Castle Craneycrow Part 21

Despite her protests, despite her angry denials, he told her the story of Ugo's plotting, from the hour when he received the mysterious warning to the moment when he entered her home that evening. As he proceeded hotly to paint the prince in colors ugly and revolting she grew calmer, colder. At the end she met his flaming gaze steadily.

"Do you expect me to believe this?" she asked.

"I mean that you shall," he said, imperatively. "It is the truth."

"If you have finished this vile story you may go. I cannot forgive myself for listening to you. How contemptible you are," she said, arising and facing him with blazing eyes. He came to his feet and met the look of scorn with one which sent conviction to her soul.

"I have told you the truth, Dorothy," he said simply. The light in her eyes changed perceptibly. "You know I am not a liar, and you know I am not a coward. Every drop of blood in my veins sings out its love for you. Rather than see you marry this man I would kill him, as you advise, even though it cost me my happiness. You have heard me out, and you know in your heart that I have told the truth."

"I cannot, I will not believe it! He is the n.o.blest of men, and he loves me. You do not know how he loves me. I will not believe you,"

she murmured, and he knew his story had found a home. She sank to the seat again and put her hand to her throat, as if choking. Her eyes were upon the strong face above her, and her heart raced back to the hour not far gone when it whispered to itself that she loved the sweetheart of other days.

"Dorothy, do you love me?" he whispered, dropping to her side, taking her hand in his. "Have you not loved me all these days and nights?"

"You must not ask--you must not ask," she whispered.

"But I do ask. You love me?"

"No!" she cried, recovering herself with a mighty effort. "Listen! I did love you--yes, I loved you--until to-day. You filled me with your old self, you conquered and I was grieving myself to madness over it all. But, I do not love you now! You must go! I do not believe what you have said of him and I despise you! Go!"

"Dorothy!" he cried, as she sped past him. "Think what you are saying!"

"Good-by! Go! I hate you!" she cried, and was gone. For a moment he stood as if turned to stone. Then there came a rush of glad life to his heart and he could have shouted in his jubilance.

"G.o.d, she loves me! I was not too late! She shall be mine!" He dashed into the house, but the closing of a door upstairs told him she was beyond his reach. The hall was empty; Mrs. Garrison was nowhere to be seen. Filled with the new fire, the new courage, he clutched his hat from the chair on which he had thrown it and rushed forth into the night.

At the top of the steps he met Prince Ugo. The two men stopped stockstill, within a yard of each other, and neither spoke for the longest of minutes.

"You call rather late, prince," said Phil, a double meaning in his words.

"Dog!" hissed the prince.

"Permit me to inform you that Miss Garrison has retired. It will save you the trouble of ringing. Good-night."

He bowed, laughed sarcastically, and was off down the steps.

Ravorelli's hand stole to an inside pocket and a moment later the light from the window flashed on a s.h.i.+ning thing in his fingers. He did not shoot, but Quentin never knew how near he was to death at the hand of the silent statue that stood there and watched him until he was lost in the shadows. Then the prince put his hand suddenly to his eyes, moaned as if in pain, and slowly descended the steps.

XVII. A FEW MEN AND A WOMAN

A stealthy figure joined his highness at the foot of the steps, coming from the darkness below the veranda. It was Courant. What he said to the prince when they were safely away from the house caused the Italian's face to pale and his hands to twitch with rage. The French detective had heard and understood the conversation of the man and woman on the porch, and he had formed conclusions that drove all doubt from the mind of the n.o.ble lover.

Quentin looked up and down the street for his cab. It was not in sight, but he remembered telling the man to drive to the corner below. The rainstorm that had been threatening dry and dusty Brussels all day was beginning to show itself in marked form. There were distant rumbles of thunder and faint flashes of lightning, and now and then the wind, its velocity increasing every minute, dashed a splattering raindrop in one's face. The storm for which the city had been crying was hurling itself along from the sea, and its full fury was almost ready to break. The few pedestrians were scurrying homeward, the tram cars were loaded and many cabs whirled by in the effort to land their fares at home before the rain fell in torrents.

Phil drank in the cool, refres.h.i.+ng breeze and cared not if it rained until the streets were flooded. At the corner stood a cab, the driver softly swearing to himself. He swung down and savagely jerked open the door.

"Back to the Bellevue," said the fare airily, as he climbed into the vehicle. The cab had started off into a cross-street, when Phil imagined he heard a shout in the distance. He looked forth but could see no one in the rus.h.i.+ng darkness, The rattle of the cab, the growing roar of the night and toe swish of the rain, which was now falling quite heavily, drowned all other sounds and he leaned back contentedly.

Suddenly the cab came to a stop, loud voices were heard outside and he was about to throw open the door when a heavy body was flung against the side of the vehicle. The next instant the half-lowered gla.s.s in the door was shattered and a voice from the rainy night cried:

"Don't resist or you will be shot to pieces."

"What the dev--" gasped Quentin, barely able to distinguish the form of a man at the door. Some strange influence told him that the point of a revolver was almost touching his breast and the word died in his mouth.

"No outcry, Monsieur. Your valuables without a struggle. Be quick!

There are many of us. You have no chance," came the hard voice, in good English.

"But I have no valuables--"

"Your diamond ring and your watch, at least, monsieur. The ring is in your vest pocket."

"Search me, you scoundrel! I have no ring, and my watch is in my room. I'm mighty slim picking for such noted gentlemen as you. I presume I have the honor of meeting the diamond collectors the town is talking so much about." He was now aware of the presence of another man in the opposite window, and there was the same uncanny feeling that a second revolver was levelled at his person.

