“There is much in this matter which you do not understand, and which I may not divulge; but I give you my word, monsieur, that His Royal Highness, Prince Boris of Karlova, will reward me well if I succeed in getting you out of Karlova before you fall into the hands of the officers of the king, his father.”
“No,” said Hemmington Main, “I don’t understand; but I’m willing to take your word for it so long as you’ll all remain indoors until we are well upon our way.
“Certainly, monsieur,” replied the servant. “Good night, monsieur, and good luck!”
“Good night,” said Hemmington Main, and waving the two women toward the doorway he backed out of the room and passed forever from the royal hunting lodge of the crown prince of Karlova.
The limousine stood in the driveway, the royal chauffeur was at the wheel. Main helped Mrs. Bass and her daughter into the tonneau, and then took the seat beside the driver.
“To Demia,” he said, “and let her out.”
Chapter Fifteen
AS HEMMINGTON MAIN entered the dining room of the hotel at Demia the following morning he opened a morning paper which he had just purchased in the lobby. Vying with one another for importance were two news items upon the first page. One reported the abduction of Princess Mary of Margoth by the notorious Rider, and her subsequent rescue by the royal troops. Main whistled as he read of the capture of the famous bandit and the probable fate which was in store for him.
“Such a prize tempted him from fulfilling his little promise to me,” thought Main; “though how in sin the thing got so balled up I can’t imagine. His note to Peter certainly resulted in my being led to Gwendolyn — I can’t understand it.”
Further along in the account of the occurrence was another item which brought a second whistle to the lips of the American.
“Princess Mary,” it read, “insists that The Rider did not know her true identity until after the royal troops had rescued her and captured the brigand. He appeared to believe that she was the daughter of Abner J. Bass, the American millionaire, and that the lady in waiting who accompanied her was Mrs. Bass. An element of mystery surrounds the entire adventure, and is still further augmented by the connection which is seen between the abduction of Princess Mary and the reported assassination of Prince Boris of Karlova, the details of which appear in another column of this paper, for in the latter tragedy the names of Mrs. Bass and her daughter also appear, as well as that of Hemmington Main, an American newspaper man.”
There was an excellent reproduction of Klopkoi’s famous portrait of Mary of Margoth, beneath which was a tribute of love and devotion to “Our Little Princess, the last of the Banatoffs.”
The account of the reported assassination of the crown prince of Karlova was most carefully worded, and showed the hand of the censor in every line. The account closed with these words: “It is not yet definitely known if the prince be really dead, for following the tragedy he was spirited away by unknown accomplices of the conspirators. The servants at the royal hunting lodge deny that Prince Boris was there last night, or that he was shot; but the priest who reported the affair swears that he saw him with his own eyes and that he saw the shot fired which killed him. The authorities, it is reported, found blood upon a large Persian rug in the breakfast room, at the very spot where the priest says the prince fell, mortally wounded. The prefect of police at Demia has been asked to detain and question all strangers, especially Americans, now in the capitol. Margoth is anxious to demonstrate her friendship and sympathy for Karlova by cooperating with her in every way in the apprehension and arrest of the conspirators.”
Mr. Main’s whistle became a long and heartfelt thing as he assimilated the full purport of that last paragraph. He was still staring intently at the article when Gwendolyn Bass entered the dining room, and seeing him crossed the room to his table.
“Good morning Hemmy,” she said. “Isn’t it good to be safe and sound in Demia after all the horrid adventures of yesterday?”
“Yes,” he replied mournfully, “we’re so awfully ‘safe and sound’ — look at this,” and he passed the paper over to her, holding a forefinger on the paragraph which had caused his perturbation.
Miss Bass read the article through. Then her eyes wandered to the portrait of the Princess Mary and opened in astonished wonderment.
“‘Princess Mary,’” she quoted, and “‘the last of the Banatoffs’ — why Hemmington Main this is little Mary Banatoff who roomed with me at college. She called on me here last evening, and I never knew she was a princess.”
Main rose excitedly and leaned across the table to look once more at the picture of the princess as though the evidence of his own eyes would substantiate that of his companion’s, though he had never seen either Mary Banatoff or the Princess Mary of Margoth.
“Why, Gwen!” he cried. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I am that I know your face, Hemmy,” she replied.
A shadow fell across the table where the two bent over the likeness of the Margothian princess. Thinking that the waiter had come for their orders, Main looked up to behold a large, scowling gentleman gorgeous in gold lace and braid. Behind him stood a file of gendarmes.
“Monsieur Main?” asked the officer.
The American nodded.
“And Mademoiselle Bass?”
Again Main assented.
“Come with me,” said the officer; “you are under arrest.”
“Eh?” ejaculated Main.
“It is quite true, monsieur,” replied the other; “and it would be well to come without a scene.”
The American plead with the officer to permit Miss Bass to remain at the hotel; but the man was politely firm, explaining that he but acted upon the orders of a superior.
“But at least you will let her communicate with her mother?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, she will have an opportunity to communicate with her mother,” replied the officer, and when the party reached the lobby of the hotel Main discovered the explanation of the man’s generosity — Mrs. Bass was there awaiting them — she, too, was under arrest.
