The Amateur Diplomat: A Novel

The Amateur Diplomat

_A Novel_

By

Hugh S. Eayrs And T. B. Costain

Hodder And Stoughton London Toronto New York 1917

Contents

Chapter I.

A Canadian In Serajoz

Chapter II.

The Royal Ball

Chapter III.

Daring Proposals

Chapter IV.

The Meeting Of Four Nations

Chapter V.

An Attempted Assassination

Chapter VI.

The King'S Command

Chapter VII.

General Lebrun

Chapter VIII.

The Quarrel

Chapter IX.

A Night Of Riots

Chapter X.

Fate & Co

Chapter XI.

The Abduction

Chapter XII.

Introducing Phil Crane

Chapter XIII.

In The Hill Country

Chapter XIV.

Take Larescu

Chapter XV.

The Trump Card

Chapter XVI.

The Rescuing Party

Chapter XVII.

The Renunciation

Chapter XVIII.

Two Fight: One Falls

Chapter XIX.

Married Over The Tongs

Chapter XX.

The Plot Discovered

Chapter XXI.

Planning A Future

Chapter XXII.

Ironia Invaded

Chapter XXIII.

Crane'S Escape

Chapter XXIV.

The New King

Chapter XXV.

The Assassination

Chapter XXVI.

The Death Of The King

Chapter XXVII.

A Letter Of Farewell

Chapter XXVIII.

The Reunion

Chapter I

A Canadian In Serajoz

On a sunny spring day in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and fifteen, a fiacre drove up to a big house in the Lodz, the winding, crescent-shaped street in Serajoz, the capital of Ironia, in which were to be found the Embassies and the residences of the wealthier class. There was nothing singular, apparently, in that particular fiacre driving up to that particular house. Fiacres in scores drove up there and drove away again day after day the year through and occasioned little remark. Yet if certain influential gentlemen in Ironia had known who it was that jumped out of the fiacre on that sunny spring day, and if these influential Ironians had had the gift of prophetic vision in superlative degree, they might have taken some action to prevent him from reaching the house of Baroness Draschol and her husband, Mr Percival Varden. And then, perhaps, this story would never have been written, because Ironia might never have----But this is anticipating.

The fiacre stopped. Almost before all motion had ceased, a tall, alert-looking young man jumped out and, fishing out a handful of coins from his pocket, implored the driver to take what was his due. The driver knew him for an American or an Englishman, or anything but an Ironian, and, carefully abstracting from the outstretched palm the equivalent of twice the legitimate fare, drove away with a smile on his face and a blessing upon foreigners who had not the gift of tongues.

The young man stood on the sidewalk a moment. Then, with the quick step which characterises the man of action, he strode up the narrow path to the house and rang the bell. It was answered by a pompous individual, resplendent in a dull strawberry-coloured plush suit, who, with the combination of obsequiousness and dignity which can be found only in the lackey in the Balkans, ushered the caller into a reception-room and retired with his card.

The young man looked around him appreciatively. The splendid paintings which adorned the walls, the luxurious hangings, the rich, deep carpet, the handsome lounge on which he was sitting, all appeared to surprise him.

"Some change from that den of Varden's in Montreal," he murmured.

The curtains at the end of the room parted and a tall, well-groomed man of about thirty-five came quickly across the floor with outstretched hands.

"Don Fenton, by all that's holy!" he exclaimed, pumping his visitor's hands up and down with vigorous exuberance.

"Percy Varden, by all that's--er--profane!" said Fenton, with equal enthusiasm.

"Old Don Fenton!" repeated Varden, slapping the other on the back and beaming on him with real affection. "And in Serajoz, of all places!"

"A pretty good place to be, if I'm to judge by your surroundings," said Fenton. "You must be a deputy-sultan at least, Yarden, to live in such state."

"Ironia isn't a bad place, Don," said Varden, with sudden soberness. "Or at least it won't be if a certain event comes to pass. If that certain event doesn't happen, I intend to leave all this"--he made a broad gesture to indicate the luxurious room in which they stood--"and find a place for myself in the line with the boys in khaki. When your country's at war, it's hard to be an exile."

"I'm on my way back for that very same purpose," affirmed Fenton warmly. "When the war broke I was in Hungary, and I just escaped the detention camp by two hours. I got over into Russia after a series of adventures--dead broke. I had a letter of credit, of course, but it was gold that was needed. It took me a long time to establish my identity and convert my paper into gold currency. Then I came down through the Balkans on my way home and decided to drop off and see you here in Ironia. And here I am."

"But," said Varden, "what I want to know is how you ever got to Europe in the first place. What's the meaning of all this glib talk of letters of credit and gold currency? Last I heard of you, you were trying to convince the Canadian public that at last Eldorado had been discovered--in the form of subdivisions in Saskatchewan. And I judged from your letters that the public had developed an unwonted degree of scepticism."

"Then you haven't heard of my good fortune?"

"Why, no, I guess I haven't. What's happened?"

"An uncle of mine died and very unexpectedly left me several million dollars. I considered myself justified under the circumstances in following the bottom of the real estate market; that is, dropping out."

"Then you are _the_ Fenton," declared Varden, shaking hands again. "I read something in a New York paper about a young Canadian coming into a big pile, but I never thought it would be you. Why, that possibility never entered my mind. Congratulations, old man, congratulations!"

"The congratulations should be mutual, Varden," said Fenton. "I remember when one Percival Varden was getting his fifteen per week, and wasn't worth that any more than I was my twelve per--according to that honest gentleman, that fair-minded director of budding journalists, George W. Jackson, city editor of the _News Despatch_--the unspeakable cur!"

"Then time hasn't cured you of your reverence for dear old Jackson--the ill-bred beast!" said Varden, with a laugh that ended in a growl.

"No, I'll never give up my grudge until I have a chance to assign Jackson to cover an August excursion to Hades. They would never let him come back."

"Still, they were happy days in Montreal, weren't they?" said Varden. "But I guess I ought to explain about my good fortune. I returned to England and met Baroness Draschol in London. We fell in love, and that wonderful woman overlooked my personal deficiencies, my poverty and my lack of position, and actually married me! My wife is connected with the royal family of Ironia and owns so much property I haven't found out about it all yet. And yet she married me, poor old hack scribbler that I was. Fenton, when you meet her you'll wonder too how it could ever have happened. I've been married three years and I'm still dazed at my wonderful good fortune."

"Three years married and still in the raving state!" jeered Fenton. "One week generally serves to translate a bridegroom from that condition. Varden, you must be the luckiest fellow in the world."

"I am," affirmed Varden emphatically. "But wait until you see Sonia. She'll be delighted to meet you. We've often talked about you. And by Jove, Don, you are looking well!"

Fenton was about thirty years of age--a handsome fellow in a healthy, outdoor sort of way. He stood over six feet, broad-shouldered and straight-limbed. Set him in a crowd in any country of dark-pigmented, short-statured men and he stood out by contrast like a Norse god. It is not likely that any woman would ever refuse him the tribute of a second glance. And yet Fenton was not in any sense a lady's man. The firm mouth, the strong jaw and clear eye told of resolve, of determination, of self-reliance. He had a finely chiselled face, a frank, clean, open face. Fenton was a manly man. It was said of him that he stood four-square to every wind that blew.

"Married yet?" went on Varden.

"No," replied the other.

"Then you've no one with you? No ties, no one whose wishes or whims you must consider?"

"Free as the air of the Western prairies," returned Fenton. "Why?"

"Well, if you can stay over and if you have the same taste for excitement that you had in the old days, I can gratify it for you, that's all."

"Tell me what it is all about. And, by the way, what are your people in Ironia going to do? Going to join us in this war? I heard a lot of talk about it as I came through Russia. Ironia seems to have been pretty well featured in the newspapers lately."

Varden looked around, then drew his chair closer to Fenton's.

"That's just the excitement I spoke of, Don," he said. "Ironia is going to figure in the war; that part of it is certain. But on which side? There are two factions in the country, and at the present time we are fighting like wild cats to determine the policy of the country. Both sides are determined to win; and let me tell you, Don, they take their politics hard in this land. It's a fight to the bitter end in which lives are not counted of any great importance.

"I guess you know pretty well how matters stand in Ironia," he went on. "The people as a whole are heart and soul with the Allies. Austria holds Serania and Mulkovina, two provinces that used to be part of Ironia. What Alsace and Lorraine are to France, these two provinces are to Ironia. It is certain that if the Allies win Russia will seize both Serania and Mulkovina, and then Ironia's chance of bringing her sons and daughters in the lost provinces back into the fold will have been lost for ever. Russia offers us the two provinces as the price of throwing in our lot with the Allies. Ironians see that it is their only chance and they clamour for war on Austria."

"But," said Varden, speaking cautiously, "there is one obstacle. King Alexander of Ironia is dead against the Allies. His sympathies are all with the Teutonic alliance. And he is possibly, next to the Kaiser, the most absolute monarch in Europe to-day. The envoys of Germany and Austria are camping on his doorstep, urging him to join them. He would throw the weight of Ironian intervention into the scales against the Allies to-morrow if he were not afraid of the feeling of his subjects. Fearing to act according to the dictates of his own mind, he nevertheless refuses to obey the clearly expressed mandate of the people and strike a blow for the restoration of the lost provinces."

"Does the King stand alone?" asked Fenton.

"By no means," replied Varden. "There is a faction that stands by him, composed of a number of the nobles and the Austrian section of the country. The majority of the nobles, practically all of the business classes and the common people _en masse_ favour an alliance with England, France and Russia. Needless to state, I am with the latter faction. I am, in fact, right in the thick of it--sort of a lieutenant to Prince Peter, the King's brother, who acts as leader of the popular cause, and who is, by the way, the strongest man in the country. It's a great fight, Don--intrigues, plots and counterplots, with secret societies on both sides, duels, assassinations and all the other properties necessary to a Balkan imbroglio. One never knows when a bullet may not come his way or a knife find lodgment between his shoulder-blades."

Varden had risen and was pacing up and down the room excitedly. He paused in front of his guest.

"Do you remember the thrill you get in a fight for a big news story?" he asked. "That's all child's play in comparison with this game."

Fenton stood up in turn and faced his friend.

"I intend to place myself at the disposal of my country," he said. "I've been wondering how I could serve best--by enlisting in England, or by staying right here and helping in the fight to bring Ironia into line with the allied cause. If you think I could be of any use, Varden, I would like to figure in the fight here. Every cent I've got, my own time, my life, if necessary, are at your disposal."

"Great!" cried Varden, wringing Fenton's hand for the third time. "Can you be of assistance, boy? I wish I had a hundred like you. And a little cash won't be amiss either. Count yourself in from now on. You've enlisted in the cause."

"Well, what's the next move?" asked Fenton, impatient for action and eager for a closer acquaintance with the thrilling experiences of Ironian intrigue.

"Have patience, you old fire-eater," admonished Varden with an amused smile. "There's a ball at the palace to-night. I'll get an invitation for you and probably I'll be able to introduce you to some of the leading characters in the drama. They'll all be there. All you'll have to do this time will be to keep your eyes and cars open."

As Fenton walked down the steps and into the waiting fiacre, he smiled to himself. "Don Fenton, diplomat, is a new one," he said. "But one man in his time plays many parts. I guess it will be more exciting than reporting or selling real estate, anyway."

Chapter II

The Royal Ball

The ball at the palace was a very brilliant affair. The rooms were hung with a thousand lights; the flowers, many of them strange to Fenton's western knowledge, and the decorations were on a munificent scale. Beautiful women and handsome men in vari-coloured uniforms moved here and there, intent upon enjoying themselves. Fenton was impressed and not a little surprised. The whole atmosphere was one of wealth and luxury, such wealth and such luxury as one does not expect to find in the kingdoms of the Balkans.

Fenton was paying a mental tribute to it all when Varden touched him on the arm and took him away to present him to King Alexander and his consort. Fenton had heard that the King was a charming man, and His Majesty's personality made the few words of welcome which he uttered well worth remembrance. Alexander was possibly the handsomest monarch in Europe. Dark, tall and soldierly he looked every inch a king. It came to Fenton as he stood there chatting, that here was a man who would have his own way.

The formalities of royal presentation over, Fenton was backing away when he caught a glimpse of an officer, apparently of high rank, approaching the King, with a young girl on his arm. Fenton looked at the girl--and forgot everything else. She was tall and graceful, with an air that could only be defined as regal. The oval face was surmounted with a crowning glory of hair, dark and lustrous. Her skin was like the petals of a wild rose. Her deep violet eyes, large and unwavering of gaze, were fringed with long lashes that imparted the only suggestion of coquetry to a face of surpassing witchery and charm. Fenton continued to stare in a literal haze of admiration.

He was aroused from his dream by the reappearance of Varden. The latter took him by the arm and propelled him forward until they stood in the presence of the divinity who had so completely set Fenton's wits wool-gathering. Fenton, awe-struck at this good fortune, felt like a humble mortal suddenly transported into the august company of the gods on Mount Olympus.

"Your highness," he heard Varden say to the girl, "may I present Mr Fenton, my friend from Canada? Fenton, this is her highness, the Princess Olga."

The Canadian bowed low over the princess's hand, surely the most dainty hand in all the world. He was presented in due form to her escort, the Grand Duke Miridoff, a heavy-set man with hawk-like features, long moustache and side-whiskers, which stood out aggressively with an unmistakable Teutonic suggestion. The grand duke typified the domineering efficiency of the military caste.

Fenton, murmuring a commonplace greeting, felt a strange antagonism for Miridoff. The latter's manner, while strictly courteous and even urbane, did not conceal the fact that Miridoff himself look no pleasure in the introduction.

In a few minutes Varden, with a happy tact, discovered an errand that took both himself and Miridoff away. Fenton allowed his glance to follow their retreating figures for a moment, and then, conscious of the scrutiny of his companion, turned back to the princess. She was studying him with frank interest and did not seem at all disposed to hide it.

"I must have a long talk with you, Mr Fenton," she said, speaking in excellent English. The conversation previously had been conducted in French, in which Fenton was well schooled. "You are so--so different from us. I have met but two Americans before, and they were of Austrian descent. You see, we are off the beaten track of tourists here in Ironia. Coming from your strange, big country across the ocean you seem almost like a visitor from Mars."

The princess smiled, and if her face was charming in repose it was ten times more so when it expressed animation. Fenton's diffidence left him. He began to talk of Canada, of the vastness of the country, of its customs and its freedom; particularly of its freedom. The princess listened with deepest interest.

"I should like to go to America--to Canada," said she. "It would be so splendid to be able to do what one wanted without bothering with customs and etiquette; to be able to go about without endless crowds of people staring at one."

"Canadians turn out to stare at princesses the same as they do here in Ironia," answered Fenton. "In fact, as their opportunities are fewer, they probably make more of them. And even if you were to travel incognito--I'm afraid my countrymen would let their admiration get the better of their politeness."

