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This ebook isfor the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
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Title: The Amateur Diplomat: A Novel
Author: Hugh S. Eayrs
Thomas B. Costain
Release date: January 30, 2016 [eBook #51077]
Most recently updated: October 22, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMATEUR
DIPLOMAT: A NOVEL ***
A CANADIAN INSERAJOZ
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.
25.
THE ABDUCTION
CHAPTER XII.
INTRODUCINGPHIL 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.
26.
PLANNING A FUTURE
CHAPTERXXII.
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
27.
On a sunnyspring 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.
28.
The curtains atthe 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."
29.
"Then you haven'theard 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."
30.
"Three years marriedand 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.
31.
"That's just theexcitement 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
32.
man in thecountry. 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
33.
his time playsmany 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
34.
with long lashesthat 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.
35.
Coming from yourstrange, 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
36.
uniform, and borethe 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
37.
maze of darkpaths. 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
38.
they get possessionof 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
39.
consultation with Miridoff.
"Therest 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.
40.
Fenton had beena 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.
41.
"Yes, I havebeen 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.
42.
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