I
A WAGER IS MADE
After the termination of a three months' struggle on the floor of 'Change, resulting in the rout of his adversaries, who had counted on an easy acquisition of his heritage in the P. & S. system, Calvert Carter was grateful for that particular armchair in the reading-room of the Racquet Club.
"Those gentlemen, in banking on my inexperience in manipulations," he chuckled audibly, "evidently forgot that I had been a campaigner in Cuba. Even though I didn't learn much there about Wall Street or tickers, I did gather some very valuable knowledge of human nature. I guess that counts a little in deals, after all." His thoughts, released from the pressure of financial altercations, were a trifle tumultuous and wandering. They went bounding back now, at the mere mental suggestion of Cuba, to that tropic island, the scene of his stirring military experiences.
Event followed event on the lightened screen of reminiscence. He recalled with a quick surge of pulse the fervor of El Caney and the tide that swept San Juan Hill by the chivalry of American manhood. There, too, was Santiago where his mastery of men had resulted in his being appointed Provost Marshal of the conquered Spanish citadel. Then his mind inconsequently turned to the man who had passed through so many crises with him.
"Carrick came through it all, too," he mused. "The veteran is now the valet. Poor chap, his life has been a strange one." He recalled the story the fellow had told of his past – a tale which had won for him the friendship and aid of the man who had been his captain and was now his employer.
It had occurred in the white stuccoed house on the Plaza which had been his official quarters as Provost.
The picture of it, with its stately old-world balconies where violet shadows nested lovingly, arose before his memory's eyes with a strange yearning. The recollection of those striped awnings in the white light of mid-day had potency to cool, even now, the fever of his thoughts. The barren dignity of Carrick's story had contrasted vividly with the tropical colorings in which its recital had been inspired.
Prompted by a kindly interest in his orderly's career and ambitions, he had asked the man as to his past in general and his future in particular. He was totally unprepared for the undammed flood of confidence which had burst from the lips of the habitually taciturn Carrick. The tattered rags of the fellow's humble past were spread before him in all their pathetic squalor. He saw, as though a living thing, the barren, inarticulate childhood. He heard, under compulsion, the tale of youth's indefinable longings, with the meagre story of a love which lacked not its own shabby tragedy. The delicacy of a gentleman, who had intruded where he had no right, had caused him to draw back with an apology; but the orderly had insisted on telling him. He could almost see the raw, quivering heart in Carrick's breast.
"I wonder," he pondered, "what that medal was he wore under his shirt? He said it was an heirloom. It looked devilishly like an order of nobility." He referred to an incident in the man's narrative, when the latter had drawn from beneath the blue army blouse what had at first appeared to be a Star of the Bath. It had been solemnly handed to him for inspection, with the information that the trooper's father had also worn it.
It was old. The circular scroll, which at one time had doubtless borne an inscription, was smooth save for a few dimples which indicated faintly where words had been. The centre was a slightly raised disc about an inch and a quarter in diameter. Upon this, of blue enamel, cracked and chipped with age and usage, was the figure of a lion rampant, a royal crown upon its head. From the central disc, intersected by the scroll, radiated points of equal length, making a star of the whole. Something also had been said about papers. Supposing that Carrick had meant insurance policies, he had paid but passing heed to the allusion.
Carter's ideas were growing patchwork, he confessed. He felt he was unable, in his weariness, to sustain much connected thought. The mental trend was all one way, however, – pointing to a desire to escape the enforced ennui, which was sure to be consequent upon his recent exhausting contest. Nor was he particularly anxious to meet any one until he had eased up the terrific pace which his nerves had set him.
Hearing a couple of his friends enter, he determined to wait until they should discover him before he would make his presence known. Aware that no one would choose that room for confidential chats, he had no fear of eavesdropping. As he was yielding to drowsiness the words of one of the men back of him caused him to sit up alertly. It was Billy Saunderson, one of the pair who had just entered, who was speaking.
"I tell you, Lang," Saunderson was saying to Langdon of the Diplomatic Corps, – "I tell you that there'll be war. It isn't going to be any police-clubbed riot this time. It'll be the real thing." Carter felt a personal affront in Langdon's sceptical laugh at this assertion.
"How do you figure that, Saunderson?" the government man queried.
"Immigration statistics of the last ten years prove to any sane man that the natives are returning to their fatherland in unprecedented numbers. Read for yourself." The pause that followed, broken only by the rustling of papers, was evidently devoted to a perusal of documents. Then Langdon's voice again took up the theme.
"All right, Billy, but what do you expect to prove by the fact that eighty thousand men came here from Krovitch in the last ten years and sixty thousand return this year?"
