Читать книгу The Prince of the Captivity - Sydney C. Grier - Страница 4

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Usk was late in keeping his dinner engagement with the Steinherzes. It was not his fault, as he explained eagerly when he arrived; he had left Llandiarmid at an unearthly hour in the morning, to make sure of catching the early train from Aberkerran, and had got up to town in excellent time. It was when he was driving from his rooms to the hotel that the delay occurred. The Archduke Ferdinand Joachim, cousin to the Emperor of Pannonia, who had just arrived on a visit to England, was being conducted in state to Buckingham Palace, and the British public had turned out in full force to welcome him. The royal carriages and liveries, and the fact that a popular Prince had gone to meet the traveller, made it evident that this was an occasion for cheering, and accordingly dense crowds lined the route, to the dire interruption of the traffic at all the cross-roads, in one of which Usk sat fuming in his hansom.

“Well, you must have had a pretty good view of the royalties, any way,” said Maimie Logan.

“Oh yes, but I had no particular yearning for that. I have seen the Prince so often, you know, and I didn’t care about the other chap. But I wished you and Miss Steinherz had been there. It’s a chance you don’t often get at this time of year.”

“What is the Archduke like, now?” asked Mr Steinherz suddenly. “You would be able to see him distinctly?”

“Quite.” Usk turned to his host with ready deference. “A fair-sized man, I should say—looks as though he had been born in uniform, as all those Germans do. Hair brushed straight back, rather à la scrubbing-brush, as far as I could see, big pince-nez, a sort of nondescript brown moustache, with the points turned up fiercely. I think that must have been dyed, though, for his hair was grey behind.”

“Yes,” said Mr Steinherz meditatively, “he is pretty well along—older than I am. He was in Venetia in the ’Sixties—made his name there. And it wasn’t a particularly sweet name, either. I guess a good few Italians have unfulfilled vows of vengeance out against him yet.”

“Say, pappa!” broke in Félicia; “how did you get to know that much about a no-account German prince?”

“Well, daughter, I don’t see but I must have heard it from the Italian clerk I had once,” was the leisurely reply, which silenced Félicia for the time, since she knew well enough that the clerk in question had been dismissed for falling in love with his employer’s daughter. Maimie, always watchful on her friend’s behalf, changed the subject, and it was not until the meal was over that her efforts to keep the peace failed. Usk had been anxious to escort the ladies this evening to a concert at which some bright particular star was announced to appear, but Mr Steinherz vetoed the proposal rather summarily, regardless of his daughter’s rebellious looks. Most unjustly Félicia made Usk suffer for her disappointment, sitting bored and silent all evening, and sweeping Maimie off to bed at a ridiculously early hour, on the plea of a headache. Maimie offered no objection to the imperious summons, but took occasion to drop her handkerchief just outside the sitting-room door. Returning to fetch it as soon as Félicia was safe in her own room, she heard Usk taking his leave.

“May I call upon you in the morning?” he asked of Mr Steinherz. “I should like—— There is—— I want to ask you something.”

“State it right now,” was the unexpected answer. “I am having a vacation this evening, thanks to Félicia’s nervous attack.”

Maimie shook with silent laughter, for she guessed that Usk found some difficulty in unfolding his request now that the opportunity was thus suddenly thrust upon him. He muttered something about “Very important,” to which Mr Steinherz responded by a cordial invitation to discuss the matter in his office, where they would be safe from interruption. The room was a small one, with one door from the corridor into which all the apartments of the Steinherzes’ suite opened, and another from the sitting-room, and in it Mr Steinherz spent most of his time, and received all his business visitors, in an atmosphere of smoke. Maimie reviewed the position swiftly, as she heard the door between the study and the sitting-room close with a decisive slam. Félicia was fortunately in the hands of her maid by this time, and the brushing of her hair alone might be relied upon to keep her occupied for an hour at least, but it was out of the question to listen at the door in the corridor, for the hotel servants were constantly passing. Moreover, if the discussion were to be conducted in lower tones, it would be very difficult to hear it through the door. The only hope was the balcony, upon which the windows of both rooms looked, and Maimie opened the sitting-room door very softly, leaving it slightly ajar so as to afford a way of escape, and crossing the room on tiptoe, put her head out cautiously. As she had expected, the warmth and beauty of the night had tempted the two men to sit at the open window of the office, and she could see the tip of one of Mr Steinherz’s shoes. The odour of his cigar reached her as she sat crouched inside her own window, leaning forward as far as she dared, and she heard him chaffing Usk upon the length of time it took an Englishman to strike a match. Apparently the match refused to strike at all, and Usk laid down his cigar in despair, for presently Mr Steinherz said “Well?” in a half-authoritative, half-humorous tone which rejoiced the listener exceedingly.