It was a melancholy party that drove to the gloomy portals of Demia’s gaol, likewise a silent party for their guardians would permit no conversation between the prisoners. Main still clutched the morning paper in his hand, and as he gazed vacantly at it the features of Margoth’s girlish princess smiled up at him from the blur of type. An inspiration seized him. The Princess Mary was a friend of Gwen’s. If Gwen could only see her and explain, surely everything would be set right so far as Gwen and her mother were concerned. He of course would have to pay the penalty for the shooting of Prince Boris — the pig! He asked permission to say half a dozen words to his fellow prisoner, but the guard silenced him with a curt word and a menacing shake of a baton.
They were slowing up now before the jail, and Main was at his wits ends to find a way to communicate with Gwendolyn Bass. She had risen to leave the car which had transported them from the hotel when Main seized upon the only plan that seemed at all feasible for communicating with her. Taking a pencil from his pocket he wrote across the picture of the princess: “See her,” and as Gwendolyn Bass passed him to leave the car he pushed the paper into her hands.
Chapter Sixteen
A FEW MINUTES LATER, after having been carefully searched, Main was conducted to a dark cell below the street level. The door clanged behind him, the turnkey shuffled away; and, so far as his eyes could penetrate the unaccustomed darkness, the American was alone.
But he had taken but a single turn of his tiny cell when a pleasant voice broke the silence of the prison — a voice which came from close at hand through the grating which separated Main’s cell from that adjoining it upon the left.
“Ah, my good friend the American joker!” exclaimed the voice. “But the joke seems also to be upon the joker, eh?”
Main stepped to the grating and peered through. His eyes, becoming accustomed to the darkness, presently discovered a familiar figure
reclining at ease upon the hard wooden bench.
“Joker!” ejaculated Main. “You, my friend, are the prince of jokers; and this is the result of your pleasantry.”
The other was silent for a moment. “What is beyond me,” he said presently, “is how in the world you obtained the connivance of the royal chauffeur and even of the princess herself and her companion — none of them denied that they were the Basses.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Main. “I obtained the connivance of no one. Mrs. Bass and her daughter left Demia as I told you they would; but instead of being waylaid by you as we had arranged, they fell in some way into the hands of Prince Boris of Karlova. The note you gave me to Peter the inn-keeper resulted in my being taken to the hunting lodge of the prince, where I found Miss Bass, her mother and prince Boris — the latter was about to wed Miss Bass. It was in the altercation over this that he was shot.”
The man in the adjoining cell leaped to his feet.
“Shot?” he cried.
“Yes, I shot him in self defense — that is why I am here. Miss Bass and her mother are prisoners, too. Haven’t you seen the papers? Didn’t you know that they report the assassination of the crown prince of Karlova and the secret removal of his body from the lodge?”
“Well!” ejaculated M. Kargovitch; “you certainly have gotten into a devil of a muss — and you really didn’t have anything to do with my getting hold of Princess Mary instead of Miss Bass?”
“Upon my word of honor,” replied Hemmington Main.
“Then we are the victims of the strangest combination of circumstances it has been my ill fortune to experience,” said M. Kargovitch; “and I give you my word of honor, monsieur, that I honestly thought I was waylaying your American friends and helping you in your little affair of the heart. The note I gave you should have resulted in your being brought to where I awaited you. Why, I even went so far as to demand from the lady in waiting who accompanied her highness that she give her consent to the marriage of Mary of Margoth to Mr. Hemmington Main of New York,” and M. Kargovitch leaned back, against the steel bars of his cell and laughed heartily.
“You take things rather easily for a man who will probably make the acquaintance of a gibbet in a few days,” said Main, laughingly. “Do you know, my friend, that you are a mighty good sport? I only wish that I might help you some way.”
“You would laugh, too, Main, if you knew as much about certain matters as do I,” replied Kargovitch. “You think that I will be hanged as a brigand, but I won’t. You also think that you will be hanged for assassinating a prince of the blood-royal but you won’t.”
“Well,” said Main,”I hope you know what you are talking about.”
A door opened at the far end of the corridor as he spoke, and with the clanking of sabers a party of officers and soldiers approached the cells in which the two men were confined. They halted before that occupied by M. Kargovitch. An officer drew a formidable appearing document from the breast of his tunic, and as he unfolded it a soldier bearing a lighted lantern held it so that the rays of light fell upon the paper.
As he read in sonorous tones the solemn and formal words of a long preamble which recited the career of crime of one individual known only as The Rider the smile broadened upon the face of M. Kargovitch; but at the last paragraph it died, the man’s head went up haughtily, and though he paled his shoulders remained squared, nor did he give any outward sign of what might be passing in his breast.
For the paper concluded: “And so, through the clemency of His Gracious Majesty, Alexis III, King of Margoth, it is decreed that said The Rider shall not expiate his sins upon the scaffold as custom and the laws decree, but shall, instead be granted the more honorable death before a firing squad of the king’s soldiers at dawn upon the morrow.”
And having completed the reading the officers and soldiers turned and tramped away down the corridor, their footsteps resounding dismally through the gloomy prison vault.