"By the fact that it is men that are going back – not women or children; that Krovitzers don't love Russia well enough to return as volunteers against Japan; by the fact that ten thousand are trained soldiers."
"How do you know the last?"
"Private information." Billy's tone was significant. "War Department; don't repeat. Their enlistment up with Uncle Sam, these men have asked for their discharges. All first-class soldiers and non coms."
"Hm," Langdon commented, partially convinced; then, as a new objection struck him, his tone was once more argumentative. "They can't fight without a backer," he continued. "Banking houses to-day control peace and war as immutably as Christianity should. I don't believe that any one would back them."
"Here comes Jackson, he'll know," Saunderson said as the door opened to admit another man who instantly joined them.
"What's that you are leaving up to me, Billy? Do I hold the stakes?" Carter recognized the voice as that of one of his bitterest opponents in the stock battle.
"Saunderson says that there will be real fighting in Krovitch," said Langdon. "What does the money mart say?" Appealed to unexpectedly on this topic, Jackson laughed a trifle consciously.
"Well, in strict confidence," he replied, "I'll tell you that I am in a pool to finance things over there. That coup of Carter's pretty nearly dumped me on it, too."
Not desiring to become the butt of overheard personalities, Carter arose at this juncture, and, bowing to the trio, left the room. After his departure, the eyes of the first comers turned to Jackson, as one who had just felt the mettle of Carter's steel. The half smile which had been on Carter's face Jackson was perfectly willing to misinterpret.
"Gloating over our downfall," he remarked with reference to the day's happenings on the Street.
"Not that kind of fellow," replied Saunderson, coming to the defense of the absent. "You were caught dancing; he simply made you pay the piper."
"He's hard as nails," retorted Jackson, gloomily; "not a particle of sentiment in him."
"Look here, Jackson," said Langdon at this juncture, "you are dead wrong there. Carter's record is different. He went out to Cuba for what we discount nowadays – patriotism. While there he picked up a poor devil of a Cockney and made more of a man of him than the fellow had ever dreamed of becoming. Literally picked him out of the gutter – drunk. That man of his, – Carrick, – I think that's his name."
"Right," assented Saunderson. "Then look what he did for Marian Griggs when Jack's western bubble burst carrying her fortune with it. Jack blew his brains out, leaving her and the kids sky high. Though they had absolutely no claim on him other than disinterested friendship, Cal, in the most delicate manner in the world, fixed things so that they should never want. The girl told me herself. Sentiment? Why, man, he's chock full of it. He's the sort that, when he hears of this coming scrap in Krovitch, will throw himself body and soul into it, as his forbears have done from Marston Moor to date, just because it's likely to be a lost cause. He's always for the under dog – and I honor him for it. I'm willing to bet he'll go to Krovitch when he hears."
"A thousand?" inquired Jackson with speculative ardor. Saunderson narrowed his eyes, as he looked judiciously at the broker. He flicked the ash from his cigarette before replying.
"Too much. What's the use?" he said. "Make it even money at a hundred and I'll go you. On any other man I'd ask odds. With Carter, though, when it comes to war, to women, or to any one needing help, he's right there with the goods. He's in a class by himself. Do you take the bet?"
"Certainly," answered Jackson as he handed the money over to Langdon as stakeholder. "Word of honor, Billy, that you will not urge him on?"
"Word of honor, Jackson. Keep your hands off, too." The two shook hands gravely, while Langdon made a memorandum of the wager.
Before he had reached the corner, the subject of this speculation had forgotten, for the nonce, all about Krovitch and her troubles. His wearied mind – like a recalcitrant hunter at a stiffish fence – had thrown off the idea as too much weight to carry. A week later he was to be reminded of the episode at the club. Its effects led him far afield into a tale of romance, intrigue, war and women. Intrigue, war and women are inseparable.
II
"STRANGE COUNTREES FOR TO SEE"
In the soul of Calvert Carter arose a vague unrest. A voiceless summons bade him, with every April stir of wind, to shake off the tale of common things and match his manhood and keen intelligence in Nature's conflict, the battle of the male. Six years past had found him in Cuba. In that brief campaign against Spain, his entire military career, each day so crowded with anticipation or actual battle, had been laid the foundation for this wanderlieb; this growing appetite for excitement and hazard. Occasional trips to Europe and even forays after big game had failed to satisfy him. Without realizing it, his was the aboriginal's longing for war, – primitive savage against primitive savage, and – his life lacked a woman.
He paced about his library as in a cage.
