At Quevy the customs officers went through the train, and Quentin knew that he was in Belgium. For some time he had been weighing in his mind the advisability of searching the train for a glimpse of the duke and his companion, doubtful as to the sincerity of the beautiful and mysterious stranger. It was not until the train reached Mons that he caught sight of the duke. He had started out deliberately at last to hunt for the Italian, and the latter evidently had a similar design. They met on the platform and, though it was quite dark, each recognized the other. The American was on the point of addressing the duke when that gentleman abruptly turned and reentered the train, one coach ahead of that occupied by Quentin, who returned to his compartment and proceeded to awaken the snoring man-servant. Without reserve he confided to Turk the whole story of the night up to that point.
“I don't know what their game is, Turk, but we must not be caught napping. We have a friend in the pretty woman who got off in the rain at Le Cateau. She loves the prince, and that's why she's with us.”
“Say, did she look's if she had royal blood in her? Mebby she's a queen er somethin' like that. Blow me, if a feller c'n tell w'at sort of a swell he's goin' up ag'inst over here. Dukes and lords are as common as cabbies are in New York. Anyhow, this duke ain't got no bulge on us. We're nex' to him, all right, all right. Shall I crack him on the knot when we git to this town we're goin' to? A good jolt would put him out o' d' business fer a spell—”
“Now, look here, young man; don't let me hear of you making a move in this affair till I say the word. You are to keep your mouth closed and your hands behind you. What I want you to do is to watch, just as they are doing. Your early training ought to stand you well in hand for this game. I believe you once said you had eyes in the back of your head.”
“Eyes, nothin'! They is microscopes, Mr. Quentin.”
Quentin, during the remainder of the run to Brussels, turned the new situation over and over in his mind. That the prince was ready to acknowledge him as a dangerous rival gave him much satisfaction and inspired the hope that Miss Garrison had given her lover some cause for alarm. The decisive movement on the part of Prince Ugo to forestall any advantage he might acquire while near her in Brussels was a surprise and something of a shock to him. It was an admission, despite his position and the pledge he had from the girl herself, that the Italian did not feel secure in the premises, and was willing to resort to trickery, if not villainy, to circumvent the American who knew him in other days. Phil felt positive that the move against him was the result of deliberate intent, else how should his fair friend of the early evening know that a plot was brewing? Unquestionably she had heard or learned of the prince's directions to the duke. Her own interest in the prince was, of course, the inspiration. To no one but herself could she entrust the delivery of the warning. Her agitated wish, openly expressed, that Quentin might win the contest had a much deeper meaning than would appear on the surface.
From the moment he received the warning the affair began to take on a new aspect. Aside from the primal fact that he was desperately in love with Dorothy Garrison, there was now the fresh incentive that he must needs win her against uncertain odds and in the face of surprising opposition. In this day and age of the world, in affairs of the heart, an American does not look for rivalry that bears the suggestion of medieval romance. The situation savored too much of the story-books that are born of the days when knights held sway, to appear natural in the eyes of an up-to-date, unromantic gentleman from New York, that city where love affairs adjust themselves without the aid of a novelist.
Quentin, of course, was loath to believe that Prince Ugo would resort to underhand means to checkmate a rival whose real purpose had not yet been announced. In six weeks the finest wedding in years was to occur in Brussels. St. Gudule, that historic cathedral, was to be the scene of a ceremony on which all European newspapers had the eye of comment. American papers had printed columns concerning the engagement of the beautiful Miss Garrison. Everywhere had been published the romantic story of this real love match. What, then, should the prince fear?
The train rumbled into the station at Brussels near midnight, and Turk sallied forth for a cab. This he obtained without the usual amount of haggling on his part, due to the disappointing fact that the Belgian driver could understand nothing more than the word Bellevue, while Turk could interpret nothing more than the word franc. As Quentin was crossing to the cab he encountered Duke Laselli. Both started, and, after a moment's pause, greeted each other.
“I thought I saw you at Mons,” said Phil, after the first expressions of surprise.
