engines commencing to beat. Presently the great machinery which assisted her flight from the ground commenced its sullen roar. There was a chorus of farewell shouts and she glided up into the air, a long row of people waving farewells from the windows. Prince Shan glanced at his watch,—twenty minutes to six. He paced the wooden boards and looked again,—ten minutes to six. Then he stopped suddenly. Along that gleaming stretch of p
rivate road came a car, driven at a rapid pace. Prince Shan stood and watched it, and as he watched, it seemed almost as though the hidden sun had caught his face and transfigured it. He stood as might stand a man who feels his feet upon the clouds. His lips trembled. There was no one there to see—his attendants stood respectfully in the background—but in his eyes was a rare moisture, and for a single moment a little choking at his throat. The car turned in under the arched roof. Prince Shan’s servants, obeying his gesture, hurried forward and threw open the gates. The heavily laden limousine came to a standstill. Three people descended. Nigel and Naida lingered, watching the luggage being unloaded. Maggie came forward alone.
They met a few yards from the entrance to the platform. Prince Shan was bare-headed, and Maggie, at least, saw those wonderful things in his face. He bent down and took her hands in his.
“Dear and sweet soul,” he whispered, as his lips touched her fingers, “may my God and yours grant that you shall find happiness!”
Her own eyes were wet as she smiled up at him.
“I have been so long making up my mind,” she said, “and yet I knew all the time. I am so glad—so happy that I have come. Think, too, how wonderful a start! We leave the earth for the clouds.”
“It is a wonderful allegory,” he answered, smiling. “We will take it into our hearts, dear one. It rests within the power of every human being to search for happiness and, in searching, to find it. I am fortunate because I can take you to beautiful places. I can spell out for you the secrets of a new art and a new beauty. We can walk in fairy gardens. I can give you jewels such as Europe has never seen, but I can give you, Maggie, nothing so strange and wonderful, even to me who know myself, as the love which fills my heart.”
Her laugh was like music.
“I am going to be so happy,” she murmured.
The other two approached and they all shook hands. They looked over the amazing little rooms, watched the luggage stowed away in some marvellous manner, saw the crew, every one at his station like a motionless figure. Then a whistle was blown, and once more they all clasped hands.
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