They were soon on most friendly terms, quite forgetful of the fact that she was a princess of the royal line. In fact, Fenton found it difficult to realise that his companion was anything but an unusually attractive partner at a dance; and she seemed quite as willing to let all other considerations recede into the background. A quarter of an hour of most delightful interest passed, though it seemed but a moment to Fenton, when a tall, elderly man in uniform brought their _tête-à-tête_ to an end.

"Mr Fenton, this is my father," said the princess.

The Canadian, who had been observing everything, acknowledged the introduction with a correct imitation of the stiff formal bow that seemed an integral part of Ironian etiquette. The princess's father bore a striking resemblance to King Alexander. Could this be the Prince Peter to whom Varden had referred?

They talked for a few minutes, the prince also speaking English with fluency. Then someone came, a little understrapper in a most gorgeous uniform, and bore the princess away to dance.

"Lucky devil!" sighed the Canadian to himself.

The two men walked out to a balcony, and on the prince's first remark Fenton became assured of his identity.

"Mr Varden has spoken of you to me," said Prince Peter. "He intimates that it is your intention to remain for some time in Ironia and to lend your assistance to the cause that Mr Varden has himself espoused."

Fenton responded warmly, and for half an hour the two men talked war problems and Ironia's relation thereto. Prince Peter discussed the situation with a frankness which might have astonished the young Canadian had he not been aware that all Ironia was thoroughly conversant with most phases of the vexed problem. When the prince returned to the ball-room, he left Fenton with an unbounded enthusiasm for the new cause and a deep respect for Prince Peter himself. The latter was a born leader in every respect, particularly in his ability to win adherents.

Fenton lit a cigarette and started down a dark path leading to the extensive and intricately planned royal gardens. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be able to think, to dream. And his thoughts and dreams at first ran exclusively along one groove. How beautiful the princess was! He began to reflect on the future--his future and hers. In a moment his thoughts took a gloomy turn. He would go back to Canada, which now for the first time seemed void of interest. She would marry a man of royal blood and rule in some such country as Ironia. He pictured her married for diplomatic reasons to a royal nonentity, condemned to a lifetime of endless etiquette, of senseless rigmarole. He reflected darkly on the benighted condition of the old world which made such things possible. Was there no way that an ambitious young millionaire from the new world could succeed in upsetting this almost inevitable arrangement, by scaling the walls of custom and tradition?

In keeping with his thoughts his pace had become savagely energetic. He now discovered that he had wandered well away from the palace into a maze of dark paths. He stopped and looked about him. And then suddenly he heard voices.

They proceeded from a thick clump of bushes close to his right. One voice was raised sufficiently high above the rest to carry its message to his ears. The owner of the voice was speaking in German, and Fenton knew enough of that language to catch what was being said. It interested him so acutely that he stepped through the bushes cautiously in the direction from which the sound came.

In a small clearing, part of which was thrown into relief by a ray of light from a nearby building, stood a group of men. One of them turned and the light fell direct on his face. With a start of surprise Fenton recognised the Grand Duke Miridoff.

"Are we all here?" asked Miridoff.

From where he stood behind the bushes, Fenton could watch the party without being seen himself. He noted that they were all in uniform or evening dress, having apparently left the ball-room to attend this stealthy rendezvous. It struck Fenton that the majority of the group were not Ironians. They gathered about Miridoff, who quite apparently was the leader.

"Members of the Society of Crossed Swords," Miridoff was saying, "we have heard news of such importance that we deemed it necessary to have word passed quietly to each of you to meet here.

"Events are taking an unfavourable turn," he went on. "The King is still loyal to our cause, but the strong feeling throughout the country is making an impression on him. Peter is pressing him strongly. I regret to have to state it, but I can clearly see the King is wavering."

There was a moment's silence, and then Miridoff began again in such low tones that Fenton could hardly catch the words.

"I received important news to-night from the front. The Russians are massing for an invasion of Mulkovina. It will be hard to hold them. Once they get possession of Mulkovina, without Ironia's assistance, no power on earth will wrest it from them." Miridoff's voice at this point sunk almost to a whisper. "If the people know that Russia is ready for the advance, nothing will prevent them from declaring for the Allies while there is still time to gain the two provinces by so doing. Alexander's opposition will be swept away. There is only one course left. Ironia must be ranged on Germany's side before the news of the Russian mobilisation leaks out!"

This statement was followed by a babel of discussion in which most of the men took part, and the confused tangle of talk proved too difficult for Fenton's inadequate knowledge of the German tongue. He lost the thread of the discussion until the decisive tones of Miridoff again cut through the talk.

"There is but one course open. If Prince Peter is not there to prompt the King, to urge his arguments of policy, Alexander could be rushed into declaring war against Russia at once. That is what we must bring about. Peter must be removed!"

A general murmur followed Miridoff's statement, and out of it Fenton's amazed senses picked one word--"Assassination!"

"Well, who's to do it?" someone asked.

"It is to decide that point that we are here," answered Miridoff. "It is a regrettable necessity, but our cause demands it. Peter dead, the people will be like a flock of sheep without a shepherd. Is it necessary to get your consent to the step?"

The men assented as with one voice to what their leader had said.

"Our oath binds us to secrecy," said Miridoff. Drawing from his pocket some slips of paper, he deposited them in his hat. "Two are marked," he said. "Those who draw them will be called upon to perform the service. Are you agreed?"

Rooted to the spot with horror, Teuton watched the men draw in turn from the hat. After all had drawn, two of them stepped aside for consultation with Miridoff.

"The rest of you had better go," said the latter. "This place is none too safe. Remember, not a word. Perhaps by to-morrow morning we shall have news for you, news that will shake the world and cause a grey fear to creep into the faces of the cursed English!"

Chapter III

Daring Proposals

For the first time now, Fenton became aware that the happy accident which brought him as eavesdropper to this extraordinary assignation had also placed him in a most dangerous position. On completing their consultation, the three men made straight in his direction. Fenton tried to shrink back farther into the rhododendrons, but even in the darkness they did not afford sufficient shelter for a man with the conspicuous white front of evening dress. He decided that his best chance of safely lay in flight.

Pulling the collar of his dress coat up around his neck, he started off cautiously. Unfortunately he stumbled and nearly fell headlong into a small shrub. Sharp exclamations from the rear warned him that he had betrayed his presence to the three conspirators. Throwing all other considerations to the winds, therefore, Fenton ran for dear life.

The men behind took up the pursuit with business-like grimness. Not a word was uttered, but in an instant he heard the steady pound of their feet and then the sharp discharge of a revolver. A bullet whizzed close past his ear, showing that the conspirators were not firing entirely at random. Several more shots followed in the next few minutes, and in each instance they were but an inch or two off their mark.

Fenton had been a sprinter in his college days, and the knowledge that three expert and determined marksmen are on one's trail is perhaps the greatest spur to velocity that could be imagined. Without paying any heed to his course, he plunged straight ahead, through shrubbery and garden plots, around fountains and over railings. His pursuers made up in desperation what they lacked in length of leg, and it took the young Canadian some time to gain a comfortable lead. At last he outdistanced them, however, and by pursuing a devious course landed, all unwittingly, at a side door of the palace. He pushed it open and, finding no one to stop him, made his way down a corridor toward the sound of the music.

Without pausing to catch his breath or plan any definite course, Fenton showed in the ball-room. Glances that drifted his way fixed themselves on him with astonishment, until finally the Canadian found that, much as he had desired to avoid notice, he had instead made himself the cynosure of all eyes. The reason was not hard to find. In his flight he had broken recklessly through brambles and thick shrubbery. The front of his once immaculate dress shirt was willed and soiled; his face scratched, his hair rumpled. He looked as though he had been through a football scrimmage.

To find Varden was his first endeavour, but the latter unfortunately was nowhere in sight. So Fenton decided to seek Prince Peter in person, and convey to him direct the startling news he had stumbled upon. Threading his way blindly through the gay ranks in search of the leader of the allied cause, he came in contact with the Grand Duke Miridoff. The two men halted and stood for a moment face to face, like belligerents. Their glances crossed like rapier blades. Miridoff coldly and without haste appraised the disorderliness of the young Canadian's attire.

"Mr Fenton has been strolling in the gardens?" he said.

Fenton was no diplomat. He was unversed in the art of exchanging polished phrases in the face of tense situations, of veiling threats, innuendoes, warnings, in the guise of polite rejoinders. He replied with the directness and vigour that are supposed to be characteristic of the Canadian character.

"Yes, I have been strolling in the gardens," he said, "and it's lucky I happened to be around just when I did!"

Miridoff, accustomed to the devious ways of diplomacy, was thrown off his guard by the sheer unexpectedness of so direct a rejoinder. He regained his poise in an instant, however, and treated Fenton to a cold glare.

"Perhaps Mr Fenton will find it unlucky for himself that he happened to be around just when he did," he said, passing on.

The remark set Fenton thinking. Undoubtedly the situation presented certain possibilities that had not occurred to him before. His presence at the meeting of the Society of Crossed Swords, known as it now was to the conspirators, would not serve as a deterrent to the carrying out of their foul purpose. Instead, it had given them a double aim; it would be advisable to get him out of the way before the plans laid for the death of Prince Peter were attempted. That much was quite clear even to one so completely unversed as himself in the ruthless way of Balkan politics. He was a marked man. It was equally clear to him that he was practically powerless in the matter. He could not go to the police or the military authorities and lay bare the whole thing to them. He would merely be laughed at for his pains. Who was he, an unknown foreigner, to lay such a serious charge against so illustrious a personage as the Grand Duke Miridoff? That course could have no effect other than to destroy his own usefulness to the cause he had espoused and perhaps to bring suspicion down on the prince and Varden. Fenton saw clearly that the only thing for him to do was to acquaint the prince of the plot against him and take the chance of any danger to himself which might arise in the meantime from the animosity of Miridoff's myrmidons.

He continued his search for Prince Peter with an almost feverish eagerness, recognising that every minute was precious now. Delay on his part might mean the death of the leader of the popular cause with all that such a calamity would entail. Miridoff's reasoning had been right; the prince out of the way, there would be little difficulty in persuading the King to swing Ironia into line against Russia.

But, to Fenton, the possibilities did not stop there. Prince Peter was father of the loveliest woman in the world! Ever since he had spent those golden minutes with the Princess Olga, thoughts of her had never been entirely out of his mind. Even as he had dashed headlong through the gardens, a picture of her as she had last appeared to him, in all her regal beauty and dainty girlishness floating off to the strains of "The Blue Danube" on the arm of a native officer, had remained with him. Could this great sorrow be permitted to come to her?

It was to the princess herself that he finally told the story of the plot. He could not locate her father, and, in sheer desperation, sought her out where she stood at the end of the long ball-room. His dishevelled appearance created comment in the group surrounding her, but Fenton, casting finesse to the winds, rode rough-shod over all considerations of court etiquette.

"Your highness," he said, "I must see you for a few minutes--alone. I assure you it is a matter of great urgency."

The princess, glancing at him intently, divined the earnestness behind his unusual request, and, with a murmured word, dismissed the partner to whom she had been engaged for the next dance. All eyes followed them as they crossed to a nearby alcove.

"Your highness," said Fenton earnestly, "I want to apologise, first for appearing in such a condition, and second for what must appear to you as gross ignorance of all that pertains to royal etiquette. I can plead in extenuation only the urgency of the case."

He told her in a few words of his blind excursion outside and its astonishing sequel. "I may have done wrong by telling you this," he concluded, "but I could find neither your father nor my friend, Varden, and I realised that every moment was precious."

For a moment there was silence. The eloquent dark eyes of the princess, which had been fixed on his face during the recital, were now filled with a troubled appeal.

"I cannot find words to thank you, Mr Fenton," she said, clasping her hands together. "Your news is disquieting, although I have feared for the safety of the prince, my father, ever since war broke out. Anything is possible in Ironia now--even that they should want the death of a prince who has never had a thought beyond the welfare of his country! He is the most unselfish man that ever lived, I think, Mr Fenton. One who has not known him can have no conception of the way in which he has given himself to the service of Ironia."

Fenton listened to her in a conflict of emotion. The compassion that he felt for this beautiful butterfly, enmeshed in the net of royal rank and placed within a circle where constant danger and intrigue were part of the price of position, was overshadowed by a still deeper feeling. Fenton had progressed thus far along the steep upward grade called life without any more lasting love episodes than an occasional brief flirtation. He had always responded willingly enough to the appeal of a pretty face, but his first glimpse of the Princess Olga had stirred something within him that was deeper than admiration and more disturbing than any emotion he had ever experienced before. Her beauty left him in a condition where coherent speech was difficult and connected thought impossible.

This condition of mind was intensified by the position in which they were now placed. In the face of danger threatening, the fact of her position was lost. She was no longer a princess who might condescendingly stoop to a brief friendliness with a commoner from a strange country; she had become simply a girl, alarmed and distressed at the dangerous position of her father.

"I am so frightened!" she went on, averting her gaze to hide the look almost of terror that had come. "My father left the palace a few minutes ago. Could it be--can they carry out their purpose--before he can be warned of the danger?"

Fenton thought for a moment. "No," he answered confidently. "The prince must have left before I returned to the palace. In that case he got away before those precious rogues had any chance to carry out their plans. He must be reached at once and warned."

"But," the girl's voice came tensely, "I have no idea where he has gone. He has come and gone much of late, never telling anyone of his purpose or his movements. He may even return here before the night is over!"

"That wouldn't do," said Fenton, alarmed in turn. "I must find Varden. He'll be certain to know where the prince has gone."

He bowed and would at once have left her to renew his search for Varden had she not detained him with a gesture.

"Tell me, Mr Fenton, did you by any chance recognise the men in the garden?"

It was on the tip of Fenton's tongue to tell her all that he knew of the matter, but the recollection that when he had first seen her she had been in the company of Miridoff came in time to check him.

"It was very dark in the gardens and I have only been in the city a day," he replied. "There was but one I recognised in the group, and it would perhaps be wise not to name him."

"But I must know," persisted the princess. "We must understand from what source the blow might come. No consideration can outweigh that of my father's safety, and if I find him first I must know against whom to warn him."

"That is true," said Fenton, after a moment's consideration. Then with some hesitation, "I may be making a great blunder in telling you this. You see the one man I recognised--and he was undoubtedly the ring-leader--was with you when I had the honour of being presented to you to-night."

There was a moment's pause, during which the princess stared at him with eyes wide-open in their incredulity. Then her manner changed. She became wholly the princess again and there was unmistakable hauteur in her bearing and, when she spoke, in her voice.

"You have made a most extraordinary mistake, Mr Fenton," she said. "It is quite impossible that the one you have named could have been there."

"I was not mistaken," he declared. "I saw the Grand Duke Miridoff!"