"Step outside, Monsieur. It is cruel to force you into the rain, but we a.s.sure you it is very refres.h.i.+ng. It will make you grow. Whatever you choose to call us we are wet to the skin. This must not, therefore, be a fruitless job. Step forth, quickly, and do not resist."

Quentin hesitated for an instant, and then seeing resistance was useless, boldly set foot upon the curbing. A flash of lightning revealed four or five men in the group. One of them had the driver covered with a pistol, and two of them were ready to seize the pa.s.senger. He observed, with amazement, that one of the men was a policeman in full uniform.

"Officer!" he exclaimed. "Don't you see what they are doing?"

"O, Monsieur," said the spokesman, pleasantly, "you may tell the police of Brussels that they cannot hunt us down until they hunt themselves down. What's that? A carriage? Quick! Your watch, your ring!"

Far down the street could be seen the lamps of an approaching cab, and Quentin's heart took a bound. He had not feared injury, for he was willing to submit to the searching without resistance, but now he thrilled with the excitement of possible conflict. A second flash in the sky revealed altered conditions in the setting of the tragic scene. The driver was on his box and the policeman was climbing up beside him. A short man, masked to the chin, had pushed aside the man with the revolver and a harsh voice cried as the darkness shut out the vivid picture:

"Short work of him! The knife!" "The club, Carl! h.e.l.l! Into the cab with him!" shouted another voice, and Phil began to strike out with his fists. But the attack was too sharp, the odds too great.

Something crashed down upon his head, he felt himself lunge backward into the open cab door, and then a heavy body hurled itself upon his half-prostrate form. Another stinging blow caught him over the ear, and, as he lost consciousness, a tremendous force seemed to be crus.h.i.+ng the breath from his body.

A revolver cracked, but he did not hear it, nor did he know that friends were at hand. Before the miscreants could hurl his body into the cab a vehicle whirled up, the feeble glare from its lanterns throwing light upon the scene. The man who had fired from the door of the second cab leaped to the ground, followed by a companion, and in a moment they were among the scuffling robbers. Whatever might have been the original intentions of Quentin's a.s.sailants, they were not prepared to offer battle. Their aim was to escape, not to fight.

A couple of shots were fired, a rush of feet ensued and the earth seemed to swallow all but the two newcomers and the limp figure that lay half inside the cab.

In an instant Quentin was drawn from the cab by the taller of the two, the smaller having made a short dash in pursuit of the bandits.

Blood rushed from the head of the unconscious man and he was a dead weight in the arms of his rescuer.

"Good G.o.d, Phil! Have they killed you? Here, Turk! Never mind those fellows! Come here, quick; we must get him to a surgeon. I'm afraid they've fixed him. Into our cab with him! Gad, he's like a rag!" It was d.i.c.key Savage, and he was filled with dread. Turk, exploding with impotent rage, and s.h.i.+vering with fear that his master was dead, came to his a.s.sistance and they were soon racing for the Bellevue. A pair of wondering, patient, driverless horses watched the departure, but they did not move from the spot where they had been checked by the first attack. Across the doubletree behind them hung the limp form of their driver, a great, gaping wound in his head. He had driven them for the last time, and they seemed to know that his cold lips could never again command them to "go on." Driven almost to the hilt, in the floor of the cab, was an ugly knife. Its point had been intended for Quentin's throat, but the hand that struck the blow was not as true as the will of its owner.

In a high state of alarm and excitement the two men in the cab took their friend to his room, their advent creating great commotion in the hotel The wildest curiosity prevailed, and they were besieged with questions from hotel men, guests and the crowd that had found shelter from the storm. Within ten minutes the news was spreading forth over the city that a wealthy American had been held up and murdered by the daring diamond thieves. Police and reporters hurried to the hotel, and the uproar was intense. The house surgeon was soon at work with the b.l.o.o.d.y, unconscious victim; Savage and Turk, with their friend, the millionaire, keeping the crowd away from the couch. It was impossible to drive the people from the room until the police arrived.

There were two ugly gashes in Quentin's head, one of which, it was feared at first, would disclose a fracture of the skull. Dr.

Ga.s.sbeck, the surgeon who had attended a wounded prince in the same hotel less that twenty-four hours before, gave out as his opinion that Quentin's injuries were not dangerous unless unexpected complications appeared. Several st.i.tches were taken in each cut, and the patient, slowly recovering from the effects of the blows and the anesthetics, was put to bed by his friends.

Savage observed one thing when he entered the hotel with the wounded man. Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi were among the first to come forward when the news of the attack spread through the office and corridors. The prince, in fact, was conversing with some gentlemen near the doors when the party entered. It was he who sent messengers to the central police office and who told the detectives where and how he had last seen the victim of the diamond thieves.

d.i.c.key sat all night beside his rolling, moaning friend, unnerved, almost despairing, but the morning brought the change that gladdened his heart and gave him a chance to forget his fears and apprehensions long enough to indulge in an impressive, though inadequate, degree of profanity, with continued reference to a certain set of men whom the world called thieves, but whom he designated as dogs.

About ten o'clock a telegram from Ostend came to the hotel for him.

It read: "Are you not coming to Ostend for us? Jane." An hour later a very pretty young lady in Ostend tore a telegram to pieces, sniffed angrily and vowed she would never speak to a certain young man again. His reply to her rather peremptory query by wire was hardly calculated to restore the good humor she had lost in not finding him at the dock. "Cannot come. Awfully sorry. Can't leave Brussels. Hurry on. Will explain here. Richard Savage." Her sister-in-law and fellow-traveler from London was mean enough to tease her with sly references to the beauty of Brussels women and the fickleness of all mankind. And so there was stored away for Mr.

Savage's benefit a very cruel surprise.