He strove desperately to understand the elusive impulse which urged him to go forth running, head up, pulses flaming; on, on, out of the reeking city to the cool, clean woods; on, on, to the heart of the world where all brutes and mankind strove in one titanic fight for supremacy. Conventions held him fast. He must go somewhere, however. Where? Was there in Old or New World an unbeaten track his feet had not trodden, a chance for adventure – man-strife? Manchuria! It would not do. His was not the mood for the porcelain, perfect politeness of Nippon. He was no beast to revel in the stupid orgies of the Slav!
The door opened and Carrick entered. It was not the Carrick of yesterday, but one who, though unable to eradicate all the traces of his earlier environments, had nevertheless succeeded in achieving externally and mentally a much higher plane than that on which Carter first found him. When he spoke, seeing his master was in some perplexity, there still lingered in his accent the unmistakable evidence of his Whitechapel origin.
"What is it, sir?"
Carter turned to him with a troubled countenance.
"Carrick," he said, "do you ever feel as if you wanted to be back on the fighting line?"
The fellow smiled guiltily.
"Yes, Mr. Carter, when I 'ave the go-fever as I call it! Then you see," he explained apologetically, "I was allus a sort of a tramp before you took 'old of me, sir. Don't think it's because the plyce don't suit – no man ever 'ad a better, thanks to you. Sometimes I think, though, as 'ow all men get the feelin' in spells. Do you ever feel that wye?"
"I'm chock full of it now, Carrick. I must get away from the manacles of cities. Hand me that atlas – I'll study the map of Europe again. Thanks. This is about the tenth time." Carter bent over the plotted page anxiously while his man stood at his elbow.
"Germany won't do," said Calvert. "I hate the very sight of a wasp-waisted, self-sufficient Prussian subaltern. They're everywhere. Imperial arrogance seems to pervade even their beer gardens." His voice trailed off into silence again, as in a preoccupied manner his finger wandered over the map. It stopped suddenly as he leaned closer to study the pink plot on which it rested. "Krovitch; Krovitch!" he muttered, "now where the devil have I heard of Krovitch? Russian province it seems but that doesn't give me any clue. I'm stuck, Carrick," he said with a frank laugh as he looked up to meet the man's responsive smile.
"Can I 'elp you, sir?" He leaned over Carter's shoulder.
"What is there about that little spot to set me guessing?" His finger kept tapping the indicated locality perplexedly.
His man studied a moment as if some old memory were awakened. "Can't sye, sir; but wasn't Count Zulka, of the Racquet Club, from there, sir?" he hesitatingly suggested. "Seems as if I remember 'is man saying as much."
"Now we are getting at it, Carrick. Certainly. Zulka is a Krovitzer. Has a mediæval castle at Schallberg. Capital, I think it is. Saunderson the newspaper fellow let fall a hint that there was going to be a big fight over there. That was after Zulka went abroad so suddenly. They're going to try and restore the ancient monarchy or something. Hand me that volume of the Encyclopedia – 'H-o-r' to 'L-i-b' I think will cover it. I'll look up Krovitch. Thanks," and he was soon deeply engrossed in the desired information.
A copy of the Almanac de Gotha lay at his hand. Having avidly absorbed the meagre narration of the country's history from the pages of the encyclopedia, his inquiring mind sought enlightenment as to the present personnel of the house who had ruled the ancient race.
The almanac disclosed no descendant of Stovik. Apparently the dynasty of which he was the head had ceased with his deposition. "Humph," he ejaculated, "here is something interesting. 'Sole descendant of Augustus. Girl, twenty-two, name – Trusia.' Pretty, poetical – Trusia! I like it. Seems to me I'll be repeating that name a good deal. I wonder what she's like."
He looked up again, his face glowing with enthusiasm. "Carrick," he said indignantly, "that country ought to be free. Russia stole it by a shabby trick. Two hundred years ago the reigning king of Krovitch was a chap called Stovik. The head of another royal family there named Augustus was his rival for the crown. Not being able to arouse much of a following among a loyal people, Augustus sought aid of his namesake, the Czar of Russia, to help in his contest. Knowing that Augustus would be easily disposed of once they got a foothold in Krovitch, the Russ, who had only been waiting for some such pretext, gladly espoused his cause and threw an army of veterans across the length and breadth of the devoted land. Stovik was deposed and Russia put her dupe upon the throne. Europe stood by and let that nation, which, single handed, had time and again saved them from Moslem invasions, be annexed by the government at Moscow. I'm going there. I'll look up Zulka and get him to have me counted in if there's any fight going to occur."
"And me too, sir," answered Carrick, standing like a stag who from a peak challenges his kind.
Carter looked at the man with evident appreciation and a pleased smile animated his face.