"I do not doubt that you thought you recognised him," said the princess, her mood changing again to one almost of appeal, "but it was a fancied resemblance. The darkness deceived you. You have met him but once, and the mistake might easily occur."

"Your highness, there was no mistake," said Fenton earnestly. "I have no idea in what regard you hold this man. It may be that I am sacrificing all possibility of retaining a small measure of your favour and good opinion by my course. But there can be no doubt that the man who is plotting your father's assassination is the Grand Duke Miridoff! I saw him and heard him quite clearly. A few minutes ago I met him back there in the ball-room and he showed by what he said to me that he knew--what I know. It's war to the knife from now on!

"Your highness," he went on, "whether or no you believe me when I tell you that the instigator of these men is the Grand Duke Miridoff, at least you must credit the fact that your father is in terrible danger. I saw and heard the men who have planned his death. They are fully in earnest. Don't refuse to believe what I say on that score. You know how important he is to his country at this time. He must be warned at once. It was the gravity of the situation that impelled me to tell you such alarming news. I sincerely regret not having been able to spare you this trying ordeal."

The distress of the princess was so palpable that Fenton did not stop for further words, but, bowing gravely, set off in anxious search of the elusive Varden. He found him at last in the supper-room. Quickly he told Varden of the plot and of his conversation with the princess.

Varden received the news gravely, but did not appear much surprised.

"We've been expecting some move from them," he said, "but I didn't think they would go to such lengths as this. It's lucky you stumbled in on their little gathering, Don. Now we know the cards they hold."

"But where's Prince Peter?"

"Safe," replied Varden. "He's out of their reach for the time being. I expect to see him inside of an hour and can put him on his guard. No need for worry, Don. We have the beggars checkmated whatever move they make."

Fenton smiled delightedly. The lust of conflict had seized him. He was finding this new game extremely interesting. Even the attitude of the Princess Olga could not dampen his ardent spirits; she would soon find that he had been right, and Fenton looked forward to another interview with her when a better understanding had been established.

"By the by, Percy, there's one angle of this affair that puzzles me," he said. "Who is Miridoff and what's his position with regard to the Princess Olga?"

"Miridoff," said Varden, "is the real leader of the Austro-German party. He is of Austrian descent; quite a large section of the people of Ironia are of Teutonic origin. He belongs to one of the branches of the royal line of the Hapsburgs and is a large landowner. Until recently he acted as director of foreign affairs for King Alexander, but public opinion forced him out of office at the outbreak of the war. Since then he's been directing the agitation for a Germanic alliance. He's a man who will stand a lot of watching. To put it in the vernacular, Miridoff is a bad actor."

"But where does he come in with the princess?" persisted the Canadian. "When I mentioned him as leader of that crowd of assassins she seemed upset."

"One would rather expect that," said Varden dryly. "You see the King has the say-so in regard to marrying off all members of the royal family, and it's pretty generally understood that he has picked out Miridoff for Olga."

"What!" In the one word Fenton expressed all the amazement, horror, rage and infinite regret that he felt at the announcement of so unbelievable a fact.

"Yes, that's how things stand," said Varden, quite unconcernedly. "I think the King has the idea that by bringing off the match he'll get the two warring leaders closer together and perhaps wear down Peter's opposition to the German alliance. It's rather a shrewd move on the part of the old boy."

"Varden, I could gladly strangle you for speaking of so unthinkable a match in such a tone! Why, it's impossible!" declared Fenton. "Such a thing wouldn't be tolerated in this civilised day. We're not in the Dark Ages."

"That's just where we are," replied Varden, amused at his friend's vehemence. "These Balkan kingdoms are farther away from 1915 in point of time than Ironia is from Canada in point of distance. Why, matches of this kind are quite common--the rule in fact."

"But--but will Olga consent to a marriage with this murderer, for that's all he is?"

"Of course," assented the other. "Olga is a sensible girl and has the warmly patriotic temperament so common to these Balkan people. The King's word is law, and beyond question. It's only a matter of time until----"

Fenton's rage slowly subsided, leaving only one phase of the case fixed in his mind. She was irretrievably lost so far as he was concerned. He had not seriously thought otherwise, of course, but every word that Varden uttered widened the distance that yawned between a Canadian of no particular rank, albeit a millionaire, and the semi-regal position of a Balkan princess. He got up and walked to a railing near which they had been standing, and stared morosely out into the tangled gloom of the garden. He stood thus for a moment or two before he felt the pressure of Varden's hands on his shoulder.

"What ever can be wrong with you?" demanded the other, somewhat testily. "Don't see any reason why you should take this to heart. Anyway, the chances are that the princess won't have to marry Miridoff after all. We're going to settle his hash before we get through with him. Look here--you're not in love with the girl!"

Fenton glared. Varden grinned.

"Oh, ho!" said the latter. He started to laugh, then checked himself sharply and patted his friend's shoulder. "So that's it? Never mind, Don, you'll soon get over it. I wouldn't advise you to let this--er--fancy of yours go too far. They don't take kindly here to presumptuous strangers who show an interest in their princesses."

Fenton squared around, as belligerent and impetuous again as ever. "Look here, Percy," he demanded eagerly, "don't you think there would be a chance? Can't these ten-centuries-behind-the-times ideas be overcome when new-world determination and wealth and--well unbounded love, are combined to overcome them?"

"The idea's a new one," returned Varden. "As things have been up to the present you haven't the ghost of a chance. But there's going to be an upheaval, a general mix-up around here before the war is over, and perhaps Ironia will come out of it with some new ideas. Anyway, all's fair in love and war, and you're in both, I guess, now. Here's luck to you, Don, you headstrong old smasher of social barriers! I don't wish Miridoff any particular bad luck, but if I get a chance I'll direct a bullet his way myself."

"But look here," he added quickly, as another thought struck him, "you shouldn't be standing there. You're a marked man, you know, and you certainly make a fair target standing in this light. We had better be off now for home. I'll just hunt up my wife and we'll get away. By the way, I took the liberty of having your trunks sent up to our place. You'll stay with us from now on."

He drifted away and Fenton walked slowly back into the ball-room which was now beginning to thin out. For a few minutes he stood staring into the swaying ranks before him with eyes that saw nothing. He felt constrained and gloomy again, so that the almost Oriental splendour of the scene and the sensuous lilt of the music had no appeal for him. Then he came suddenly to himself, as though startled into consciousness by an electric shock. His glance had been arrested in its aimless course and held by the glance of another. Across forty feet of ball-room, interrupted by the frequent passing of whirling couples through the line of vision, his glance held that of the princess. There was interest, interrogation, perhaps something more, in the seriously beautiful eyes of Olga. She was unattended for the moment.

Like a sleep-walker, or a mesmeric subject, Fenton moved across the floor, staring straight ahead and letting the dancers dodge him as they might. He found himself standing before her and bowed with worshipping deference.

"His highness, the Prince Peter, is quite safe," he said in a low tone. "I knew you would want to know. I found Varden and he is setting out at once to give your father warning."

The princess thanked him. Fenton, glancing at her earnestly, was aware that her attitude had subtly changed. He made a bold decision on the instant.

"You said not so long ago," the words came rapidly, "that you would like an opportunity to get away from the restrictions of royalty and be--just one of the people for a time. Will you place yourself in that position for just a few minutes now? I have something to say to you. Will you permit me to speak, not as Donald Fenton, to Olga, princess of the royal house of Ironia, but as one man to one woman?"

The princess did not answer, but she did not glance away, and Fenton read in her eyes interest, expectancy, perhaps even a little fear. The experience of talking freely to a stranger, a young man, was distinctly a new one for her, but hardly one that could be entered upon without trepidation. To step from the well-ordered path of royalty, where nothing happened but what has been laid down by, tradition, was like a plunge into unplumbed depths. Suppose she found herself just a woman after all, and capable of falling in love with young men who were tall and straight with direct blue eyes and cleft chins?

"Then it's settled," said Fenton. Nothing had been said, but both knew that it was agreed he should proceed on the suggested basis. "I'm going to talk to you as a man in Canada would talk to a girl he was interested in; only more so, because I'm going to give you advice--something that even a Canadian might hesitate to do the first time he had met a girl. I've heard about Miridoff and--well, the rest of it. All I want to say is, don't give in to them! Don't allow any patriotic impulse to gain your consent to this monstrous match. The man is a rogue, a would-be murderer. Perhaps back in the Middle Ages it was considered proper for beautiful girls to marry men of his stamp, but this is the year 1915. If you could only see this thing from the new-world angle! Over there, not only is every man his own master, but every woman her own mistress."

Pausing a moment for breath, he hurried on: "A most extraordinary thing I'm doing, isn't it? Standing up and lecturing you, and on whom you should or should not marry, of all subjects! But I'm going to do a still more extraordinary thing. Remember, I'm talking as a man to a woman, and you for the moment are just Olga to me, not Princess Olga. If a man meets a woman and knows her for the one he was destined to love, and if he fears it may never be his great good fortune to see her again, why--he tells her of his love!"

He stopped, for over the face of his companion had come an expression of mingled confusion and sadness. As the dying sun catches the fleeting clouds and incarnadines them with a riot of red which spreads and deepens and then slowly fades away, so the lovely face of the princess became suffused with blushes.

"I fear we must return to the more conventional basis, Mr Fenton," she said hurriedly. "Perhaps what Olga might learn would serve to disturb the peace of mind of Princess Olga--afterward. Please do not say any more!"

"As you wish." Fenton felt vaguely troubled. "You know what I desired to say. That is sufficient. If I can ever be of assistance to you, command me. Perhaps," and he stood up very straight at the thought, "you may some day desire to step out of the mediæval ages into the twentieth century, to live the free life that the women of the west enjoy. If circumstances ever change so that you can order your own future without obeying the dictates of kings and meddling statesmen--if it ever comes to that, you belong to me! I love you; I loved you the first moment I saw you. If you could remain just plain Olga long enough you would come to love me too. I am so confident of it that, when you slip back into your high station again, it is going to be a great comfort to me that I could have won you if a king's whim and a foolish custom had not stood in the way. And, do you know, I almost feel that soon you will become very tired of being just Princess Olga and long for the right to be Olga--a woman with a will of her own and the right to place her love where she wills. Until that time--good-bye, Olga."

For a moment they looked deep into each other's eyes, and Fenton read a message that gave him comfort, if not hope. Then he bowed very low.

"Your highness, I wish you good night."

Chapter IV

The Meeting Of Four Nations

From the glare and glitter of the ball-room they stepped out to wait for their car--Varden and his wife and Fenton. The Baroness Draschol was a very charming woman of a striking Latin type. Varden, a strong man among men, was quite content to play second fiddle in the matrimonial partnership he had formed with this beautiful young Ironian. He fairly idolised her, and with every moment spent in her society Fenton understood more fully why. She was plump, merry, with flashing brown eyes that soon brought everything within their range into thraldom, and a voice trained to charm by that greatest of elocutionary teachers, Nature. She alternately petted her English husband and drove him to raging jealousy by keeping a flock of Ironian dandies in her train. The Baroness had paid Fenton the high compliment of not attempting to flirt with him, recognising intuitively perhaps that Cupid, the universal booking agent, had billed this blond young giant for another engagement; certainly recognising, for she was a shrewd young person and also very much in love with her husband, that no matter who else she may lay herself out to captivate, it is never wise for a wife to flirt with her husband's friends. Husbands do not like it. Accordingly she had welcomed Fenton as a friend, and they were already "as thick as thieves," as Varden put it.

The motor-car rolled up and Varden helped his wife in. Fenton was following when a figure suddenly sprang up from the darkness beside them and ran forward. The stranger's arm came up as he ran. As the man from Canada sank into the seat, two shots rang out in quick succession. Fenton felt his hat go and, with the sudden forward lurch of the car, he fell into the empty seat in front. This probably saved his life, for the second shot missed by a safe margin. At the first alarm, Varden sprang to his feet, and, after gazing hurriedly around, threw himself in front of his wife to shield her from the fire.

"On! Top speed!" he called in Ironian to the driver.

The latter responded promptly, and before the assassin could attempt another shot they had bumpily navigated a cobble-stoned curve and were skimping away over the pavement with a momentary increase of momentum.

"That was meant for you, Don," said Varden, settling back into his seat. "Hurt?"

"Never touched me!" responded Fenton. "Hat's gone, that's all. I'm convinced now that they really do take their politics hard in this country."

They soon arrived at the big house in the Lodz. In the hall Varden lingered a moment to whisper to his guest.

"Go right to your room and wait there for me. There's big business afoot to-night."

Fenton waited impatiently in his room. In a few minutes his friend appeared with a couple of heavy cloaks of dark cloth.

"We haven't much time," said the latter. "Slip into this and muffle yourself up well. It's chilly enough out at this hour, and in addition it wouldn't be healthy for us if we were recognised. Sharp's the word. The others will be waiting."

"You're most infernally mysterious about it all," grumbled Fenton. "Where are we going? What others? There aren't any more rhododendron patches to be visited, are there?"

Without replying Varden led the way outside. They let themselves out by a rear gate and quickly plunged into a maze of side streets. The city was more or less deserted. The air was chill and damp and the first streaks of dawn were breaking up the leaden darkness of the sky. They had walked for several minutes, for the most part along narrow, dingy streets with ancient houses on either side that seemed ready to totter forward through sheer old age, when Varden turned sharply and came to a stop in front of one of the largest and quaintest houses they had encountered. It was as dark and still as its neighbours on each side.

"Stairs are creaky, step lightly," whispered Varden, producing a latch-key which gave them entrance to a dark and narrow hall-way. "Can't be too careful, you know. Even a creaking stairway could be heard out there on the road now. The very walls have ears these days."

Clambering cautiously up two flights in darkness of Stygian intensity, they came to a landing across which fell a narrow strip of light, emanating from under a doorway. Varden knocked softly three times in quick succession and then twice slowly. The door was instantly opened and they stepped into a dimly lighted ante-room. The man who had admitted them wore the uniform of an officer of the Ironian Guards.

"You are late," he said. "Your friend?"

"By the prince's permission," responded Varden.

The officer disappeared into an inner room and returned almost immediately, motioning them to enter. They found themselves in a long room, very richly decorated. Fenton thought how oddly out of consonance it was with the outside appearance of the house. Around a long table eight men were seated, one chair being empty.

Fenton started and could hardly forbear from rubbing his eyes. Surely the tall man seated at the end of the table was the great English diplomatist, Sir John Chester?

The Canadian looked again and became convinced that his eyes had not been playing tricks with him. There was no mistaking the man who had figured so largely in the foreign policy of the British Empire. Spare, straight and muscular, Sir John was easily the outstanding personality in the group around the table.