It was several minutes after they had departed before either of the prisoners spoke. The Karlovian stood as they had left him, his shoulders squared, his chin up, staring straight before him. Hemmington Main was dumfounded. The other’s assurance had been so great just prior to the coming of the soldiers that even now the American could scarce believe that he really had heard read the death warrant of his fellow prisoner. He raised his eyes to the man’s face to note the effect of the announcement upon him. M. Kargovitch seemed to feel the American’s gaze for he turned slowly toward Main, and as he did so a smile spread across his face.
“If I recall correctly,” he said, “your last remark, before they came, was to the effect that you hoped I knew what I was talking about. You see now, don’t you, that I did know. I told you that I should not be hanged. Well, I shall not be hanged — they are going to shoot me.”
“I wonder,” mused Hemmington Main, “if your gift of prophesy will prove as painfully inspired in my case as it has in yours.”
M. Kargovitch laughed. “I have it in my power, my friend, to save us both,” he said; “but at a cost against which the lives of two men are as nothing for should I speak now it would throw Margoth and Karlova into bloody war. Alexis of Margoth could scarce overlook the double affront and injury which I have put upon his daughter; and could be, the people of Margoth could not. They worship her, nor, since I have seen her, do I wonder.
“If, through the American minister, you can obtain a sufficient stay the truth must eventually come out, and with the truth known you will be freed from the accusation of having attempted the life of Prince Boris of Karlova.”
“If the truth is bound to be known,” suggested Main, “why the devil don’t you divulge it now and save your own life?”
M. Kargovitch shrugged. “There are several things worse than death, at least to a man in my position. One of them is ridicule. I have made a fool of myself and I should be laughed at — deservedly. I could not endure it. There is another reason. Within the past two days I have been a party to a hideous hoax, the entire brunt of which fell upon a defenseless girl. I would almost as lief die as look her in the face again, for, inexplicable irony of fate, I have found that I love her.”
Hemmington Main, his head tilted to one side, looked quizzically through narrowed lids at his fellow prisoner.
“I can’t fathom you, Kargovitch,” he said. “You are certainly the most remarkable brigand the world has ever produced.”
“Yes,” replied Kargovitch, “I am a remarkable brigand. As a matter of fact, Main, I rather suspect, that the Lord never intended me for a brigand at all.”
In a little back room in the attic of Peter’s Inn a man tossed feverishly upon a pile of grimy quilts and blankets. Above him bent a bewhiskered little man whom two others in the room addressed as “Doctor.”
“He will live,” announced the man of medicine, “if he has proper nursing.”
“Bakla will look after him well,” said Peter. “Eh, Bakla?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, “I will take care of him.”
Peter and the doctor left the room, stumping down the rickety ladder which led to the floor below, and the girl took her place upon an upturned keg near the sick man’s head, that she might change the cold cloths upon his burning forehead.
An hour passed. The man’s mutterings and tossing ceased. He opened his eyes in which now shown the light of rationality.
“Bakla,” he exclaimed. “What has happened? What am I doing here?” And then, before she could reply: “Ah, yes; I remember. The American. He shot me. Have you heard anything? Have the papers come yet from Sovgrad? I should like to hear what they have to say, and also what Prince Boris says. I should like to learn how he has explained the thing. I am glad, Bakla, that I am a brigand and not a prince. Go down and fetch the papers, Bakla, will you?”
The girl renewed the cloth upon The Rider’s head and descended the ladder to the second floor from which she ran down to the bar room. The Sovgrad papers, still unopened, lay upo
n a table near the door. She gathered them all up and returned to her patient. They laughed together over the guarded announcement of the reported assassination of the crown prince, and of the strange disappearance of his body. Then Bakla read of the capture of The Rider by the soldiers of Margoth and the probable fate which awaited him in Demia.
The Rider whistled and looked solemn. “That will never do,” he said, “he is a real man, even if he is a prince — far too good a man to make the acquaintance of a rope’s end.”
“You think they would hang him?” almost screamed Bakla.
“They might,” replied The Rider. “They would not believe him should he say he was Prince Boris of Karlova — no, they would only laugh at him, for did they not see me in Demia only yesterday and vouched for as the crown prince of Karlova?”
“But his friends — they know the truth?” persisted Bakla.
“I wonder if they do,” mused The Rider. “The whole thing has been so terribly tangled and confused that it is possible they might really believe that it is the true Rider who lies in prison at Demia, and that Prince Boris, who was to have met me at his hunting lodge today, arrived there ahead of time and was actually the man who was shot by the American. They would be none too loath to have me out of the way, for if their connection with this affair becomes known they will probably suffer degradation and imprisonment. Oh, the devil take that American! He has put me in a fix which won’t let me do a thing.”
Bakla sat in silence for a long while. Her eyes were very wide, and fear-filled. Presently The Rider slept. His regular breathing denoted the deep and healing slumber which is Nature’s greatest remedy. The girl rose and tiptoed to the head of the ladder. Quietly she descended. Tillie was busy with the house work on the second floor.
“Listen for The Rider,” said Bakla to her. “If he calls, go to him. I am going to Sovgrad. I will be back as quickly as possible.”
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 729