"It will be the old days over again. I warn you, Carrick, you'll have to hustle to beat me up another hill."
The Cockney laughed in the free masonry of their mutual reminiscences. "All right, sir, forewarned is forearmed. How soon do we start?"
"Just as soon as you can get our camp kits ready. We'll board the next steamer for Danzig. I think I'll take the big auto along, too. It may come in handy."
III
A DUEL – OF WITS
Russian affairs had reached the climax anticipated by the world as the result of her persistent encroachments in the Orient.
Precipitated by a fiery aggression from Nippon the gasping Slav had been pushed back across the Yalu. His ships around Port Arthur had been crippled and destroyed. The astonished nations, Russia included, awoke to a grim realization of war.
Not only the home staying Japanese, but millions of Russian subjects joined in the universal acclaim that hailed these first victories of the war, presaging that the Banners of the Rising Sun were well able to cope with the armed hordes which held Manchuria in the name of the Great White Czar.
First grumbling murmurs, next spasmodic disturbances defying police discipline, afterward outbreaks of thousands of workmen even in the larger cities, followed by armed and desperate uprisings in different provinces, demonstrated with seismic violence that an appreciable portion of domestic sympathy was with the enemies of the Empire.
The autocracy had been feared only while it had been able to assert universal invincibility.
Plots and counterplots added to the general uneasiness; failing to soothe them, more than one minister had been dismissed in disgrace.
In the Imperial Palace a war conference had been called with reference to a new and startling development. A map lay spread upon the table. A white-haired grand duke arose and placed a finger on the spot indicating the Russian capital.
"Here is St. Petersburg," he said dogmatically, "while away off here is Krovitch just across a little river from Germany and Austria. While those greedy neighbors may be held back now, you could not restrain them a moment after revolt broke out in that border province. For two centuries those Krovitzers have been a defiant and stiff-necked race in spite of every corrective measure adopted to suppress them. Unless immediate action is taken to anticipate and abort any movement of theirs, it may mean the utter destruction of your present southern frontiers. I am convinced that they will take advantage of the present disturbances to attempt their independence."
A wan and tolerant smile on the imperial countenance apprised him his appeal had been in vain. A suppressed buzz of incredulity brought a flush of resentment to his cheek.
"We are not ungrateful for your loyal advice, Your Grace, and will give it our future consideration." This imperial acknowledgment dismissed a matter which apparently was promptly forgotten in the discussion of events in Manchuria. But the apparition of Krovitch, in arms, would not so easily down in the minds of the thoughtful present, even though an autocrat had dismissed the notion as frivolous.
Never having been kind, now was the moment when the least sign of relaxation would be interpreted by the watchful millions as an evidence of weakness. Therefore the blows of the knout should be redoubled and prisons be enlarged the better to maintain hierarchical supremacy.
Provinces, conquered and made subject by the ancient strength of Russian arms, were becoming restless. Whispers of what a year earlier would have been avoided by the many in terror were now changed into shouts of defiance and publicly bruited in the daily papers. On all sides an oppressed country crouched tiger-like, ready for revolt should the whip be laid aside for even an instant.
Krovitch once having had a king, a patrie of her own, stubbornly and persistently kept alive her national feeling, language, and traditions in spite of imperial ukase. Naturally she caused considerable uneasiness among those who were the real rulers of Russia.
Persistent reports from their apprehensive agents alarmed those who, standing in the shadows of a toppling throne, feared an outbreak of the Krovitzers more than they despised the ultimate valor of the Japanese.
An ambitious minister, listening attentively to the warning against Krovitch, determined to put a quietus on that province, which once and for all time would blight her hopes of independence. He wired many questions and voluminous suggestions to his agent in Paris, Casper Haupt, who was a sub-chief of the White Police. This ardent subject of Nicholas II had cabled back immediately:
"Have here only one man who can. Must have free foot."
A reference to a portfolio biography disclosed the operator's name to be Josef Kolinsky.
The conversation resulting in this cabled information to the minister had taken place in a private room of the Russian consulate in the French capital between the sub-chief and Kolinsky.
One plan after another had been suggested by the superior only to be torn into threads by the operator. Finally in desperation the sub-chief had demanded that Kolinsky furnish a more practical scheme.
A pause followed, in which, with elbows on the table, and flushed, indignant visage, the Russian leaned forward waiting for the compliance of his subordinate. Kolinsky, with a sphynx-like face, sat gazing steadily at a point on the floor slightly beyond his extended feet. His principal sought in vain to penetrate the pale, smiling mask which he was beginning to acknowledge held a more subtle mind than his own. He would have given much to have seen the galloping, tumultuous thoughts, which, chaotic at first, became as orderly as heaven at their master's wish.