And, piling surprise on surprise, next to him sat Monsieur D'Aubignè, the famous French diplomat. Sir John was speaking as they entered, each word falling with the incisive emphasis that was one of his best-known characteristics. Prince Peter was there too, seated beside a man whose face was vaguely familiar to the Canadian. Fenton studied the handsome, heavily bearded countenance of the stranger for a moment before he recognised him as Count Grobenski of the Russian Foreign Ministry. The rest of the group were quite unknown to Fenton, but he concluded that they were Ironians.

Then he remembered certain hints that Varden had let drop that afternoon to the effect that representatives of the allied nations were in Serajoz. Varden had been very mysterious about it, but Fenton had gained the impression that the object of their visit had been to bring Ironia to a definite stand.

Prince Peter rose and greeted the new-comers with a bow, motioning Varden to the vacant seat and indicating that Fenton should place himself in a chair at some little distance from the table. No words of introduction were spoken, but the members of the conference acknowledged Varden's addition to their ranks with formal bows. Fenton felt the cold, judicial gaze of Sir John Chester fixed upon him for a moment, and was also aware that the other men in the room subjected him to a more or less close scrutiny. Then the discussion proceeded in French.

"As you are aware, you, as representatives of the allied nations, are in Serajoz at my personal invitation," Prince Peter said. "Ironia has held back from entering the war because of our inability to gain unanimous support for any one policy. In arranging for this conference I was hopeful that it would result in uniting the factions, in convincing our people that the interests of Ironia are identical with the allied cause. Unfortunately I was unable to gain the consent of His Majesty to a formal meeting of the Advisory Council to discuss the war situation with you. I took it upon myself to meet you thus secretly with such members of the King's advisors as I knew to be of our way of thinking, as it was apparent to me that, before we could take any positive steps looking to Ironia's entry into the war, it was necessary that we have a definite understanding. We must know exactly where we stand before we take any determined steps to convince His Majesty that Ironia must join forces with the nations you represent. This explains the conditions of secrecy under which it has been necessary to hold this meeting. Your presence in Serajoz, gentlemen, is a secret shared only by those at present in this house. I have made arrangements for your safe departure. It is my earnest belief that within a week it will be possible to welcome you back in your official capacities to sign a treaty on behalf of your respective Governments, linking Ironia to the allied cause.

"Now as to the terms under which we could enter this war," he went on. "I believe we have reached unanimous agreement on all points. Britain would guarantee to finance us. Mulkovina and Serania would be restored to us in the event of victory. We, for our part, would be expected to place an army of half a million men in the field, fully equipped, and to maintain this force for the duration of the war. We have your assurance also that our loss in the export of petroleum to Germany would be fully met by the taking up of our total output by the allied nations. So far all is quite satisfactory from the standpoint of Ironia.

"I cannot let this conference dissolve, however, without setting forth in the clearest light possible the position in which our country stands. I do not want you to carry away the impression that this is a business proposition on our part, that we have waited until we could drive a hard bargain and enter the war with the surety of gain. Let me tell you that Ironia has suffered long at the spectacle of her sons and daughters ground down under the foreign yoke in the lost provinces. The only thing that has kept us from attempting to force justice by arms has been the knowledge that we would have absolutely no chance single-handed against the colossal might of Austria. If we enter the war now it will be not for considerations of national profit, but to free our brothers in Mulkovina and Serania from the hated yoke. Other considerations that have entered into this discussion have been necessary in view of our impoverished position as a nation."

In the pause that followed, Varden, seated at Prince Peter's left hand, whispered in his ear. The prince lent earnest attention and apparently considered the news that the Englishman brought of the gravest import.

"Mr Varden has brought to my attention a matter that must be considered before we disperse," said the Ironian leader. "The arrangement we have reached to-night depends upon my ability to secure action on the part of Ironia. It was tentative in that respect; you have pledged the honour of the nations you represent, but in no other respect is the agreement binding."

He paused as though reluctant to proceed.

"We can give no written guarantee," said Sir John, "as we are not dealing officially with the Government of Ironia as yet. I have, however, full authority to pledge the Government of Great Britain to the arrangement decided upon."

"If the honour of France is pledged by an accredited representative is any further guarantee necessary?" asked Monsieur D'Aubignè with an eloquent gesture.

"I am not asking anything which cannot be given," said Prince Peter. "But I have just learned that events are shaping themselves on the Russian frontier which may seriously affect the relations of our four nations. The Russian forces are mobilising close to the Mulkovinian frontier, and there are evidences that an immediate advance is contemplated." He wheeled around and faced the Russian representative squarely. "Perhaps Count Grobenski can tell us of his Government's intentions. If the province is occupied by Russian troops, without Ironian assistance, will this agreement hold?"

The Russian diplomat returned his gaze steadily, but did not reply for a moment. The calm inscrutability of Slav diplomacy was reflected in every line of his countenance.

"Your information is quite correct," he replied finally. "I did not mention the fact of our mobilisation at that point as it is not customary to publish advance information of military movements. Is it necessary to impress on all present the advisability of keeping this information as strictly confidential?"

He paused again before proceeding. When he resumed, it was with slowness and deliberation as though each word required careful choosing.

"The plans of our general staff provide for an advance on our extreme left," he said. "If the movement is successful our armies will sweep across Mulkovina and Serania. I have no authority to pledge the restoration of these two provinces to Ironia if their permanent occupation is accomplished before Ironia joins us. The arrangement we have reached to-night is conditional, so far as Russia is concerned, on Ironia's entry before the movement I have mentioned begins."

There was a strained silence in the room. Monsieur D'Aubignè made a motion as though to whisper to the Russian, but thought better of it and subsided into his chair. Sir John Chester watched the two central figures in the discussion with silent concentration.

"What length of time does that give me?" inquired Prince Peter at last.

"Ten days at the most," replied Grobenski impassively. "The plans of our strategists must go forward without delay. The machinery of the Russian Army cannot be stopped while Ironia hesitates. I am speaking plainly, your highness. The situation must be clearly understood between us."

"Prince Peter has promised us that a decision will be reached one way or the other without delay," said Sir John. "I take it, Count Grobenski, that you can give him a week? Your pledge will hold good for that length?"

"Yes, my authority warrants me in going to that length," replied Grobenski. "But permit me to impress this fact. In view of certain considerations--some of which have been discussed to-night and some of which have not--if Ironia does not enter the war now, she might as well stay out!"

The conference broke up. Fenton saw Prince Peter leave the room conversing in low and manifestly earnest tones with Sir John, while Count Grobenski and Monsieur D'Aubignè walked out together, the latter's hand on the Russian's arm. The French statesman was expounding volubly.

When Fenton saw Prince Peter again it was in the ante-room. The representatives of the Allies had gone. Those left included Varden and one of the other Ironian representatives at the conference.

Varden then related the other side of the plot that had been overheard in the palace gardens. Prince Peter did not seem as disturbed as he had been at the information vouchsafed with reference to the Russian advance. He seemed inclined to treat the matter lightly.

"I do not fear them," he declared. "They would, no doubt, do me a mischief if they could. But I do not see why I should feel concern over the possibility of death from an Ironian bullet when we are working for an opportunity to risk our lives on the battlefield."

"But don't you see that Ironia's future depends upon your safety," urged Varden. "If they succeed in putting you out of the way, our chances of success will be infinitely small."

"I shall take every precaution, of course," promised the prince. "You can depend upon me not to risk myself unnecessarily. And now we must devise some means of following more closely the efforts of our adversaries. It is quite clear that they will stop at nothing."

Chapter V

An Attempted Assassination

As they spoke, there came a knock, three taps in rapid succession, followed by two slowly. The officer on guard opened the door a few inches and peered out into the intense gloom of the landing. After a brief colloquy in whispers with the new arrival, he stepped back and threw open the door. Came a woman, muffled up so securely in a cloak that nothing of her face and form was visible. She stepped into the area of flickering light provided by the dim gas jet and, loosing her cloak, threw back the hood.

Fenton's first impression was one of astonishment at her unusual beauty; his second an odd sense of recognition. She was small--_petite_ perhaps would give a more accurate impression--but somehow her smallness seemed an essentiality. Although almost doll-like in sheer perfection of beauty, there was no suggestion of fragility about her. Her hair was a shimmering mass of golden curls dressed with a carelessness that was art itself. Bluest of blue eyes sparkled with animation; devastating eyes, no doubt, when their owner so wished, though now they glowed with serious purpose. The mouth was made for team play with the witching eyes, but it was firm too, very firm, as though she got whatever she wanted. "A determined little person," thought Fenton as, standing back in the gloom, he studied her face. "A little person to be friends with; and, unless I am mistaken, a little person who would make a very staunch friend. But I'm not sure that I would want to stand in the way of the little person's plans."

The new-comer was immediately drawn into an earnest conversation, conducted in low tones, with Prince Peter and Varden. The two men showed the greatest deference in their attitude toward the girl--a deference which apparently had its roots in deeper soil than men's regard for a mere pretty face. When she spoke they listened attentively and seemed to attach weight to her opinions. Fenton could not catch what they said so he contented himself with watching the girl, struggling meanwhile to fix that elusive sense of familiarity that became stronger in his mind every moment. Where had he seen her before? Then it came to him suddenly, a graceful gesture of the little person's arm supplying the necessary clue.

In his mind's eye he saw a crowded assembly hall, a large stage rather dimly lighted and a little figure that suddenly appeared in the centre of it. He saw her rise on her toes, smile a wonderful smile that seemed to grip the hearts of the fashionable audience and then glide into such a dance as the nymphs must trip as the first faint shafts of dawn warn them that their nightly revels are over. Anna Petrowa!

After a few minutes the prince stepped back into the room where the conference had been held and Varden turned toward his friend.

"Come here, Fenton," he said. "Mam'selle, permit me to present our latest acquisition, Mr Fenton from Canada. Fenton, this is Mam'selle Anna Petrowa."

Fenton bowed, and the Little Person, for as such Fenton had unconsciously pigeon-holed her in his mind, smiled. The smile brought back more vivid recollections of her triumph of that evening when he had watched her interpret divine music with her flying feet.

"I saw Mademoiselle Petrowa on her tour in our country," said Fenton. "That was three years ago and it need hardly be added that I recognised her."

The dancer looked up at him and smiled again. She had relaxed from the serious attitude maintained during her conversation with Peter and Varden, and did not seem at all adverse to the prospect of winning admiration from this big stranger.

"I like your Can--ada," she said, speaking English with musical limitations. "Some day I go back. Then perhaps I meet Mistaire Fenton again?"

"I trust our next meeting won't be so long deferred as that," said Fenton heartily. "I'm expecting to stay here in Ironia for some time--or until the little matter in hand is settled. I've enlisted myself as general assistant to Varden."

"And he's plunged right into the thickest of it already," put in Varden. "He hasn't been in Ironia twenty-four hours yet and he's already stumbled in on a secret meeting of the Society of Crossed Swords, dodged half a dozen bullets, insulted Miridoff to his face and made love to--some of our fairest ladies."

"I believe anything of Mistaire Fenton," said Mademoiselle Petrowa, "and especially that which you say last. But have care, Mistaire Fenton, these belles of Ironia--perhaps they aim their deadly glances more true than the men can shoot."

Their laughter at this sally was interrupted by the return of the officer, who had been summoned previously to the inner room.

"His highness would speak with Mademoiselle Petrowa," he announced.

When the door had closed leaving them alone together, Fenton turned eagerly to Varden.

"You promised me plenty of excitement if I stayed here," he said, "but this is certainly exceeding expectations. Anna Petrowa, _première danseuse_, engaged in an exciting intrigue in Ironia and turning up at a most ungodly hour of the morning in the dark ante-room of a mysterious house! What else have you got up your sleeve, anyway?"

"Let me tell you about the real Anna Petrowa," said Varden. "It will probably surprise you to know that she has been a Russian secret service agent for many years. She was born in Moscow, of very poor parents. They died while she was young, and I guess she had a pretty trying start in life, taking things all round. She was drafted into the Imperial ballet finally and soon made her mark as a dancer. At fourteen she had won recognition as a coming star. At nineteen all Europe was at her feet. She was a little over twenty when we saw her in Toronto, and at that time she had already been enlisted into the ranks of those who follow the most thrilling and dangerous game in the world--secret service."

"Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn't have believed all this," asserted Fenton, "but now anything seems possible. But look here, how in thunder does she happen to be in Serajoz?"

"She was dancing in Vienna when the war broke out," explained Varden. "It was not safe for her to remain there, so on instructions from Petrograd she came to Ironia to assist in watching Russian interests here. She naturally gravitated into close touch with our camp and we have found her our most valuable and active assistant."

"But what part can a pretty woman play in this rough-and-tumble business?" asked Fenton.

"Well, you see Mademoiselle Anna has made the acquaintance of one Lieutenant Neviloff, who is right-hand man to Miridoff. Neviloff has fallen head-over-heels in love with our bewitching Anna, and--well, she can simply twist him around her little finger. So you see we have a most excellent method of getting inside information from the opposite camp."

Fenton whistled softly.

"She's playing a pretty dangerous part, is our famous Mademoiselle Little Person," he said. "If they got on to the fact that she's working with us, I suppose it would go hard with her."

"The Lord have mercy on her if Miridoff ever suspects what she's doing!" said Varden gravely. "From now on she's going to be doubly valuable to us. You see, it's going to be necessary to watch them closely to forestall any attempts on the life of the prince. And we'll have to depend on Anna Petrowa for that. I don't know which of them is likely to stand in the most danger from now on, Prince Peter or our little dancer."

At this point the rest of the party returned from the inner room and an immediate move toward the street was made.

"There are two cars waiting in the next street for us," whispered Varden, as they cautiously descended the creaky stairs. "I am to accompany the prince home--sort of bodyguard, you know. Will you perform like service for Mademoiselle Petrowa?"

They stepped out into the street to find that the darkness of night had given place to the light of early dawn. It was decidedly chilly. Fenton wrapped himself snugly in his cloak and dropped back beside the diminutive, muffled figure of the dancer.

At that instant a startled shout from ahead broke the stillness. Fenton saw a figure suddenly loom up out of the darkness with arm upraised. Something flashed bright in the hand of the unknown assailant as he hurled himself directly at Prince Peter.

Fenton could see that the man with gleaming dagger raised to strike the blow that would throw the control of Ironian destinies into the hands of the King's party was not alone. Another ruffian had emerged from the shadows of a deep court and was struggling with Varden. He could see that the prince, taken off his guard, had recoiled a step and was endeavouring to draw his sword, around which his cloak had become wrapped in a sudden flurry of the wind. All this the Canadian took in during the fraction of a second following the warning shout from in front. Instantly he stripped off his cloak and plunged ahead, throwing a word of warning back over his shoulder to his companion.

Fenton had been a star half-back in his college days. He covered the intervening space in faster time than he had ever done when the touch-line was ahead and the opposing wing men thundered after. The sound of his flying feet caused the assailant to pause and glance in that direction, which probably saved the prince's life, for before the dagger could descend Fenton's fist had found the fellow's jaw with a glancing blow. The blow was partly spent when it landed, but it had enough force left behind it to spin the assassin around to one side. The next moment Fenton's left hand shot forward and gripped the dagger arm.