“Mr Steinherz,” returned Usk with a sudden burst of frankness, “I love your daughter. May I ask her to marry me?”

Maimie thought she could imagine the quizzical glance under which the unhappy suitor would be writhing, but she was electrified by the words which answered him.

“Stop right there!” said Mr Steinherz decisively. “We will take those words as unsaid, if you please. I was not expecting them until a later stage of the proceedings, and there are some circumstances with which I guess you ought to get acquainted before you utter them.”

Maimie held her breath. Her only idea had been to observe Mr Steinherz’s treatment of this new suitor, and especially to see whether he really favoured him, as it had struck her he did. But was she unintentionally, and all in a moment, on the point of dispelling the mystery upon which she and Félicia had touched in their confidential talk? She heard Mr Steinherz rise and unlock a table-drawer, then return, apparently with something in his hand.

“Do you seem to know any of those faces?” she heard him ask.

“I don’t think so,” said Usk. “Wait a minute, though. It’s an old photograph of the Emperor of Pannonia, isn’t it?—and his brothers, I suppose?”

“No; his cousins, the Archduke Ferdinand Joachim and—myself.”

From her own sensations, Maimie could imagine the bewilderment on Usk’s face as he gazed blankly at the speaker.

“You don’t see the likeness?” Mr Steinherz went on; “but the folks used often mistake us three for one another. Look right in my face; I just brush my hair back some; I turn up my moustache and hide my beard, showing the Hohenstaufen mouth. Now do you perceive no likeness to the Archduke as you saw him three hours back?”

“I see! I see!” cried Usk. “But,” he added, rising and walking round his host, “from behind you need no alteration at all. If you were in uniform I should take you for him.”

“Is that so?” said Mr Steinherz. “Well, you will excuse me if I resume my usual appearance? I apprehend that if it got around there was a double of the Archduke staying at the Hotel Bloomsbury, it might cause some inconvenience. And now, do you incline to hear the circumstances, or not?”

“There’s nothing I should like better. I don’t know whether I’m standing on my head or my heels.”

Maimie could picture Mr Steinherz’s grim smile. “Did you ever hear of Prince Joseph of Arragon?” he asked.

“I seem to know the name,” said Usk meditatively. “Yes, wasn’t it the man who ran off with an—a lady and was lost at sea, twenty or thirty years ago?”

“Who was supposed to have been lost at sea,” corrected Mr Steinherz impressively. “As a matter of fact, he is sitting opposite you now.”

“Oh—er—I beg your pardon,” stammered Usk.

“Your remark was natural. There is now only one other person besides yourself who knows the truth. In the Schlosskirche at Vindobona I understand there is a cenotaph to the memory of José Maria Beltran, Prince of Arragon, drowned off the Australian coast in the wreck of his yacht, the Claudine, but Joseph Bertram Steinherz could give the lie to that statement if he chose.”

“You escaped from the wreck, I suppose, and took advantage of the general belief to disappear—sir?” hazarded Usk.

“Not just exactly; but I will tell you all of the story. But, first, remember that you are on your honour not to breathe a word of what I tell you to any living creature, especially to my daughter; and again, don’t make a prince of me. I have turned my back on all of that for ever.”

Usk bowed uneasily, as Maimie could just distinguish from where she crouched. She was completely shielded from the sight of Mr Steinherz, although she had ventured to creep out on the balcony, and was now close to them, her black gown indistinguishable in the darkness. Even if Usk should chance to turn his head, she believed that she was quite safe, and could retreat into her own window in a moment.

“You will know,” said Mr Steinherz, “that my father, King Paul X. of Cantabria, was driven from his throne in ’48. When I was born he was already an exile at the Court of Vindobona. His mother was a Pannonian archduchess, and the two houses had always been united by the closest bonds. He received at the hands of his cousin the Emperor the honours due to a reigning monarch, and on his death it was only at Vindobona and the Vatican that my brother Ramon was recognised as titular King of Cantabria. Ramon is a man of science and a philosopher, however, and in daily life he contents himself with the older and undisputed title of Prince of Arragon. My mother was a princess of Weldart—an aunt of the lady who has already linked your family and mine by marrying your uncle Count Mortimer.” Maimie saw Usk move uncomfortably, and guessed that he was trying, in a dazed kind of way, to discover whether the connection thus disclosed between himself and Félicia need be any bar to their marriage. The same idea had come to herself with a thrill of hope, but she saw its absurdity in a moment. Mr Steinherz had risen from his chair and was walking about.