Impatient at a silence promising to be interminable the Russian agent coughed suggestively.
Kolinsky, with leisurely indulgence, looked up while the sneering smile deepened the lines about his mouth.
The face of his vis-à-vis brightened.
"Well," the chief asked breathlessly.
"First, monsieur, if my plan is adopted, do I, alone, unaided, have free foot to work it out? Otherwise I'll not tell you a word of it."
Indignant for a moment that an underling should impose conditions, the Russian determined to resort to censure, but when he looked into the culprit's eyes he was puzzled at his own acquiescence.
"You may have a free foot," he said, "now your plan."
Kolinsky shifted his chair close to that of the other man to whisper long and earnestly in his ear. His auditor evidently endorsed his suggestion, judging by his grunts of applause and the grinning display of teeth.
"It is good, fine, superb," he said as Kolinsky concluded and leaned back comfortably in his chair the better to appreciate the approval displayed in his chief's countenance. He was not to view these flattering symptoms for long, however. His superior as though discovering a fatal weakness in the completed structure, said in renewed despair: "while you have the right man, it won't do."
"Why, Excellency," asked Josef with no diminution of that glacial smile. It was as though he held his superior in hardly concealed contempt.
"The papers," said Haupt. "They can't be forged. We have no precedents to follow. Those chaps over there will know the thing by rote and probably would recognize the signatures more quickly than their own."
"Why not use the originals?"
"Where are they? We have so much time to find them." The sarcasm was crushing. "They probably were lost or destroyed years ago." He concluded temporizingly, under the compelling eyes gazing coldly at him.
"Documents of that kind are never lost or destroyed," Josef announced dogmatically.
"Where are they then? In Krovitch?" The sub-chief sneered.
"No." The reply was so positive that the Russian agent leaned forward intently. He was growing suspicious, therefore becoming cautious.
"You have seen them, I suppose." This was thrown off casually.
"Oh, certainly. That's what suggested the plan." Josef smiled like a cat who has enclosed a cup of cream.
"Then you have seen them recently." He only half waited for the assenting nod as he queried, "They are in Paris?"
"Yes." Kolinsky smiled at the other's undisguised astonishment that he would admit so much.
The sub-chief drew himself together, then turned sternly to his subordinate.
"See here, Kolinsky, that's impossible. I've been head of this bureau for ten years, and if documents of such importance had come into the possession of the French or any other government, I would have known about it. If they had been turned into this office I would have remembered."
"Nevertheless, Excellency, they are in Paris."
There was another long pause. The Russian lighted a cigarette, while he sought in silent meditation to unravel the mystery which seemed not only a challenge to his acuteness, but also an impeachment of his régime. With a casual movement that he hoped was unnoticed, he drew back into a shadow where he could note Kolinsky's face while his own avoided scrutiny.
"Kolinsky, how long have you been a member of the White Police?"
"Twelve years, Excellency."
"Two years before I came here, eh?" In a flash he had solved the enigma. "It is as I imagined. Have you the papers with you?"
"Yes, Excellency."
"May I see them?"
"They are my personal property, remember."
"How long ago did you get them?"
"Fifteen years ago the eighth of August. That was before I joined the secret police. The owner had died and it took some clever work to gain possession of them."
"How did you know of their existence?"
"It was an accident." Kolinsky answered haltingly.
"And your candidate for the crown?" asked the Russian in a slight tone of derision.
"Is a Parisian artist. A good-natured fool." Kolinsky's tone of voice echoed the other's, whose hand was held out hesitatingly across the table for the papers. Deliberately Josef drew a bundle from his inside pocket and opened it before his chief.
The parchments were old and the Latin was in an ancient cramped hand while the impression of the seal was well-nigh obliterated. When sufficient time had elapsed for the Russian to make a complete mental note of their appearance, Josef drew the papers away from him, refolded them carefully and replaced them in his pocket.
"Kolinsky, you know what will happen should you desert us when once in Krovitch?"
Josef was standing near the door. He smiled with supreme indifference.
"Do I get the mission, Excellency?" was the only reply he vouchsafed.
"Y-e-s." The superior's single acquiescence was prolonged into three syllables, urged by the acknowledged supreme ability of Kolinsky and restrained by a fear of apprehended duplicity.
Aware of this struggle the clever fellow turned back in the doorway to laugh at the other's perplexity.
"Really, Excellency, you have only one thing to fear." His chief started up suspiciously.
"What is that?" he asked tersely.
"That I may decide to claim the throne of Krovitch myself," Josef replied, as with his habitual smile he softly closed the door and hurried from the house.