The assassin was a wiry fellow, built on the lines most commonly seen in the Near East. He had short, bowed legs, powerful shoulders, arms of almost gorilla-like length. His large, hairy hands had an almost Simian strength, as Fenton found in the struggle that ensued. The fellow fought with the fury of a wild beast, writhing and snarling and struggling to reach Fenton's throat with his free hand. It was all Fenton could do to ward off that powerful paw which would choke the life out of him once it had found its grip. At the same time, it required all the strength he could summon to hold back his opponent's right hand, which still grasped the dagger.

They swayed back and forth, each straining for an advantage. It was a long time before the assassin relaxed his strenuous efforts for a winning hold. Finally, however, Fenton's chance came. His opponent stopped for a moment for breath, and his left hand dropped. Instantly Fenton stepped back and planted a short-arm upper cut in the general direction of his face. It landed fairly on the point of the chin. The ruffian crumpled up at the knees and dropped back on the ground with a thud. The knife, slipping from his fingers, clattered on the pavement at Fenton's feet.

The latter paused a moment for breath, then groped carefully for the knife in the dark. His hand had closed on the handle when Varden called to him.

"I've managed the other one," he said. "Let's make a clean get-away while we've got the chance. Discretion is the better part of valour, particularly when you've fixed up the lesser part of it."

Glancing around, Fenton was rather astonished to find that, with the exception of the recumbent figures of the two would-be assassins, they had the street to themselves. The prince and Anna Petrowa had disappeared. Before he had a chance to express his surprise at this circumstance, Varden linked arms with him, and led the way at a brisk pace from the scene of the encounter. Turning the first corner, they espied a motor-car, the huddled figure of its driver silhouetted against the sombre, grey-black sky. Varden spoke one sharp word in Ironian, and opened the door. They slipped into the seats, and the car glided noiselessly away.

"Well," said Fenton when they had settled back comfortably, "where did the others go?"

"The prince's safety was, of course, the first consideration," explained Varden. "Then, of course, he couldn't risk being seen had anyone been attracted by the noise. If it were known that Prince Peter had been mixed up in an affair of this kind, awkward questions would be asked. Accordingly he waited until he saw that we were able to handle the pair, and then he quietly got away, taking Anna with him. It was extremely important that she should not be seen. By this time they've got safely to the other side of the town."

Chapter VI

The King'S Command

The Princess Olga rose late the next morning. It is a popular myth that persons of royal blood live an entirely different kind of life from the rest of humanity. The universal conception of the life of royalty does not go much beyond gilded carriages, stately balls and glittering banquets. That a princess is liable to relax, to quarrel, to pout, to wheedle, to preen before mirrors, to enjoy the stray bits of gossip that a confidential maid may retail, to read forbidden novels on the sly, in fact to behave the same as any girl of the same age, is a view-point that few have really accepted.

There may have been princesses who lived the prim, stately kind of life that is popularly ascribed to them, and did not allow themselves to be affected by the emotions and weaknesses of common folk, but certainly Olga was not numbered among them. Olga was a princess on the fairly numerous occasions when appearances in state were necessary, but the rest of the time she was just a wholesome, vivacious girl--a girl who liked to ride and play tennis, to wear French clothes and read English novels and to bully everyone in the establishment, from her father down. She was certainly the most unconventional of princesses.

It was well after eleven when a ray of sunshine, finding its way through the heavy damask curtains, had the temerity to seek out the spot where Olga's head nestled snugly in the pillows. Her eyes fluttered and opened. She sat up a little grudgingly, shook back her tangled curls, and rubbed firm knuckles into unwilling eyes--just a pretty, sleepy-headed girl after all.

Anyone who knows anything about royal households knows that the first act of the day is to ring a bell which summons a retinue of maids. This is an established rule--of the novelists. But Olga did nothing of the kind. In the first place, there was no electric bell to ring, for Prince Peter's establishment, while very large and picturesque, was not fitted up with all the latest improvements; and in the second place, she would not have rung the bell had there been one. Instead, she slipped out of bed into a pair of warm, woolly slippers, ranged methodically on the floor with a precision that bespoke long practice. Then she went to the window and drew back the curtain a cautious inch or two, while she inspected the look of things outside. Satisfied on that score, she proceeded unaided with her toilet, and it was not until the really formidable problem of restoring her unruly curls to order presented itself, that a maid was summoned.

As the maid worked, she talked. Perhaps it was because she had found it necessary to talk in order to distract her royal mistress's attention from the tugs and pulls that invariably accompanied the difficult task of hair-dressing. Perhaps it was because all maids talk. The maid is generic and the Ironian type has as confirmed a failing for chatter as her sister in England or America or Thibet--if such an institution as the handmaid exists in the latter place. What is more, maids talk to princesses as well as to the daughters of brewers and tradesman and manufacturers.

The reason why so seemingly trivial a matter is mentioned here is that the chatter of Marie on this particular morning had a most far-reaching effect. If it had not so happened that Marie, who was part French and proud of it, had that morning talked to one of the coachmen in the household who had just returned from an errand to the residence on the Lodz occupied by Varden, where he had conversed with Paula, maid-in-waiting to the Baroness Draschol; and again if Paula had not overheard certain remarks between Varden and his wife, which she confided to the coachman, who in turn passed the news on to Marie; if, we repeat, any link in this chain of communication had failed, the whole future of the picturesque and warlike kingdom of Ironia might have been changed; certainly the future of one, Donald Fenton, might have been very materially altered. But all the "ifs" duly materialised, the highly interesting piece of news was handed along with the astonishing celerity with which such news travel in the under strata of society, and in due course Marie bustled into her mistress's room with the information fairly tingling the sharp end of her pert tongue. It was as though in working out a particularly intricate play, the Master Chess Player had shoved a pawn to its appointed square. It may be added that the information thus freely bandied among the servants of the two households was safe in their keeping. The Ironian in the kitchen will chatter to his fellow of what happens in the saloon above, but will suffer his tongue to be cut out before he gives anything away to the outside world.

The story that Marie had thus picked up was a more or less complete outline of the attempt made to assassinate Prince Peter early that morning and the part Fenton and Varden had played in it. With a skill that showed the buxom maid to be a diplomat of no mean order, she let a hint or two drop. The princess, her interest aroused, sharply questioned the adroit Marie and in due course got to the bottom of the maid's store of information. It may have been that, animated with the desire of your true raconteur to give the auditor the best entertainment, Marie elaborated a little on the original facts, deepening the sanguinary nature of the conflict, multiplying the number of the assailants and thereby gilding in the most vivid colours the valour of the heroic Varden and the strange "Amereecan," whose name she had forgotten but in whom Olga readily recognised the impulsive Fenton. It having been demonstrated to her satisfaction early in the recital that her father had not been injured--Marie had seen him with her own eyes several times that morning--the princess permitted her chief interest to centre on two points, viz., the handsome stranger and the identity of the woman who had been in the party. On this last point Marie, much to her sorrow, had to acknowledge a complete lack of authoritative information.

During her breakfast, which was served in a cosy boudoir overlooking the gardens, the princess was very thoughtful, and at the same time restless. She toyed with the food and surprised the attendants into a bustling efficiency of service by her petulance. She had intended to ride, but changed her mind when the word came that her favourite mount was ready. Instead, she wandered into her sitting-room and ensconced herself in a sunny window with a book and her thoughts for company. They fought it out for supremacy, but it did not take long for the book to drop into second place. It was only after staring steadily at one page for ten minutes that she became aware of the fact that she was holding the volume upside down. When she realised this, she allowed it to slip off her lap to the floor and, tucking her feet up under her on the couch, gave herself over to unrestrained introspection.

The story gleaned from the voluble Marie had given an added impetus to a natural tendency to revert to the events of the preceding evening. The attempt on the life of her father confirmed the story that Fenton had told her and brought conviction home on the score of the duplicity of Miridoff. She felt convinced now that the Canadian's version of the plot had been the truth in every respect. Thus she felt that she had done him an injustice--and the thought was a peculiarly disturbing one. A still more disturbing aspect was the matter of the future, now that she could estimate the real character of the man who might be selected as her husband. If the influence of Miridoff remained in the ascendant, she knew that nothing would dissuade the King from his determination to bring about the match. Alliances of an almost equally infamous character had been quite common incidents in the chequered history of the Balkan Kingdoms.

Had anyone been privileged to watch Olga as her mind grappled with this almost terrifying phase of the situation, it would have been seen that lines denoting determination crept into her face--evidence of a newly formed intention not meekly to accept the fate so cruelly and callously marked out for her.

There is a resiliency about the mind of the young that permits of rapid transitions of mood. The thoughts of Olga soon strayed from the grim possibilities suggested by the danger to her father and the machinations, both political and matrimonial, of Miridoff, into more pleasing channels. From every fresh topic that suggested itself, her mind went back promptly and inevitably to thoughts of Fenton, until finally she gave up all pretence and permitted her fancy to dwell with frank intentness on this interesting stranger. She admitted, to herself, the fascination she had found in him, and on analysis decided that it lay in the fact that he was absolutely different from any man she had ever met before. The type she knew, the Ironian of the upper class, was of short stature and almost Oriental swarthiness--suave, plausible, a diplomatic trickster, avaricious and limited in view-point to the traditions of his little country. Fenton had affected her much as a cool, bracing wind appeals to the jaded traveller on the desert where nothing has been encountered but fetid, almost poisonous air.

And then Fenton had dared to talk to her without any of the restrictions, the insincerities or euphemisms of courtly conversation. She went over again his daring hypothesis. Supposing she ever found the opportunity to face the realities of life, not as the princess but as Olga--the woman--what then? Could it be that what he had hinted at would actually come to pass?

Her chin found a resting-place on her arms. Her eyes were fixed with earnest intentness on the garden beneath, but they were filled with sights much less material. She saw beyond the court, beyond Ironia, a life full of all that could make life worth while--liberty, sincerity, love. She glimpsed many golden scenes from a possible future in which courts and crowns and royal pomp had no place, and from which Miridoff and her other Ironian suitors were strangely missing.

The gorgeously caparisoned footman, entrusted with a message for her, had to speak three times before she came back from the golden kingdom of Youth's Dreamland.

"His grace, the Grand Duke Miridoff," announced the footman, bowing obsequiously in exit.

Miridoff crossed the room toward her with military precision and dignity. He was a rather striking figure of a man, straight and but slightly inclined to portliness. Although in the early forties, his heavy beard gave him the appearance of being somewhat older. The Grand Duke's Teutonic derivation was most strikingly shown in the lines of his face. His eyes were clear, direct, domineering. Altogether he looked exactly what he was--a bold intriguer, thoroughly daring and unscrupulous and efficient to a degree.

The princess rose to meet him, extending a hand on which the Grand Duke imprinted a kiss rather more fervid than court etiquette required. It was noteworthy that, during the interview which ensued, both remained standing. Both realised that a crisis had been reached between them.

"Your highness, I am pleased to see that you are well and not unduly fatigued after the ball," he said. Then, after a moment's pause: "I am assured your highness is well aware that I would not have taken the liberty of so early a call had I not desired to discuss a matter of the utmost importance with you. Have I your permission to proceed at once with the object of my visit?"

The princess bowed in assent.

Her companion deferentially took her arm and led her over to a window--the very window through which she had gazed a few minutes before, while thrilling but impossible day-dreams crowded her mental horizon. Olga again fixed her gaze on the garden beneath; but this time her visions were of a different nature. She saw a future that was sombre, dull and drab, in which happiness was sacrificed to stern, forbidding duty and in which one figure--domineering and repugnant--stood out.

"There is a matter which has never been discussed between us," he said, vainly endeavouring to bring her to look at him, "although we both have understood it--the King's plans concerning us. I have just left His Majesty and I come to you on his suggestion--nay, on his command. His Majesty has seen fit to select me as your future husband. It was my desire that I be permitted to speak to you first. His Majesty enjoined a speedy effort on my part to reach an understanding with you."

Still Olga did not look up. Her day-dreams had fallen in ruins about her. Her fate, in the form of Miridoff, had overtaken her, and was demanding recognition. A half resolution slowly formed in her mind.

"The position," went on the Grand Duke, "is a difficult one. I know that I can discuss it quite frankly with you. His highness, your father, is unfortunately opposed to me at the present time on matters of state policy, but the arrangement that our all-discerning King has honoured me by making is one that will outlast all political differences. May I plead that the divisions now existing be not allowed to influence your regard for me nor to stand in the way of my great good fortune?"

Olga turned her face toward him for the first time and regarded him seriously and intently. Still she did not speak.

"It was in consideration of a possible prejudice that may have crept into your mind against the party I represent and which may have even extended to me personally that I begged the privilege from His Majesty of addressing you before his august wishes had been communicated to you," pursued Miridoff. "I feared that false impressions might have taken lodgment in your mind which I felt confident I could dismiss. And"--he leaned closer toward the girl--"I feared the affect of malicious gossip which I knew would surely reach your ears."

"No gossip can influence the opinion I have formed of your grace," said the girl steadily.

There was a note of quiet finality in her voice that would have been discernible to anyone with a less decided ego; but Miridoff either failed to notice it or did not pause to determine the correct interpretation. He went on confidently:

"The wishes of His Majesty are, of course, not to be gainsaid. I was too sure of your loyalty to entertain any doubts on the score of your consent, but I wanted to just lay before you testimony to my sincere devotion." He concluded with a low bow.

The self-assurance was so openly reflected in his attitude and in every word he uttered that the half-formed resolution in her mind became crystallised on the moment into a fixed determination.

"I trust that my loyalty to His Majesty will never be called into question," she said quietly, "but I cannot give my consent to what he has willed in this matter."

A flush of anger swept across his face. His cool assurance left him and a tendency to bluster became apparent.

"Do I understand," he demanded, his voice hard and rasping, "that you intend to disregard the express command of His Majesty?"

"I will not--I cannot marry you," said Olga. "I must ask that you accept this answer as final. If you entertain for me the devotion that you say, show it by using your influence with the King. Urge him to withdraw his decision."

"May I ask," said Miridoff coldly, "the cause for this inexplicable repudiation of the King's wishes? Why can you not become my wife?"

Olga faced him squarely. Her eyes flashed, her voice rang clear and high.

"A daughter's devotion comes before a subject's obedience!" she declared. "I refuse to marry the man who has plotted against my father's life! I believe in speaking my mind openly, your grace," she went on hurriedly. "If I could but bring proofs to His Majesty of what you are doing----"

This outburst did not entirely surprise Miridoff. He had fully expected that some word of what was going on beneath the surface of things would reach her. It was largely with a view of getting matters settled before further proofs of his duplicity could come out that he had gone to King Alexander early that morning and urged a settlement. Miridoff was not above wooing the girl at the same time he planned to encompass her father's death. He was, therefore, not entirely unprepared, and met the situation coolly.