“I cannot speak calmly when I think of my mother,” he went on. “For political reasons, which means, in plain English, her brother’s need of money, she was married to my father as a child of seventeen, after being summarily converted for the purpose. Needless to say, her consent was not asked to either process. She made him an excellent wife, and if he had taken her advice, it would, I believe, have averted the revolution which cost him his throne; but on account of her German and Protestant upbringing she was always looked upon with distrust, and my father himself shared it. So strongly did she disapprove of the perpetual intrigues by which he sought to regain his kingdom after losing it, that soon after my birth an amicable separation was arranged, without giving rise to any scandal. My mother retired with me to an estate on the Adriatic, where my father and brothers visited us occasionally, and I was sometimes conducted, much against my will, to Vindobona, which my mother, on the plea of ill-health, always avoided, and from which I always returned to her with increasing joy. As I grew older her one fear was that I might be taken from her, and to escape this she proposed that I should be entered as a student at the naval academy of the great dockyard and arsenal which lay not far from us. Though all my training hitherto had been military, it was the sea to which my own heart turned, and I don’t know whether my mother or I was the more rejoiced when I was allowed to follow my bent. For several happy years I worked hard at the mysteries of shipbuilding—much harder than suited my superiors and companions, who would have preferred to see me placed in some post of nominal authority, where I should not trouble them. Several times it was suggested that I should be appointed to a sea-going ship, and sent on a long cruise, but my mother’s piteous entreaties—she humbled herself to my father and the Emperor in her agony at the thought of losing me—and my own absorption in my work, which seemed likely to be productive of great advantage to the navy in future, gained me a respite. One of the complaints against me was that I withdrew myself from the society of companions of my own age. It did not occur to my accusers that in my leisure hours I had the constant society of a woman who had read widely, thought deeply, and suffered much, and that this had quite spoiled me for the company of the class of men I met every day. I always look back to my twenty-third year as the period of my greatest happiness—perhaps in contrast with the dark time which followed. A legacy had come to me from a godfather when I was twenty-one, and I spent the greater part of it in building a large steam-yacht from my own designs. Some of my relations looked askance at such waste of money, but the Emperor, finding that the yacht was intended to test various inventions of my own in naval matters, was pleased with my interest in my profession, and encouraged me. I called the yacht the Claudine, after my mother, and spared no pains to make her the smartest and most seaworthy craft of her size afloat. When she was finished we tested her in all weathers. I had a crew enrolled from among the fishermen with whom I had made friends as a boy, and my mother was always my passenger. Only one of her ladies cared for the sea, and she made her her constant companion on these trips. Aline von Hartenweg was young, beautiful, enthusiastic, devoted to my mother, devoted to the sea—is it any wonder that an attachment sprang up between us? We were so happy, so thoroughly contented with our life, that we did not ourselves perceive the chief cause of our happiness. Others saw it before we did, notably the chaplain at the Castle, whom my mother always suspected of being placed as a spy upon her. Presently a furious letter from my father announced that he was coming to put an end to this foolishness, and to send me off on a three years’ cruise. My mother had long been suffering from a mortal disease, but I shall never believe that she might not have lived for years, if she had been left in peace. As it was, the shock, and the realisation of the truth, were too much for her, and when the King arrived he found her on her deathbed. She had poured out her soul to me on the subject of Aline, assuring me that the marriage would never be allowed, that our attachment could only cause misery and contention, and adjuring me to go abroad as my father wished, unless I felt that my life’s happiness was bound up in Aline. I assured her that it was, and her last words to my father, who could not in decency refuse to hear them, were a petition that we might be allowed to marry. Then she died.”

Mr Steinherz came to a standstill at the window, and stood looking with unseeing eyes at the starry sky overhead, the rustling black plane-trees in the square far below, surrounded by their ring of lamps, the low dark houses beyond. Maimie hid her face lest its whiteness should betray her.

“My father was less angry than his letter had prepared me to expect,” Mr Steinherz went on. “He could not but disapprove most strongly of my choice, he said, and would promise nothing as to the future, but if I would consent to make a voyage round the world at once, giving my word not to hold any communication with the Countess Aline while I was away, he would see what could be done on my return. I murmured at the harshness of the stipulation, reminding him that my brother Florian had been permitted to marry Princess Erzsebet Mohacsy, who was not of royal blood; to which he replied, with the cynical brutality he sometimes affected, that she brought a princedom as the price of the alliance, whereas my poor Aline’s father could barely give her a dress-allowance. I yielded. My mother’s entreaties to me not to come to an open breach with my father were still in my ears, and I could not see anything better to do. I was appointed to one of the largest Pannonian men-of-war, and I did not dislike the cruise. When I had been away two years, the news of my brother Florian’s death recalled me hastily to Vindobona, and I found Aline—married. What pressure they had brought to bear on her, what lies they had told her about me, I do not know and did not ask; but she was married to a rough fellow called Baron Radniky—a noble, it is true, but the very type of a churlish, bigoted reactionary. I had a terrible scene with my father when I learned the truth, and I swore I would remain in Pannonia no longer. I would cast aside my rank, as I had intended to do if I married Aline, and go out into the world a free man. He laughed in my face when I said this, and as soon as I was outside the room I found myself under arrest. For weeks I was a State prisoner inside the palace,—I, who was accustomed to freedom and an active life,—and at the end of that time my relations thought they could deal with me. The Emperor patched up a reconciliation with my father, and I was allowed my personal liberty, but forbidden to leave Vindobona. All the people round me were spies—my cousins the Archdukes, the servants, the gay young men who were set on to divert my mind. I saw there was no hope of escape at present, and I allowed myself to seem resigned. Aline lived far away in the country. She had passed out of my life, and for that I was thankful. But the vicious idleness of my surroundings I could not endure, and at last I obtained leave to set up a laboratory in my father’s gardens, at a safe distance from the palace, in order to continue my scientific experiments. Here again the Emperor stood my friend, and even allowed me to send for my foster-brother, Martin Richter, and install him as my assistant. It was supposed that he did all the menial work of the laboratory; but my relations would indeed have been astonished if they had seen prince and peasant labouring together, for he knew as much of the theoretical part of the work as I did, and in the practical part we relieved one another.”

“And this was all a blind?” Usk ventured to ask, as a smile, called up by his recollections, crept over Mr Steinherz’s face.

