A stealthy figure joined his highness at the foot of the steps, coming from the darkness below the veranda. It was Courant. What he said to the prince when they were safely away from the house caused the Italian's face to pale and his hands to twitch with rage. The French detective had heard and understood the conversation of the man and woman on the porch, and he had formed conclusions that drove all doubt from the mind of the noble lover.
Quentin looked up and down the street for his cab. It was not in sight, but he remembered telling the man to drive to the corner below. The rainstorm that had been threatening dry and dusty Brussels all day was beginning to show itself in marked form. There were distant rumbles of thunder and faint flashes of lightning, and now and then the wind, its velocity increasing every minute, dashed a splattering raindrop in one's face. The storm for which the city had been crying was hurling itself along from the sea, and its full fury was almost ready to break. The few pedestrians were scurrying homeward, the tram cars were loaded and many cabs whirled by in the effort to land their fares at home before the rain fell in torrents. Phil drank in the cool, refreshing breeze and cared not if it rained until the streets were flooded. At the corner stood a cab, the driver softly swearing to himself. He swung down and savagely jerked open the door.
“Back to the Bellevue,” said the fare airily, as he climbed into the vehicle. The cab had started off into a cross-street, when Phil imagined he heard a shout in the distance. He looked forth but could see no one in the rushing darkness, The rattle of the cab, the growing roar of the night and toe swish of the rain, which was now falling quite heavily, drowned all other sounds and he leaned back contentedly.
Suddenly the cab came to a stop, loud voices were heard outside and he was about to throw open the door when a heavy body was flung against the side of the vehicle. The next instant the half-lowered glass in the door was shattered and a voice from the rainy night cried:
“Don't resist or you will be shot to pieces.”
“What the dev—” gasped Quentin, barely able to distinguish the form of a man at the door. Some strange influence told him that the point of a revolver was almost touching his breast and the word died in his mouth.
“No outcry, Monsieur. Your valuables without a struggle. Be quick! There are many of us. You have no chance,” came the hard voice, in good English.
“But I have no valuables—”
“Your diamond ring and your watch, at least, monsieur. The ring is in your vest pocket.”
“Search me, you scoundrel! I have no ring, and my watch is in my room. I'm mighty slim picking for such noted gentlemen as you. I presume I have the honor of meeting the diamond collectors the town is talking so much about.” He was now aware of the presence of another man in the opposite window, and there was the same uncanny feeling that a second revolver was levelled at his person.
“Step outside, Monsieur. It is cruel to force you into the rain, but we assure you it is very refreshing. It will make you grow. Whatever you choose to call us we are wet to the skin. This must not, therefore, be a fruitless job. Step forth, quickly, and do not resist.”
Quentin hesitated for an instant, and then seeing resistance was useless, boldly set foot upon the curbing. A flash of lightning revealed four or five men in the group. One of them had the driver covered with a pistol, and two of them were ready to seize the passenger. He observed, with amazement, that one of the men was a policeman in full uniform.
“Officer!” he exclaimed. “Don't you see what they are doing?”
“O, Monsieur,” said the spokesman, pleasantly, “you may tell the police of Brussels that they cannot hunt us down until they hunt themselves down. What's that? A carriage? Quick! Your watch, your ring!”
Far down the street could be seen the lamps of an approaching cab, and Quentin's heart took a bound. He had not feared injury, for he was willing to submit to the searching without resistance, but now he thrilled with the excitement of possible conflict. A second flash in the sky revealed altered conditions in the setting of the tragic scene. The driver was on his box and the policeman was climbing up beside him. A short man, masked to the chin, had pushed aside the man with the revolver and a harsh voice cried as the darkness shut out the vivid picture:
“Short work of him! The knife!” “The club, Carl! Hell! Into the cab with him!” shouted another voice, and Phil began to strike out with his fists. But the attack was too sharp, the odds too great. Something crashed down upon his head, he felt himself lunge backward into the open cab door, and then a heavy body hurled itself upon his half-prostrate form. Another stinging blow caught him over the ear, and, as he lost consciousness, a tremendous force seemed to be crushing the breath from his body.
A revolver cracked, but he did not hear it, nor did he know that friends were at hand. Before the miscreants could hurl his body into the cab a vehicle whirled up, the feeble glare from its lanterns throwing light upon the scene. The man who had fired from the door of the second cab leaped to the ground, followed by a companion, and in a moment they were among the scuffling robbers. Whatever might have been the original intentions of Quentin's assailants, they were not prepared to offer battle. Their aim was to escape, not to fight. A couple of shots were fired, a rush of feet ensued and the earth seemed to swallow all but the two newcomers and the limp figure that lay half inside the cab.
In an instant Quentin was drawn from the cab by the taller of the two, the smaller having made a short dash in pursuit of the bandits. Blood rushed from the head of the unconscious man and he was a dead weight in the arms of his rescuer.
“Good God, Phil! Have they killed you? Here, Turk! Never mind those fellows! Come here, quick; we must get him to a surgeon. I'm afraid they've fixed him. Into our cab with him! Gad, he's like a rag!” It was Dickey Savage, and he was filled with dread. Turk, exploding with impotent rage, and shivering with fear that his master was dead, came to his assistance and they were soon racing for the Bellevue. A pair of wondering, patient, driverless horses watched the departure, but they did not move from the spot where they had been checked by the first attack. Across the doubletree behind them hung the limp form of their driver, a great, gaping wound in his head. He had driven them for the last time, and they seemed to know that his cold lips could never again command them to “go on.” Driven almost to the hilt, in the floor of the cab, was an ugly knife. Its point had been intended for Quentin's throat, but the hand that struck the blow was not as true as the will of its owner.
In a high state of alarm and excitement the two men in the cab took their friend to his room, their advent creating great commotion in the hotel The wildest curiosity prevailed, and they were besieged with questions from hotel men, guests and the crowd that had found shelter from the storm. Within ten minutes the news was spreading forth over the city that a wealthy American had been held up and murdered by the daring diamond thieves. Police and reporters hurried to the hotel, and the uproar was intense. The house surgeon was soon at work with the bloody, unconscious victim; Savage and Turk, with their friend, the millionaire, keeping the crowd away from the couch. It was impossible to drive the people from the room until the police arrived.
There were two ugly gashes in Quentin's head, one of which, it was feared at first, would disclose a fracture of the skull. Dr. Gassbeck, the surgeon who had attended a wounded prince in the same hotel less that twenty-four hours before, gave out as his opinion that Quentin's injuries were not dangerous unless unexpected complications appeared. Several stitches were taken in each cut, and the patient, slowly recovering from the effects of the blows and the anesthetics, was put to bed by his friends.
Savage observed one thing when he entered the hotel with the wounded man. Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi were among the first to come forward when the news of the attack spread through the office and corridors. The prince, in fact, was conversing with some gentlemen near the doors when the party entered. It was he who sent messengers to the central police office and who told the detectives where and how he had last seen the victim of the diamond thieves.
Dickey sat all night beside his rolling, moaning friend, unnerved, almost despairing, but the morning brought the change that gladdened his heart and gave him a chance to forget his fears and apprehensions long enough to indulge in an impressive, though inadequate, degree of profanity, with continued reference to a certain set of men whom the world called thieves, but whom he designated as dogs.
About ten o'clock a telegram from Ostend came to the hotel for him. It read: “Are you not coming to Ostend for us? Jane.” An hour later a very pretty young lady in Ostend tore a telegram to pieces, sniffed angrily and vowed she would never speak to a certain young man again. His reply to her rather peremptory query by wire was hardly calculated to restore the good humor she had lost in not finding him at the dock. “Cannot come. Awfully sorry. Can't leave Brussels. Hurry on. Will explain here. Richard Savage.” Her sister-in-law and fellow-traveler from London was mean enough to tease her with sly references to the beauty of Brussels women and the fickleness of all mankind. And so there was stored away for Mr. Savage's benefit a very cruel surprise.
The morning newspapers carried the story of Quentin's adventure to the Garrison home, and Dorothy's face, almost haggard as the result of a sleepless night, grew whiter still, and her tired eyes filled with dread. She did not have to recall their conversation of the night before, for it had not left her mind, but her thoughts went back to a former conversation in which he had ridiculed the bandits. The newspaper fell from her nerveless fingers, and she left the table, her breakfast untouched, stealing miserably to her room, to escape her mother's inquisitive eyes.
Her wretched state was not improved by the visit of a veiled young woman later in the day. The visitor was undoubtedly a lady, but the story she poured into the unwilling ears was so astounding that Dorothy dismissed her indignantly before it was finished. The low-voiced, intense stranger, young and evidently beautiful, told her that Quentin's injuries were not inflicted by thieves, but by the hired agents of one who had cause to fear him. Before Miss Garrison could remonstrate, the stranger went into the details of a plot so cowardly that she was horrified—horrified all the more because, in a large measure, it sustained the charges made against her lover by Philip Quentin. When at last she could no longer endure the villifying recital she bade the woman to leave the house, hotly refusing to give countenance to the lies she was telling. The stranger desisted only after her abject pleading had drawn from the other a bitter threat to have her ejected by the servants.
“You will not hear me to the end, but you must give me the privilege of saying that I do not come here to do him or you an injury,” said the visitor, tremulously. “It is to save you from him and to save him for myself. Mademoiselle, I love him. He would marry me were it not for you. You think jealousy, then, inspired this visit? I admit that jealousy is the foundation, but it does not follow that I am compelled to lie. Everything I have said and would say is true. Perhaps he loves you, but he loved me first. A week ago he told me that he loved me still. It was I who warned the American gentleman against him, and my reason is plain. I want him to win. It would mean death to me if it were known that I came to you with this story. Do you bid me go, or will you hear me to the end?”
“You must go. I cannot listen to the infamous things you say about—about—him,” said Dorothy, her voice choking toward the end. A horrible fear seized upon her heart. Was this woman mad or had Quentin told the truth? A new thought came to her and she grasped the woman's hand with convulsive fingers. “You have been sent here by Mr. Quentin! O, how plain it is! Why did I not see through it at once? Go back to your employer and tell him that—” She was crying hysterically when the woman snatched away her hand, and drawing herself to full height interrupted haughtily:
“I have humbled myself that I might do you the greatest service in the world. You drive me from your presence and you call me a liar. All of that I must endure, but I will not suffer you to accuse this innocent man while I have voice to offer up in his defense. I may be some one's slave, but I am not the servant of any man. I do not know this American; he does not know me. I am my own agent and not his tool. What I have tried to tell you is true and I confess my actions have been inspired by selfish motives. Mademoiselle, the man you are to marry promised to make me his wife long before he knew you.”
“To make you his wife? Absurd! Men of his station do not marry, nor promise to marry, the grisettes or the—”
“'Madam! It is not a grisette to whom you are speaking. The blood in my veins is as noble as that which flows in his, the name I bear—and perhaps disgrace, God help me!—is as proud as any in all France. But I have not millions, as you have. My face, my person may win and hold the heart, but I have not the gold with which to buy the soul. You will pardon my intrusion and you will forgive me for any pang I have caused. He would not harken to the appeals from my breaking heart, he would not give me all his love. There was left but one course to preserve what rightfully belongs to me, and I have followed it as a last resort Were you to tell him that a woman came to you with this story, he would deny everything, and he would be lost to me, even though you cast him off in the end. It is not in my power to command you to protect the woman who is trying to help you. You do not believe what I have told to you, therefore I cannot hope for pity at your hands. You will tell him that I have been here, and I shall pay the penalty for being the fool, the mad woman. I am not asking for pity. If I have lied to you I deserve nothing but the hardest punishment. You have one way to punish me for the wounds I inflict, but it is the same to me, no matter how it ends. If you marry him, I am lost; if you cast him off and yet tell him that it was I who first sowed the seed of distrust in your heart, I am lost. It will be the same—all the same! If he cannot wed you, he will come to me and I will forgive. Madam, he is not good enough for you, but he is all the world to me. He would wed you, but you are not the one he loves. You are all the world to one whose love is pure and honest. If you would save him, become his wife. O, Mademoiselle, it grieves me so to see the tears in those good eyes of yours! Farewell, and God bless and keep you.”
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