"A most extraordinary charge you bring against me," he said with well simulated surprise and an elaborate show of sarcasm. "May I ask on what it is based?"

"Why maintain this pretence?" asked the girl, regarding him steadily. "It is part of your creed to stop at no obstacle that lies in the way of the fulfilment of your plans. My father stands in your way and we both understand, your grace, that you will not hesitate to sweep him aside if the opportunity comes. Perhaps I should not blame you so much as the system you represent. You stand for the principles that have been uppermost throughout the whole history of our unfortunate country! You have so little sense of right and wrong that you are surprised when the daughter of the man you are doing your best to destroy refuses to accept the hastily considered dictum of her King to marry you."

The princess had stepped away from him. Miridoff regarded her with a sudden passion that was remarkable in one of his deliberate purpose. She was indeed beautiful to look upon, more beautiful than ever now with her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing their message of contempt. He watched her almost hungrily from beneath his dark brows. A strong approbation of her had always possessed him. In a sort of superior way he had admired her, and had pressed his claims persistently before King Alexander. But now her opposition fanned in him a deeper flame. It suddenly came to him that henceforth every consideration other than the winning of this woman for himself would be of minor importance. A ruthless determination to overcome her took possession of him. But his craft did not desert him even in the face of this all-powerful emotion.

"I know the source from which this charge emanates," he said with a sneer, "and I am surprised that you take the word of an adventurer. However, I do not now endeavour to refute the charge, as events are shaping themselves which will eventually demonstrate how little truth there is in the story."

He was attempting to draw her out. A slight wave of colour that swept her pale face momentarily betrayed the interest that the princess felt in his veiled allusion to Fenton. A question almost escaped her, but she quickly checked the impulse to seek further explanation.

"There is an agent of the British secret service in Serajoz," went on Miridoff deliberately. "His name is Fenton. His errand is to do as much damage as he can to the German cause. His methods are typical of the perfidious nation whose dirty work he does. He has been in Serajoz but one day, and has already started his campaign of insidious lies. I have his record: a spy of the lowest order who once offered to sell secrets of the British Foreign Office to the Germans, and who is suspected even by the unscrupulous men who employ him. I feel it is my duty to warn you----"

"It is false!" The words escaped her in a sudden gust of anger at Miridoff's uncompromising charge. Next moment she was sorry she had permitted herself to be thus tricked into an avowal of interest in the Canadian. But her consternation was no greater than that felt by Miridoff. In her hasty exclamation and the championing flush of her face, the leader of the Society of Crossed Swords had discerned something that he had not previously suspected.

"She is actually interested in the fellow," he said to himself. Miridoff had recognised Fenton's power to do him harm, but had never thought of him as a possible rival.

"Olga!" The word, tense with feeling, escaped from him. It was the first time he had addressed her other than in terms of correct intercourse. Olga recognised something of the turmoil that was raging within him from the tone of his voice and glanced up. Unerring female instinct laid his secret before her: Miridoff was really in love with her!

"Olga," repeated the Grand Duke, "I never before realised what the fulfilment of the King's wish means to me. I want you for my wife."

The princess became cool again in the face of this sudden declaration. "My mind is fully made up," she said. "I am sure His Majesty will not adhere to his decision in view of my unalterable opposition. And so, your grace, I must ask that the subject be considered closed between us."

"You force me to extremes!" exclaimed Miridoff, roused to angry bluster again by her steady opposition. "Let me tell you this: the King's mind is made up. There are important reasons for the match. He will not permit the whims of a girl to interfere with plans upon which the welfare of the state depends."

"Perhaps," cried the girl warmly, "when King Alexander learns the truth about his servant, the Grand Duke Miridoff, he will realise that the welfare of the state demands the removal of that servant to some place where he will no longer be dangerous!"

Miridoff recognised that further efforts at persuasion would be useless. He turned to leave the room, but paused again for a moment.

"I have presented the case to you in but one light," he declared. "It was my desire that you obey the King's command willingly. But now let me tell you that nothing can stand in the way of your becoming my wife. His Majesty is determined. I am prepared to take an unwilling bride--and no power on earth can stand between us!"

Chapter VII

General Lebrun

Worn out from the excitement of the night, Fenton slept well through the forenoon. When he finally wakened it was to a realisation of stiffened muscles and a general feeling as though he had been drawn through a threshing machine. He seemed one mass of bruises. A warm bath effected a partial revival, and then slowly and laboriously he found his way into his clothes, paying tribute with every move to the prowess of his unknown antagonist of the previous night's mêlée.

He found his host most impatiently pacing the library. Varden had not been down long himself but, to judge from his attitude, he had already come into possession of important news.

"Just in time, Fenton," said Varden briefly. "In ten minutes I'd have gone without you."

"Where?" asked the Canadian. His tone seemed to evidence a certain lack of interest, due possibly to his breakfastless condition.

"To the station," replied Varden. "I just got wind of an interesting piece of news. General Jules Lebrun, the hero of the French Army, is passing through Serajoz to-day on his way to Russia to consult with the General Staff of the Tsar. He has a stopover of a few hours, and his entertainment has been entrusted to me. As you probably surmise," went on Varden, lowering his voice to a discreet pitch, "the time that the General spends with me will not be entirely given over to social amenities. He has certain papers bearing on a suggested plan of campaign in case of--certain eventualities--which are to be handed to me. We may get an opportunity to discuss various phases of the plan. You understand, of course, the reason why this work is in my hands. It would not be politic for a member of the Ironian General Staff to be seen with the French general. I will serve as a go-between."

Fenton had spent the greater part of the time following the outbreak of the war in the south of Russia, so that such news of the progress of the campaign as reached him had been decidedly meagre. Nevertheless he had heard much of the spectacular work of the great little victorious French general, and Varden's news kindled in him a keen desire to see the famous fighter whose dashing tactics had done so much to win the Battle of the Marne. And then an idea occurred to him.

"Varden," he said, "has it occurred to you that the general's visit can be turned to great purpose in deciding the wobbling policy of Ironia?"

"In what way?" asked the other.

Fenton shook his head sadly. "As a newspaper man you always fell down hard when it came to grasping the dramatic possibilities of a story. As a diplomat it seems you are just the same. Percy, don't you realise the advertising value of Lebrun's visit to Serajoz? He has come right at the psychological moment to produce the proper dramatic effect.

"The Ironian people are Latin and so claim kinship with the French," he went on. "The influence of France is shown in every phase of Ironian life. The factor in deciding the sympathies of Ironia, next in importance to the question of the two lost provinces, is the love and admiration that the people here have for everything that pertains to France. Now then, Lebrun's exploits have been told and retold from one end of Ironia to the other. Just let it become generally known that he's in Serajoz, and you'll stir up a demonstration that will open the eyes of your stubborn King! I tell you, Percy, it's a heaven-sent opportunity. The hoarse roar of a thoroughly enthused mob will accomplish more than the carefully considered whisperings of all the diplomats in the country."

"But," protested Varden, "I must have an opportunity to talk with him. A popular demonstration is not just the best background for a discussion on tactics."

"Have your talk first," said Fenton confidently. "Then take our trump card out in an open fiacre and drive him slowly down the Lodz. Be sure that the good news is circulated well in advance. I tell you what--let me stage-manage this affair. I was always rather strong on the dramatic possibilities."

They talked the plan over in whispers, while Fenton bolted a ten-minute breakfast. Varden then hurried away to keep his appointment, and the Canadian began the busy task of arranging the "props" for the brilliant demonstration he had planned out.

No inhabitant of Serajoz will ever forget that day. The news that General Lebrun was in the city spread like wild-fire. His name was on every lip within an hour. Thousands of excited and enthusiastic Ironians rushed to the station only to learn that the little general had duly arrived and been promptly whisked away. Crowds gathered in the streets. Ironian and French flags were displayed on all sides, impromptu processions were organised, songs were vociferously chorused by the ardent townspeople, the "Marseillaise" being heard as often as the Ironian national anthem. Later, when Percival Varden drove out into the Lodz in an open fiacre with a little white-haired, powerful man beside him, the stage was all set for a demonstration, the like of which Serajoz had not seen since the memorable day when Alexander Sobiesku, first King of Ironia, was crowned.

The fiacre drove slowly up the Lodz between solid banks of agitated humanity. "Lebrun," "France," "War," were the words that one heard rising from out of the babel of sound. Excited men climbed on the steps of the carriage to grasp the hand of the gallant little Frenchman. Swords appeared above the heads of the mob, and the clamour for war became insistent and belligerent. The demonstration reached its height when the carriage rolled into the Square of Triumph, where a huge bronze statue of Sobiesku, the national hero of Ironia who had defeated the Turks in the War of Liberation, reared itself proudly above plashing fountains and luxuriant foliage. Here, immediately beneath the figure of the grim old warrior, they encountered another carriage containing Prince Peter. The King's brother rose and warmly grasped the hand of the grizzled French general. For several seconds they stood thus, while the crowds thundered their appreciation of the tableau.

Standing back in the dense throng, Fenton witnessed the scene with double appreciation, for he had himself suggested, and, in fact, arranged the setting. "Pretty effective," he said to himself. "If this doesn't shake the country off the fence I am out in my calculations."

He felt a pressure on his arm as though someone had gently tugged his sleeve. Next moment a slip of paper was pressed into his hand. Fenton turned as quickly as his crowded surroundings permitted but could discern nothing in the swarthy faces of those nearest him to indicate who had been responsible. Elbowing his way out of the crush, Fenton made his way to a deserted corner of the street and eagerly inspected the note. It was written in French in a feminine hand and contained neither address nor signature, merely the words:

"Dine at eight to-night at the Continental. Important."

Chapter VIII

The Quarrel

The Continental Hotel at Serajoz is known to all travellers by reputation at least. It ranks with Shepherd's Hotel at Cairo, the Eis Arena in Berlin, Giro's at Monte Carlo. At the Continental one meets diplomats, statesmen, secret service agents from all countries. Many an extra tangle in the Near-East question has been tied at quiet, informal parties on the terrace of the Continental. The second Balkan War, when the rest of the Confederacy joined arms against Bulgaria, was planned one evening around a marble-topped table in a secluded corner of the terrace. Here revolutions have been plotted, dynasties have been overturned, assassinations have been coolly debated. To the average traveller the Continental is not in any degree different from other hotels of the same order except that it is perhaps a little larger, a little noisier and a little more tawdry in its appointments.

But ask an official of any of the foreign offices of Europe. You will get a polite and blandly evasive reply at first, of course, for that is the way of foreign offices; but get into the confidence of some official and he will tell you stories that make the wildest of fiction seem colourless and banal.

Fenton took his seat at a corner table on the terrace. He had confided his mission to Varden, who had earnestly recommended him to disregard the mysterious summons. Varden was convinced that the invitation was part of some plot, and quite as positive that Miridoff was behind it. There was too strong a tinge of romance to the whole incident, however, for Fenton to accept this prudent advice. The mystery drew him like a magnet, and accordingly the appointed hour found him at his corner table, watching the crowds that surrounded him with interest, while he puffed innumerable cigarettes.

The thronged terrace presented a cosmopolitan air that was fascinating to the Canadian. There were all sorts and conditions of men and women. Here a prince, scion of a ruling house; there a parvenu millionaire, every line of him and every move shouting his newly acquired wealth to the world. A party of American tourists, scintillating spots of fire from the jewels of their womenfolk, occupied one table. A thief of international fame lounged through, eyeing the company insolently. A fluffy mondaine on the arm of an officer laughed and chatted as she passed. Members of the highest nobility rubbed elbows with gamblers of the most doubtful antecedents. Beauty and vice sat side by side.

Fenton took it all in, but at no time did the thought that had obsessed his mind for the past twenty-four hours leave him. Fenton was in love. He had no doubts on thai score himself. Most men have many love affairs and are deceived often, but when the _grande passion_ comes they know. Fenton knew. Not for one waking minute since he had first seen Olga had he forgotten her. This had lasted a day by ordinary computation of time, an age according to the calendar of Cupid. She was at once the most wonderful, the most beautiful and the most inaccessible woman in the world. The Canadian's reason told him that he could never hope to win her, but his heart whispered to him to go in and win. Of one thing he was certain, that he would never leave Ironia while any possible hope of winning her remained.

The hope was strong in Fenton that the mysterious message was in some way connected with the object of his adoration. His eye had but one object in scanning the brilliant crowd with eager interest--to see if by any chance she were in the company.

The soft swish of a woman's gown warned him of a close approach to his table. Before he could turn a voice spoke almost in his ear, a very pleasant voice too:

"Good evening, Mistaire Fenton. It is most fortunate that you dine alone. I have something to say to you of the most importance."

Fenton sprang to his feet. It was Mademoiselle Petrowa.

"This is most unexpected good fortune," he said. Then he glanced around hurriedly. "But is it not indiscreet? Is it safe for you to make it known that we--er--know each other?"

"Quite," and her silvery laugh broke in ripples. "Come, do not look so--so tragic, is it not? Sit down and invite me to be of your company. I will then explain."

They seated themselves, Fenton still very dubious, she with demure grace. For a moment neither spoke. The little dancer regarded her companion with an intentness, behind which seemed to lurk an almost roguish interest.

"It is this way," she said finally. "I am playing what you call the double game. I find for your friends all that I can, but they--the other side--think that I work for them. It is needed that I so do, else I cannot be of use to the great cause, Monsieur Fenton. I tell to them some things that are so and many things that are not. The Duke Miridoff has entrusted to me many missions, and this morning he comes to me."

She paused and requisitioned a cigarette, lighting it daintily and deliberately.

"This is what I am to do," she said. "I am to watch one, Mistaire Fenton, most closely, to win his confidence, and if possible--but of course it is not so--to make him make love to me. Is the work my good Miridoff sets likely to be of the most difficult, mon ami?"

Had Fenton known of the scene between the Grand Duke and Olga of that morning he would perhaps have been able to understand the motive that had prompted the former thus to set a watch on his movements. Had he known the furious thoughts that surged in Miridoff's brain as he left the palace after the interview he would have understood why the little dancer had been deputed to win attention from him; and, knowing this, he would have been in a position to anticipate what followed. But as it was Fenton could make nothing out of it, and so stared across the table at his merry companion with palpable amazement.

"You mean that Miridoff has instructed you to follow me and to work up a flirtation between us?" he demanded. "What object can he have in that?"

"Is the--what you call it?--prospect--so dismal then that you must look so?" laughed his companion. "As for me, I am most frank, monsieur. I have had missions more disagreeable. But come, it cannot hurt you to help me play well my part. Smile, _mon ami_, look pleasant. The gentle Miridoff will have those here who report how Anna Petrowa does her work. See, I take one of these roses and put it in your buttonhole."

Plucking a bloom from the bouquet on the table she leaned across the table and deftly fixed it in his coat. For a moment their heads were close together. A stray tendril touched his face. She whispered in French:

"_Monsieur, I have news--big news. Listen closely----_"

There was a sudden interruption. A young man in the uniform of the Royal Guards of Ironia rose from a nearby table and stalked towards them. The dancer caught her breath in a way that almost suggested fright, and subsided into her chair. The officer frowned at her angrily, ignoring Fenton entirely.

"Anna," he exclaimed in Ironian, "come with me at once. I insist!"

"By what right, Lieutenant Neviloff?" demanded the girl.

"Come at once," repeated Neviloff in a hectoring tone. "I must not be trifled with. You are trying my patience."

The Canadian had not understood a word of the conversation, but he rightly judged the nature of it from the attitude of the others.

"What is it all about?" he demanded. "Shall I send him politely about his business or just drop him over the balcony?"

"Allow me to present Lieutenant Neviloff, Monsieur Fenton," said the girl, anxious to avoid a scene.

Fenton rose, and the two men faced each other steadily. The officer ignored the introduction, glaring at the Canadian in the most offensive way.

"Mademoiselle Petrowa accompanies me," he declared in broken French. "I warn you, fellow, to be more careful in future. Anna, come at once!"

"Not so fast!" exclaimed Fenton, his choler rising. "I don't like your way of doing things, Monsieur Lieutenant. Mademoiselle Petrowa stays where she is!"

Neviloff turned a furious red and took a step closer to Fenton with a threatening gesture. "You foreign pig!" he said through gritted teeth. "Leave while you may with a whole skin. You try my patience much. I shall spit you with my sword if you remain longer in my sight!"

Fenton laughed--a short, ominous laugh.

"You miserable little whipper-snapper!" he said, both fists clenched and itching for action. "If ever let myself go and lay hands on you---- Get out yourself before my patience runs out!"

"If you were of rank to be worth notice," retorted Neviloff with angry contempt, "I would slap you with my glove in the face, and then to-morrow morning I would end your miserable life. But as it is----"

A shrug of his shoulders and a gesture eloquent of his contempt followed. Fenton suddenly lunged forward and seized the officer's arm with a grip that almost paralysed that member. Half leading, half dragging, he propelled the unwilling lieutenant toward his own table. Arriving there, Fenton forced Neviloff down on his chair so hard that it went over backward, taking him with it.

"There," said Fenton. "Now behave!"

Neviloff scrambled to his feet with more expedition than dignity. His face was crimson with wrath and humiliation. With a sudden fury he half drew his sword from its sheath.

"It is too much!" His voice was high and shrill. "I kill you for this. This evening a friend of mine shall wait upon you. To-morrow I shall honour you, pig of a foreigner, by killing you, as I would a gentleman."

"Go as far as you like," said Fenton nonchalantly, turning back.

He walked back to his table to find it empty. The Little Person had gone. Fenton paid his score and left. He idled about the Lodz, which was brilliantly lighted at night, and on the Duntzig, where the orchestras played, for an hour or so, enjoying himself fully. The incident on the terrace he had dismissed from his mind. He did not, as a matter of fact, expect ever to hear of it again, but when he reached home Varden greeted him with a face of tragic concern.

"Look here, what have you been doing?" demanded the latter. "An officer of the Guards has just been here with a formal challenge from Neviloff. What in heaven's name have you done to offend him?"

Fenton laughed almost incredulously. "You must be joking," he said. "I haven't done anything. This Neviloff fellow tried to take Mademoiselle Petrowa away from me over at the Continental. He was most offensive about it. I stood as much as I could from him, and then I just led him back to his seat and made him behave."

"Is that all?" asked Varden in mock surprise. "Didn't you perform any little trivial politeness such as breaking a rib or two, or leave him a souvenir in the way of a couple of black eyes? Damnation, Fenton, they fight duels in this country on the strength of a side-glance of the eye, a shrug of the shoulder, an inflection----"

"Have I got to fight him then?" asked the Canadian.

"It looks like it," said Varden gloomily. "Either that or make a quick exit from the country."

"Which last is, of course, out of the question," said Fenton positively. "Still I'm in rather a fix. I won't put up much of a fight I'm afraid. Do I have the choice of weapons?"

"Yes, as challenged party you can choose the method by which this Neviloff will kill you."

"I know as much about a harpoon as I do about a sword," said Fenton reflectively. "I can shoot a little though. Make it pistols."

"Say, Don," protested Varden tragically, "what is it all about anyway? How did you come to get into such a mess?"

Fenton told him the whole story, and at the conclusion Varden swore vindictively.

"It was all arranged," he declared. "Miridoff is behind this. He instructed the girl to make up to you, and then had his handy man there to force you into a quarrel--a nice convenient form of assassination, quite worthy of Miridoff."

"Do you mean that Mademoiselle Petrowa was in with them too?" asked Fenton, astounded.

"No, of course not. I would stake my honour on her. Miridoff probably suggested that she make up to you, and, seeing an easy avenue opened up of getting into communication with us, she assented. Then Miridoff works this other trick and--there you are! Don, for the love of heaven clear out while you have the chance. They'll kill you sure if you stay!"

"I can't go," said Fenton firmly. "It would brand me as a coward--and I cannot leave that kind of a reputation behind me. But, Varden, there's one thing--I don't understand what Miridoff's game is in regard to Mademoiselle Petrowa! Why should he want her to entangle me?"

"I can see several likely reasons," answered Varden. "You have earned his resentment in the first place, and Miridoff always pays off his scores. It served as a good pretext for Neviloff to pick a quarrel in the second place. And thirdly--Miridoff is jealous. Your escapade of this evening will be reported in a certain quarter in a way calculated to injure you in the eyes of--a certain person. You see I know Miridoff thoroughly."

Chapter IX

A Night Of Riots

Fenton had recognised the possibilities of a popular demonstration for the great French General, but if he had known how far public feeling would be aroused, he undoubtedly would have hesitated before suggesting that capital be made out of the timely visit of the French hero. As things turned out the appearance of the grey-haired general on the Lodz set in motion such waves of racial enthusiasm and warlike frenzy that Serajoz experienced one of the wildest days and maddest nights in all its wild and mad history.

The terms of the duel had been settled between the sadly perturbed Varden and a saturnine officer who called on behalf of the aggrieved Neviloff, and the former sat with his principal in a balcony that overlooked the seething, turbulent Lodz. It was after eleven o'clock, but the crowds were not thinning out, and the tumult seemed to be increasing in violence all the time.

After half an hour's earnest argument Varden had given up hope of persuading the Canadian to depart from the capital before he fell a victim to the skill of Neviloff, and now sat eyeing, glumly, the animated scene below. Suddenly, above the noise of the mobs, came the electrifying crackle of musketry. First there were a few sharp explosions, then gradually the firing settled down into the sustained din of a steady fusillade.

"That means trouble!" ejaculated Varden. "The Guards must be firing on the people down around the royal palace, judging from the sound."

Moved by a common impulse the two men rose. Varden brought out heavy caps and cloaks, so that when they emerged into the street they were effectually disguised.

"Lead on, right into the thick of it," admonished Fenton. "I'm afraid we've missed something!"

They had. When they reached the square in front of the royal palace, they found it jammed with excited humanity, except for a significant radius around the entrance. Drawn up across the imposing gates was a double file of soldiers.

"The Guards fired on the mob. A couple have been killed!" exclaimed Varden, who had picked up the information from the excited shouts of those around them. "The fat's in the fire, Don! If Alexander holds out much longer they'll burn the palace to the ground."

In the surging mob the pair were soon separated, Varden being borne off bodily in a panicky rush of the people to avoid a threatened charge by the soldiers. Loath to return home while the excitement ran so high, Fenton drifted along with the crowd. He witnessed a demonstration in the course of which every window in the Austrian embassy was smashed. He saw Turkish shops and Austrian restaurants raided. Street fights became a mere incident. The clamorous cry for war was heard on every hand, coupled with execrations of King Alexander. On one public square the stubborn sovereign of Ironia was burned in effigy.

About one o'clock Fenton found himself in a small Greek restaurant on one of the narrow mercantile streets that run off the Duntzig. He was hungry enough to overlook the uninviting appearance of the place and the decidedly rough-looking crew who crowded about the tables. He shared one table with a picturesque old foreigner with a battered, time-worn countenance, and apparel that bespoke either poverty or utter disregard for appearance. Fenton stared at the grimy menu card printed in Ironian that a tatterdemalion waiter presented, and pointed to one of the items haphazard. Luck was not with him, his selection proving to be a sallow omelet of uncertain composition but positive odour. One look at the steaming mess and Fenton's appetite took wings. He pushed the plate to one side.

"Monsieur has not learned to appreciate native cookery," said the foreigner, glancing up and speaking in excellent French. "Monsieur perhaps speaks French?"

"He does," replied Fenton. "And decidedly he does not appreciate native cookery."

"For ten years I have been an exile from my beloved France!" sighed the old man. "It has been hard, monsieur, very hard. But the hardest part has been to subsist on the reeking, nauseous stuff that these Ironians call food. But time can work any miracle, monsieur. To-day I, François Dubois, with a palate that once was educated to the highest Parisian standard, can eat even the omelet of an Ironian cook and--forgive the blasphemy, monsieur--call it good!"

Fenton twisted his chair around so that he could regard his table companion more closely. The old Frenchman had a care-lined face from which a pair of black eyes looked out with a virility strangely at variance with the lifeless grey of the mask in which they were set.

"How do you happen to be living in Serajoz?" Fenton asked curiously.

"It's a long story and would weary monsieur's patience in the telling," replied the old man. "In a word, I came here with a company of strolling players--I was an actor and a musician, monsieur. Ironia was in a bad way ten years ago. A revolution threatened, war with Turkey was feared, the Government was nearly bankrupt. We made so little money that our company disbanded in Serajoz, and here has Francois Dubois remained ever since, picking up a meagre living by teaching music to such pupils as he has been able to find. The thought that some day I would save enough to return to France has kept life in this useless old body, monsieur. But that hope is now almost gone!"

"You know Ironia well then?" suggested Fenton. "Tell me, what is the real sentiment of the people? Is this all froth or do they really want war?"

"The people of Ironia want war!" said the old man soberly. "Listen to me, monsieur, for I know of what I speak. They are a deep lot, these Ironians, deeper than most people think--fiery in love, implacable in hate, consistent in gratitude, eternal in revenge, deep, deep. They hate the Turk and the Austrian. They want to win back the lost provinces, and would rather win them back by fighting for them. The smoke of battle is incense in the nostrils of the Ironian."

The old man wagged his forefinger portentously at Fenton.

"If there is one man in Ironia blinder than all others it is King Alexander," he went on. "I, Francois Dubois, say so. Monsieur, I feel in the prophetic vein to-night and I am telling you this: that Alexander will not give in to the people. He is a stiff-necked man, this Alexander, and he believes in the divine right of kings. His pledged word as a monarch is more to him than the welfare of the country over which he rules. He will not budge one inch, monsieur, and I see the day not far distant when, as first step to making the war they have willed, the Ironians will take from Alexander his crown. No king can balk the will of a nation to-day--not even a nation in the Balkans!"

"You really think it could happen?" asked Fenton, a little incredulous. "If they did depose Alexander, who would succeed him?"

"The Prince Peter, perhaps," replied the old actor. "Or, more likely still, Ironia would become a republic like my own dear France! Ah, monsieur, it would almost reconcile me to dying in this country if I knew that the freedom of France had at last reached Ironia!"

"A republic!" ejaculated Fenton, bright visions flitting before him, conjured up by the old man's words. A republic meant the breaking down of social barriers, the abolition of royal families--and, therefore, of royal marriages. But then he perceived the absolute futility of the idea. What did it matter to him whether Ironia became a republic or not? That morning he was due to offer himself as a target to Neviloff, and the outcome did not seem at all uncertain. Almost unconsciously he started to talk to his companion, telling him of the impending duel.

"It is not uncommon for visitors to become embroiled with native officers, monsieur," said the old man. "Many a duel has been fought on grounds that smacked strongly of robbery. The upper-class Ironian, monsieur, is a cut-throat, a thief, with the manners of a gentleman but the instincts of a pirate. But," and he shrugged his shoulders, "I would not fear the outcome. I know my Ironian well. He is devilish handy with the sword, but a poor shot, an atrociously bad shot. Have courage; you are more likely to wing him yourself. And in any case, the duel--it has not often the fatal ending. Look at me, monsieur. In my day four duels have I fought--and at sixty-two I live to teach music in the gutter of Europe!"

Considerably comforted by the old man's words, Fenton took down his address on a card and left, promising to look Monsieur Dubois up on the first opportunity.

* * * * *

At dawn the Canadian accompanied Varden to a misty, silent field on the outskirts of the city, there to wait for Neviloff and his friends. They waited long past the appointed hour, until Varden, who had come in a mood of almost despairing protest, began to cheer.

"Something's gone wrong," he said finally. "Neviloff would not funk it, of course. This sort of thing is all in the day's work to Neviloff. But a hitch has occurred somewhere."

As he finished an officer came across the field toward them. He saluted and spoke in Ironian to Varden.

"Saved, Don!" exclaimed the latter when the officer had left. "Once again have you managed to evade the consequences of your rash conduct. Neviloff can't keep the appointment. The riots last night became so bad that the troops in the city have been ordered to remain under arms, and the gallant lieutenant will be chained to duty until the situation becomes less acute. In the meantime his slighted honour must go without redress. He sends most profuse apologies--for not being able to kill you this morning. Come on, Don, I feel as though I could enjoy a good breakfast now."

Chapter X

Fate & Co.

The particular department of the well-known firm of Fate & Co., to which had been deputed the difficult task of weaving a train of circumstances that would plunge a nation into war, had been working overtime during the forty or so hours that Donald Fenton had been in Serajoz. The web was being surely and unerringly spun, and already certain skeins that represented human lives had been closely interwoven. Three lives, indexed in the ledgers of Fate perhaps by soul numbers, but distinguished from other mortals on earth by the titles of Donald Fenton, the Grand Duke Miridoff, and Olga of Ironia, were so hopelessly tangled, it was apparent that in the unravelling process one or more might be snapped off. Peering at what was ahead, the grim official saw two men stand face to face with the world-old issue to be settled between them, at the same time that angry mobs stormed palace walls for a cause that a stubborn king had forsworn.