“It was all done with a purpose, and when by-and-by I was allowed to run down to the Adriatic for more important experiments on board the Claudine, though the limit of my stay was strictly fixed, I knew my time was at hand. But before it arrived something happened which changed the whole character of my flight. In her lifetime my mother had befriended a young girl, the last descendant of a noble, but poverty-stricken, family of Weldart. As a child, Konstantia von Lilienkranz had shown extraordinary talent in several directions, and her own intense desire was to go upon the stage. My mother dissuaded her from this, but sent her, at her own expense, to a famous conservatorium, where her musical gifts might be cultivated, intending to find her a post as Court pianist when she grew up. Her death left the poor girl friendless, for she knew too well the light in which her patroness had been regarded by the members of the Imperial family to seek help from them. The variety of her talents had created quite a sensation at the conservatorium, and admiring professors and fellow-students had done so much to spread her fame that she was actually offered an engagement to play ingénue parts at a leading Vindobona theatre, while a great maestro volunteered to train her to sing in grand opera. Remembering the wishes of her patroness, she refused both offers, and had the courage to strike out for herself in a new line—as a society entertainer, you would call it, I suppose. She gave a series of concerts at which she herself, either as singer, reciter, or instrumentalist, supplied all the items, and the idea was so new and daring that she was the sensation of the moment in the capital. This was soon after I had been allowed a little more freedom. I was anxious to show an interest in my mother’s protégée, and went to hear her play several times. I sent her bouquets, and asked to be presented to her, the girl receiving the attentions, as they were offered, purely as marks of kindness from the son of her patroness. But the censorious world thought otherwise, as I ought to have remembered would be only too likely in the case of a woman in her position. My cousins met me with meaning looks, and congratulated me on my conquest. ‘The stony-hearted Stanzerl,’ as the gilded youth of Vindobona called her, had stepped down from her pedestal, so they hinted. The cessation of my attentions might have ended the scandal as regarded myself, but the whispers had reached her. One day the old woman, half-attendant, half-duenna, who lived with her, came to me privately to beg me not to show any further interest in her charge, who was in the deepest distress owing to the reports spread concerning her. I was horrified and disgusted. That I should have brought this anguish upon my mother’s favourite! Impulsively I wrote off to my brother Florian’s widow, whom I knew to have the kindest heart in the world, telling her what I had reason to belief was the case, that Fräulein von Lilienkranz found the strain and publicity of her life very trying, and would be most thankful to exchange it for a more sheltered one. Would not my sister-in-law find room for her in her household, even if only as instructor in music to her year-old daughter? I waited impatiently for the answer. Princess Florian wrote in evident distress of mind. She would have been delighted to befriend any one in whom my mother had been interested, but in this case she had been warned—deeply underlined—that it would be wiser not to take any step, and she could not disregard the warning. I was perplexed and disappointed, but I could not give up my plan so easily. I ran down to my sister-in-law’s estates on a visit—having duly obtained leave—and asked her point-blank why she would not help Fräulein von Lilienkranz. With the utmost difficulty I extracted from her that in view of the rumours connecting the young lady’s name with mine, she could not admit her into her household. In vain I pointed out to her that if I had unwittingly compromised the girl, my relations might at least do what they could to clear her name, but she was afraid of offending my father, and would do nothing. Then I saw that there was method in what had been done. I was to be entangled in an ordinary vulgar scandal, to keep me from rushing into an unequal marriage. There and then I determined to turn the tables upon my friends, and I waylaid the old duenna the next day, and with all possible frankness took her into my confidence. I told her it was my desire to marry Fräulein von Lilienkranz, and intrusted her with a letter asking for an interview. The adventure pleased me; there was something chivalrous in the idea that made me half in love with the girl already, and when I saw her, her resistance to the notion determined me to persist in it. She was horrified at the thought of injuring the son of her patroness, but she was lonely and troubled, and had learnt that a public life is not the easiest one in the world for a good woman. I told her that I was resolved upon escaping from Pannonia, and that if she would give up her career for my sake, we would make a home together in the New World. I had not foreseen her adoring gratitude, and it made me ashamed, but she consented, and I laid my plans—quickly, you may guess, for whether I attended her concerts or stayed away from them, tongues wagged afresh, and Konstantia suffered a new martyrdom. I needn’t waste time in telling you of the different failures and disappointments I had to face; let us go on to the decisive moment. It was a cold spring evening. I had ordered a special train to be in readiness to take me southwards at eleven o’clock, and I had also invited a number of friends to supper at ten, on the understanding that we were to make a night of it. You observe that the arrangements sound slightly inconsistent?”

“I was just thinking so,” said Usk.

“Precisely; but then my friends knew nothing about the train, you see. I had hinted to one of them when I invited him that after supper ‘das Stanzerl’ would recite, and they had all got to know of it. The meeting-place was my laboratory, suitably decorated, of course, for the occasion, and my friends enjoyed themselves thoroughly. I was one of themselves now, they all assured me. Even my old enemy the chaplain, who I had insisted should be present, smiled benignantly upon me. Konstantia, her maid, and myself were alone ill at ease, all knowing what was at hand. When the servants had left, Konstantia gave the promised recitation. It was a scene from some classical drama, but I can’t tell you what it was, for I never heard a word of it. The girl’s nerve was magnificent. She did not falter once, and at the close I advanced towards her with the usual compliments, as if to lead her to a seat. She placed her hand in mine, we turned and faced the company—the priest was exactly opposite us. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘in your presence and that of these witnesses I take this woman to be my wife.’ All sprang up. I silenced them with a gesture, and Konstantia repeated clearly and without hurry, ‘Before God and these witnesses, I take this man to be my husband.’ We exchanged rings before they could stop us, then, ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘the Princess wishes to retire.’ As I made no attempt to reach the door, they did not prevent Konstantia and the maid from leaving the room. Furious at having been tricked into acting as witnesses of a marriage ceremony, my cousins and the rest stormed at me. They vowed they would keep me prisoner until I swore that the whole thing was a joke; they even threatened to kill me there and then. As for the priest, he menaced me with the direst wrath of the Church, both here and hereafter. I listened to all that they had to say, then silently revealed to them that my hand was upon an electric button. ‘You may not be aware, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘that the vaults under this building are packed with explosives. Here is an electric wire,’ I traced its course along the wall towards the door, ‘communicating with them.’ There was an instantaneous, almost mechanical movement from the neighbourhood of the door as I approached it. ‘I am a desperate man,’ I said, with my hand on the door, ‘and if I am interfered with, I set the current in motion. The result you can probably imagine. Any attempt to force the door from within will explode the mine. I wish you a very good night,’ and I was outside, and making the door fast, before any of them had recovered from their surprise.”