“Yes; I boarded the train there. Some business called me to Mons last week. And you, I presume, like most tourists, are visiting a dozen cities in half as many days,” said the duke, in his execrable English. They paused at the side of the Italian's conveyance, and Quentin mentally resolved that the dim light, as it played upon the face of the speaker, was showing to him the most repellent countenance he had ever looked upon.
“Oh. no,” he answered, quickly, “I shall probably remain until after the marriage of my friend, Miss Garrison, and Prince Ugo. Are you to be here long?”
“I cannot say,” answered the other, his black eyes fastened on Quentin's, “My business here is of an uncertain nature.”
“Diplomatic, I infer?”
“It would not be diplomatic for me to say so. I suspect I shall see you again, Mr. Quentin.”
“Doubtless; I am to be at the Bellevue.”
“And I, also. We may see some of the town together.”
“You are very kind,” said Quentin, bowing deeply. “Do you travel alone?”
“The duchess is ill and is in Florence. I am so lonely without her.”
“It's beastly luck for business to carry one away from a sick wife. By the way, how is my dear friend, Prince Ugo?”
“Exceptionally well, thank you. He will be pleased to know you are here, for he is coming to Brussels next week. I think, if you will pardon me, he has taken quite a fancy to you.”
“I trust, after longer acquaintance, he may not find me a disappointment,” said Phil warmly, and a faint look of curiosity flashed into the duke's eyes. As they were saying good-night, Quentin looked about for the man who might be Courant, the detective. But the duke's companion was not to be seen.
The next morning Quentin proceeded in a very systematic and effective way to locate the home of the Garrisons. He was aware, in the beginning, that they lived in a huge, beautiful mansion somewhere in the Avenue Louise. He knew from his Baedeker that the upper town was the fashionable quarter, and that the Avenue Louise was one of the principal streets. An electric tramcar took him speedily through the Boulevards Regent and Waterloo to the Avenue Louise. A strange diffidence had prevented him from asking at the hotel for directions that would easily have discovered her home. Somehow he wanted to stroll along the avenue in the early morning and locate the home of Dorothy Garrison without other aid than the power which tells one when he is near the object of his adoration. He left the car at the head of the avenue and walked slowly along the street.
His mind was full of her. Every vehicle that passed attracted his gaze, for he speculated that she might be in one of them. Not a well-dressed woman came within the range of his vision but she was subjected to a hurried inspection, even from a distance. He strode slowly along, looking intently at each house. None of them seemed to him to hold the object of his search. As his steps carried him farther and farther into the beautiful avenue he began to smile to himself and his plodding spirit wavered. After all, thought he, no one but a silly ass would attempt to find a person in a great city after the fashion he was pursuing. He was deciding to board a tramcar and return to the hotel when, at some distance ahead, he saw a young lady run hurriedly down the steps of an impressive looking house.
He recognized Dorothy Garrison, and with a thump of exultation his heart urged him across the street toward her. She evidently had not seen him; her eyes were on the ground and she seemed preoccupied. In her hand she held a letter. A gasp of astonishment, almost of alarm, came from her lips, her eyes opened wide in that sort of surprise which reveals something like terror, and then she crumpled the letter in her hand spasmodically.
“I thought you lived down here somewhere,” he exclaimed, joyfully, seizing her hand. “'I knew I could find you.”
“I—I am so glad to see you,” she stammered, with a brave effort to recover from the shock his appearance had created. “What are you doing here, Phil?”
“Looking for you, Dorothy. Shall I post your letter?”
She was still standing as if rooted to the spot, the letter in a sad plight.
“Oh, I'll not—not post it now. I should have sent the footman. Come with me and see mamma. I know she will be glad to have you here,” she hurried, in evident confusion. She bethought herself suddenly and made an effort to withdraw the letter from its rather conspicuous position. The hand containing it was drawn behind her back.
“That will be very nice of her. Better post the letter, though. Somebody's expecting it, you know. Hullo! That's not a nice way to treat a letter. Let me straighten it out for you.''
“Never mind, Phil—really, I don't care about it. You surprised me so tremendously that I fear I've ruined it. Now I shall have to write another.”
“Fiddlesticks! Send it as it is. The prince will blame the postoffice people,” cried he.