And with this objective in view the minion of Fate first prompted a prudent thought to take possession of the mind of Prince Peter that morning, and then saw to it that a whisper of a restaurant brawl and a duel, impending or already fought, reached the ears of the Princess Olga. Acting on the first, Prince Peter decided that in its upset condition Serajoz was no place for his daughter, and notified her that he had decided she must go to his county estate at Kail Baleski until such time as the trouble blew over, and acting on the second, Olga hurriedly summoned her carriage and set out for a house on the Lodz where resided her very great confidante, the Baroness Draschol. Not content with this, the untiring tangler of human skeins prompted a certain little person of exceptional personal charm and international antecedents to don the garb of a peasant woman, muffling her face in a hood, and to set off on foot by sundry unfrequented streets and alleys bound for the same residence in the Lodz.

When he had seen that the princess entered by the front portal at the very moment that the pseudo-peasant knocked at a rear entrance, and had furthermore satisfied himself that Donald Fenton had risen from the breakfast-table and had strolled aimlessly into the library, there to wait for his host who had been called away, the official of Fate was content to sit back and let events take their course, confident that now his human puppets could not deviate from the lines he had laid down for them.

Baroness Draschol received her royal friend in her own sitting-room, which was just across the hall from the library. There they chatted for some time. Olga soon gleaned such information with reference to the postponed duel as the prudent Varden had seen fit to trust to his wife. In the meantime the peasant woman, who had asked at the rear door first for Mr Varden and then for Mr Fenton, and had been admitted only after the transfer of a gold coin, had been escorted to the library, where she removed the heavy hood, revealing the pleasing features of Anna Petrowa.

Fenton, who was becoming inured to surprises of all descriptions, accepted this transformation with equanimity.

"Good morning, mademoiselle," he said, setting a chair for her. "I am delighted to see you, but not surprised. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened for half an hour or so. I felt that the inactivity wouldn't keep up much longer."

"I am so more than glad that monsieur has come to no harm," said the dancer quite earnestly. "I see it all now. It was a plot to trap you, and I an innocent part playing in it. But monsieur, I see, does not think of me as the double traitor."

She placed a finger on her lips to enjoin silence, and then, tip-toeing over beside him, whispered:

"I had not time before we were interrupted to tell the big news that I have learned, and thus have I risked all by coming here so in the broad daylight. It is this: Many of the army officers are with our cunning Miridoff, and a plot is spreading to force Ironia into war against Russia by the same means that they used with Turkey. A body of Ironian troops, acting without official orders, will cross the line to Russia and burn a village or so. The Russians, of course, they retaliate, and then war is certain to follow. It is all arranged, monsieur. Where or when I do not know. Word, I beseech, must be taken at once to his highness."

Fenton sprang up and paced the floor excitedly. "Of course, it is exactly what they would do," he exclaimed. "Last night has shown them that they cannot win by fair means. Mr Varden is out, mademoiselle, but will be back in a very few minutes. Word shall be taken to Prince Peter as soon as he returns."

In the course of a minute or so Fenton's thoughts, occupied with the important information that she had brought, turned to the consideration of how so vital a piece of news had been obtained. He stood in front of his intrepid companion and regarded her with stimulated interest and quite frank admiration.

"I can't understand it at all," he said. "Try as I may I can't really associate you with plots and counter-plots and secret meetings, and associations with all the rag-tag and bob-tail of Balkan intrigue. You are so fair, so young, so--well, so completely feminine that I can't see how you succeed in work that belongs, by its very nature, to the rougher animal, man."

"You are mistaken, Mistaire Fenton," she protested, "and your mistake is so thoroughly masculine! It should not be difficult for a woman to do the work I am doing. It is the work a woman can do best; it is subtle, it requires keen observation of the little things, it means that always the right word must be used; it needs some personal charm, monsieur, and a thorough knowledge of how to exploit it. Women--and women only--can be depended upon for the more delicate missions of secret service. It is man--direct, blundering, outspoken man, who thinks judgment better than intuition--who does not fit into the picture."

"You put it so well that I am almost convinced," smiled Fenton. "Still, I don't like to think of you having to associate with the likes of Miridoff and his murder crew. There are two spheres in which I like to picture you--on the stage earning the plaudits of the world, and in a cosy chair on the hearth of some lucky man's home."

"You are quite hopeless, _mon ami_," she sighed. "Your view-point--it is so masculine--so one-sided. Man regards woman in but two ways--he wants to possess her and to show her off. If she feels that she must achieve more than man's fatuous approval he frowns, objects, bullies, even uses force to stop her. Is it not so?"

"It is clear that you have travelled over much in America," said Fenton with a laugh. "Are such ideas common among the women of your own country?"

"Advanced thought, it is found everywhere," she replied. The conversation was becoming too abstruse for her scanty English, and she abruptly changed to French, where she was more at home. "In your America the positions have been reversed. There it is the woman who has the complete freedom and the man who is tied. The American--he is too easy. He has but two functions left to him--business and the support of his women-folk."

"Mademoiselle is a sage, I see, as well as so many other things," said Fenton, not a little puzzled at the change that had come over her. From a dainty little person, full of coquettish wiles and sidelong glances, she had suddenly become a serious woman, full of the fire of earnest purpose and determination. Genuinely interested, he asked, "Tell me, mademoiselle, do you really like this life? Can you enjoy it, with all its dangers, its insincerities, its cruelties?"

For a moment she did not answer. Her glance wandered to a window and fixed itself on outer space, while a smile that was at once brave and wistful played at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes, I like it, _mon ami_," she said. "It is hard; it robs one of treasured illusions; it takes the silver finish off life and shows the brass beneath. A woman who plays the great game misses much that women are supposed to want--and do want. It may be that these things will be missed from my life, but--I will not regret them. This life means that I am standing alone, fighting against things, combating circumstances, and shaping them to my own ends, trying to grasp from an unwilling hand the fruit success."

"You are right," said Fenton emphatically. "It is the fight for achievement that makes things worth while. It is seldom though that a woman comes to a realisation of so virile a philosophy of life. There I go again," he said with a laugh. "My purely masculine judgment of women! But tell me of your experiences. I am sure you must have things to tell which would be of great interest. You have seen much of this sort of thing--this--what our statesmen call diplomacy."

Anna was nothing loath. In her inimitably pretty way she told of her life from the time when she first joined the Russian Imperial ballet, relating incidents in her struggles as a dancer, but more of her life as an agent of the secret service. She told of a certain affair at Monte Carlo, when documents had to be abstracted from a personage of royal rank; of the theft and recovery of important naval plans which had been the key to a significant and tense international crisis.

Fenton listened to her with an interest that was all engrossing, but all the time there remained at the back of his mind--despite her earlier admonition--a sense of incongruity. There was something irreconcilable with the accepted order of things in this dainty butterfly doing the work which kept nations from each other's throats, or helped to precipitate them into conflict.

As she talked the aforementioned Grim Official stirred himself up to complete certain complications that he had planned. He caused the Baroness Draschol to leave the Princess Olga for a moment. He impelled the latter to rise and stray into the hall. He then brought the dancer to her feet with a rather incredulous "How I have talked!" while she almost unconsciously put both hands into Fenton's and looked up into his face.

Neither of them heard the soft swish of a skirt in the hall. Neither of them knew that the curtains had parted.

"I have been so interested," said Fenton. "You are really wonderful!"

Then he turned in time to look into the rather startled, rather incredulous, rather angry eyes of Princess Olga. It was but for a moment, then the curtains fell back into place, and the intruder, with a murmured word of apology, had melted away again.

Having thus succeeded in effecting the desired situation, Fate & Co. proceeded briskly with what was to follow. Varden was brought into the library by another door, and into a most solemn conference with Anna. A brief meeting was engineered between Olga, the Baroness and Fenton, during which the Princess, with the coldest of courtesy, expressed her gratitude to Mr Fenton for the part he had played in saving her father's life, while Fenton, abashed and miserable, watched her with adoring eyes and a tongue that refused to attempt the difficult task of explanation. Then a few precious moments were vouchsafed him alone with her. Olga did not appear too well pleased, but accepted the situation with good grace.

"Mr Fenton is staying long in Ironia?" she asked politely.

"I hardly know," replied the Canadian. "It will depend upon circumstances. I thought I might be useful here, but so far my presence has only served to create trouble."

"Perhaps we of Ironia do not understand your ways," she said, looking him very steadily in the eyes. "We may perhaps be too prone to take you seriously in everything you do--and say."

"Your highness, I trust you do not charge me with insincerity," said Fenton earnestly. "I have not been conscious of uttering a word which I have not meant. Let me explain----"

"It will be perhaps well for the simple maids of Ironia if Mr Fenton does not stay too long," went on the princess in even tones. "The strange new ideas that he holds of love, and all pertaining thereto, and the boldness of his address, might perhaps impress too deeply such as did not realise he was bent solely on amusement."

"You do not understand," said Fenton, "and you are unjust. You would understand if I explained everything to you, but unfortunately I am not permitted to do that. Matters of state are involved."

"Explanations are neither necessary nor desirable," said Olga calmly. Then she extended her hand lightly. "We may not meet again, Mr Fenton."

The Canadian touched her hand with his lips, then for a moment held it close in both of his. "We shall meet again, your highness," he declared confidently.

Chapter XI

The Abduction

The war riots continued in Serajoz with ever-increasing violence. Following the unsatisfactory events of the morning, Fenton spent several hours in Varden's automobile on a mission that took him to many parts of the city.

Late in the afternoon he returned, to find his host in a state of great perturbation.

"Things are certainly happening thick and fast," declared Varden. "The other side are prepared to stop at nothing, Fenton. The princess has been carried off!"

Fenton, too stunned for speech, listened with his mind in a turmoil, while Varden proceeded with a hurried and disjointed explanation. A note had just reached him from Anna Petrowa, containing the startling information that an attempt at abduction would be made. Shortly after two o'clock, on the instructions issued by her royal father, Olga had set out for Kail Baleski in a carriage with the customary retinue for travel. In the meantime the alert Anna had learned of a plan, formulated in the Miridoff camp, to have the princess abducted on the road and carried up to the hill country.

"But," protested Fenton in angry amazement, "what purpose can be served? It seems just as senseless as it is incredible!"

"The purpose is not hard to find," replied Varden. "The princess will serve as a hostage. Efforts will be made to force Prince Peter to withdraw the pressure he is exerting on the King by threats of violence to the princess.

"Miridoff, of course, will not appear in this," went on Varden. "It will be made to appear on the surface that the abduction has been the work of brigands. The princess will be carried up into the hill country and not released until Peter has been brought to terms."

"But how do you know they have carried her off? It is one thing to plan a daring coup of this kind, and another to accomplish it."

"As a matter of fact, Don, I don't suppose that they have actually got their hands on her yet, but there is no reason to suppose that they won't do so. Carriage travel is slow in this country, and Olga would hardly have reached Kail Baleski yet. As that is practically the start of the hill country they'll make the attempt thereabouts."

"Then it's not too late," said Fenton with a sense of partial relief. "I'm going to borrow your machine. There's a chance that I can overtake her in time."

In another minute Fenton was settled in the tonneau of the car, which rolled through the streets of the Ironian capital with a speed that increased as they neared the open country.

* * * * *

Ironia is a country of extremes. Unusual wealth rubs elbows with abject poverty. Grand palaces line the Lodz in Serajoz, and in the narrow streets close on either side human beings fight for a meagre existence.

The same rule of contrast holds with reference to the Ironian character. The peasantry are honest, hospitable, devout and ignorant. The upper classes, the aristocracy, who control the mining and industrial enterprises from which Ironian wealth emanates, are sharp, clever and quite unscrupulous. Only in the few old families which had managed to escape extinction in the Turkish wars does the innate nobility of the peasant character, purified by education and refinement, show itself. Peter was typical of the aristocratic minority; Miridoff of the majority.

Fenton discovered to what a sharp degree the law of contrast was carried in this picturesque country when the driver turned out of the crowded streets of Serajoz and guided his car with a steadily increasing hum along one of the wonderfully well preserved Roman roads that run out in all directions from the capital city, like the fingers of an out-stretched land. Back in Serajoz every evidence was to be seen of advanced civilisation. In the country they soon passed out of the area where their car was accepted as a matter of course. Fifteen miles from the city their progress through the many villages that dotted the road became marked by confusion and clatter, the peasants staring in open-mouthed amazement at the spectacle of the fast-moving car. It was quite apparent that the automobile was still an object of almost superstitious wonder to these simple souls.

The excitement which attended their progress became more marked when the driver turned off the main road and struck through a maze of winding side-roads that circled along the foot-hills on a gradually ascending grade. Crouched back in the swaying tonneau, a prey to fear and worry, Fenton made frequent use of the only Ironian word that he had learned before starting on this headlong pursuit, "Faster." The driver, who reverenced the car with the same zeal that a Christian will sometimes show in the study of an Oriental creed, obeyed with gleeful alacrity. He had always wanted to know just how fast it could be made to go, this devil-wagon with its intricate buttons and levers, the secrets of which he had studied in the same spirit as he would have approached the formulæ of a sorcerer. Having at last found a passenger of the same frame of mind as himself, Jaleski leaned over the wheel with a smile that brought his beaked nose down with a still more pronouncedly owl-like suggestion, and the wheels fairly lifted off the ground. The car skimmed along the curving highways; ascended steep grades with a graceful ease of a powerful bird on the wing; dashed through villages like a puffing, black Juggernaut; and spread a trail of chattering, fear-stricken peasantry in its wake.

To Fenton the ecstatic Jaleski seemed like a genie crouched over the edge of a magic carpet, guiding it with supernatural speed across an earthly continent. He expected that every minute would be his last, though he made no effort to stave off the impending doom.

But Jaleski proved an artist at the wheel. He brought the imagination of the East to the manipulation of the levers and bars of the materialistic West, and seemed to be able to coax extra speed from them without relaxing his perfect control. He appeared to tell by instinct just what lay beyond the next bramble-obscured turn in the road. He had an extra sense for knowing when to turn out for unseen obstacles. Fenton began to feel that a sorcerer was at the wheel.

They came in record time to the quaint little village of Kail Baleski, which shelters itself at the very base of the foot-hills, and has not changed in any detail for the last two hundred years. They found the place in a state of wildest turmoil. Crowds of villagers stood in the one street along which the village straggles with a vague suggestion of child-built blocks. As Jaleski regretfully brought the car to a stop they were surrounded by a mob who waved their arms and jabbered incessantly. Jaleski picked the purport of it from the babel of talk, and, turning a tragic face on his passenger, endeavoured to relate the disturbing news.

After questioning him impatiently in imperfect German, Fenton gave up the effort to establish intelligent communication, and climbed from the car. He reproached himself bitterly for having started out on so important a mission without bringing an interpreter along.

Finally, however, he perceived a possible means out of his dilemma. Walking down the street toward them came the village priest, benevolent and white-haired, in a worn cassock and rusty clerical hat that bespoke either the poverty of the neighbourhood or the ascetic character of the wearer. The old priest's face was clouded with the same trouble that stared so unmistakably and yet so unintelligibly from the brown faces of the villagers. Fenton addressed him eagerly in French, haltingly in German and finally in English.