“But was it true about the dynamite and the wire?” asked Usk.

“There were certainly explosives in the cellar, and there was an electric light wire which led down to it. There was also a slight tincture of what I have since learnt to call bluff.” Mr Steinherz smiled genially.

“You must have been an awfully cool hand!”

“Coolness was needed in our circumstances. I calculated that we had nine hours’ grace at the outside. The laboratory was in a secluded part of the garden, the servants had been sent to bed, and the walls and door were strong. The only windows were in the roof. Unless any accident happened, my friends were safe until they were missed in the morning, and then it would take some little time to release them, and organise a pursuit. But, you will say, there was the train, which could be stopped at any point by telegraph. True, but it was Martin Richter, disguised in my fur coat and cap, who travelled by the train, and with him was the old nurse. We had calculated with the greatest nicety how far he could hope to get before the telegraph was set at work, and just before that point was reached he was to have the train stop at a wayside station, where horses were ready. We had arranged every imaginable expedient for baffling pursuit, and from thence he and the old woman were to travel by unfrequented routes to a quiet bay on my own estate, where the yacht was to be lying, having slipped out of harbour in the night. The train was merely a blind. For Konstantia, her maid and myself, I had procured English passports and circular tickets—money can do much—and we joined a large personally conducted party of returning tourists which was leaving Vindobona that night. The two girls had gone straight to the station as soon as they left the laboratory. The conductor was watching out for them, and added them to his flock without the slightest fuss or mystery. I followed, after making such changes in my personal appearance as might prevent a chance recognition—nothing theatrical, merely precautionary touches. We did not venture to show that we knew one another, and those hours of terror, which were bound to elapse before the frontier was reached, we spent in separate compartments. We crossed the frontier safely. So far my ruse was unsuspected, but I can’t describe to you the excitement that beset me all through that journey. The approach of an official gave me a bad half-second, for my dash for freedom might be brought to an ignominious end at any moment. But we reached Calais, crossed the Channel, and arrived safely at Charing Cross, without having exchanged a word since we left Vindobona. I would not trust even the conductor, who might afterwards put two and two together. Konstantia knew what she had to do. We took tickets for Bradcross, a decayed riverside suburb which had once been a great shipbuilding centre. I knew it well, for I had explored it thoroughly on a former visit to England—the same visit, by the way, in which I danced with your friend Mrs Sadleir, whose husband was then in the Government, at a ball at Trentham House—since to me its historical associations were even more attractive than the great modern dockyards elsewhere which had supplanted it. In that train we ventured at last to meet and speak, to discuss our future. You will ask, perhaps, why I had not made straight for Hamburg and America. There were two reasons. First, if the trick with regard to the special train should be discovered, that would be the route on which we should be looked for; and again, I was anxious to make assurance doubly sure by being married a second time. The ceremony in the laboratory, such as it was, though absolutely irregular, was so far valid that nothing short of an appeal to Rome could dissolve the marriage; but we had nothing to show for it, and if all the witnesses conspired to deny it, we were powerless. Moreover, Konstantia was a Protestant, and I, of course, had been brought up a Catholic. My idea was to throw ourselves upon the mercy of some English clergyman, explaining to him as much of our story as was necessary, no more, and ask his advice. At Bradcross, I thought, I could find quiet lodgings, where we might lie perdus while the hunt for us went on, for the three weeks’ residence which I understood was required by the English law before a marriage could be solemnised. We had to find a clergyman, a lodging, everything, and all without exciting suspicion. Fortunately, I spoke English as travelled princes are wont to do, fluently and without accent, and Konstantia with readiness, while the maid, Julie Schlesinger, her foster-sister, had picked up enough of it to find her way about. But we were a very forlorn trio as we descended the narrow flight of filthy steps that led down into the street from the Bradcross railroad platform, the girls carrying their satchels, and I the cloaks of the party.”

Mr Steinherz paused, and the slow smile crept over his face once more as he thought of that first day of freedom. From far below came the dull roll of traffic in the side-streets, with an occasional sharp scraping sound as a horse stumbled on the granite roadway, while in the square itself the approach of a hansom smote upon the ear like a dropping fire, becoming more and more insistent, only to be lost again suddenly in the general rumble. Maimie was listening with the intensest interest for what was to come. She knew that her mother’s maiden name had been Julia Slazenger, and she felt she was on the eve of further discoveries.