“It is not for the prince,” she cried, quickly, and then became more confused than ever. “Come to the house, Phil. You must tell me how you happen to be here.”
As they walked slowly to the Garrison home and mounted the steps, she religiously held the epistle where he could not regard it too closely should his curiosity overcome his prudence. They were ushered into the reception room, and she directed the footman to ask if Mrs. Garrison could see Mr. Quentin.
“Now, tell me all about it,” she said, taking a chair quite across the big room.
“There's nothing to tell,” he said. “I am in Brussels, and I thought I'd hunt you up.”
“But why didn't you write or wire me that you were coming? You haven't acted much like a friend,” she said, pointedly.
“Perhaps I wrote and never mailed the letter. Remember your experience just now. You still hold the unlucky note in your hand. Sometimes we think better of our intentions at the very instant when they are going into effect. It is very mysterious to me that you wouldn't mail that letter. I can only believe that you changed your mind when you saw me.”
“How absurd! As if seeing you could have anything to do with it!”
“You ought to tell me if my appearance here is liable to alter any plan that letter is intended to perfect. Don't let me be an inconvenience. You know I'd rather be anything than an inconvenience.”
“It doesn't matter in the least; really, it doesn't. Your coming—”
The footman appeared on the landing above at that instant and said something to her in a language Quentin could not understand. He afterward heard it was French. And he always had thought himself a pretty fair French scholar, too.
“Mamma has asked for me, Phil. Will you pardon me if I leave you alone for a moment?” she said, arising and starting toward the grand stairway. The letter, which she had forgotten for the moment, fell from her lap to the rug. In an instant he had stepped forward to pick it up. As he stooped she realized what had happened, and, with a frantic little cry, stooped also. Their heads were close together, but his hand was the first to touch the missive. It lay with the address upward, plain to the eye; he could not help seeing the name.
It was addressed to “Philip Quentin, Esq., care of the Earl of Saxondale, Park Lane, London, W. S.” Surprise stayed his fingers, and hers clutched the envelope ruthlessly. As they straightened themselves each was looking directly into the other's eyes. In hers there was shame, confusion, even guilt; in his, triumphant, tantalizing mirth.
“My letter, please,” he said, his voice trembling, he knew not why. His hand was extended. She drew suddenly away and a wave of scarlet crossed her face.
“What a stupid I was to drop it,” she cried, almost tearfully. Then she laughed as the true humor of the situation made itself felt in spite of consequences. “Isn't it too funny for anything?”
“I can't see anything funny in tampering with the mails. You have my letter, and I hope it won't be necessary for me to call in the officers of the law.”
“You don't expect me to give it to you?” she cried, holding it behind her.
“Most assuredly. If you don't, I'll ask Mrs. Garrison to command you to do so,” he threatened, eagerly. He would have given his head to read the contents of the letter that caused her so much concern. All sorts of conjectures were racing through his brain.
“Oh, please don't do that!” she begged, and he saw real supplication in her eyes. “I wouldn't give you the letter for the world, and I—I—well, don't you see that I am embarrassed?”
“Give me the letter,” he commanded, Sternly.
“Do you wish me to hate you?” she blazed.
“'Heaven forbid!”
“Then forget that your name is on this—this detestable envelope,” she cried, tearing the missive into pieces. He looked on in wonder, chagrin, disappointment.
“By George, Dorothy, that's downright cruel. It was intended for me—”
“You should thank me. I have only saved you the trouble of destroying it,” she said, smiling.
“I would have kept it forever,” he said, fervently.
“Here's a small bit of the envelope which you may keep as a souvenir. See, it has your name—'Philip'—on it. You shall have that much of the letter.” He took it rather gracelessly and, deliberately opening his watch, placed it inside the case. “I'd give $10,000 to know what that letter had to say to me.”
“You can never know,” she said, defiantly, from the bottom of the steps, “for I have forgotten the contents myself.”
She laughed as she ran upstairs, but he detected confusion in the tone, and the faint flush was still on her cheek. He sat down and wondered whether the contents would have pleased or displeased him. Philosophically he resolved that as long as he was never to know he might just as well look at it from a cheerful point of view; he would be pleased.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg