Читать книгу The Kingdom of Earth - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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GRACE bought a newspaper as she crossed the street from her flat to the theatre two days later. She bought it not because she wanted it, but because the newsboy was persistent. In her dressing-room she chanced to open it while waiting for her maid. The first heading appealed to her. She read it intently—without a smile. It was merely a conventional announcement of the departure of the Crown Prince of Bergeland.

She threw the paper away from her and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were half closed, her thoughts had played truant. Was it Mr. Peters who had gone, or His Royal Highness the Crown Prince of Bergeland? In either case, she was aware of a distinct sense of depression. Her forehead slowly contracted. She was conscious of a frown. What a dull, dull world after all! She was tired of her part, tired of many things. Was she, too, to pass among the slaves—among those to whom the days drifted by without emotions? The machine-like swing of the pendulum—how she hated it!

Her maid brought her a single letter. She took it with listless fingers, yet the very sight of the handwriting thrilled her. It was bold and large; the envelope seemed scarcely large enough to hold it. It was unfamiliar, and yet she recognized it. She tore it open hastily. The envelope bore the superscription of a neighbouring hotel. The sheet of paper which it enclosed was covered with little more than a single sentence:

Thursday.

I should like to see you before I leave England. May I?

John Peters.

She sprang up and crossed the room to her writing-desk. Her feet seemed to fall upon the air. She drew out a sheet of paper and wrote:

Of course! Come to my flat to-night, 20 Redditch Mansions. I shall be in about 11.30. I send you the key in case you are there first. Wait for me!

She folded the paper about her latch-key, and addressed the envelope to John Peters, Esq., at the Savoy Hotel.

"When you have dressed me for the first act, Murray, you must take this across yourself," she told her maid. "Wait until you are sure that it is properly delivered."

The maid accepted the note and concealed her surprise. Whatever she may have felt or thought, she kept it to herself. They spoke of her mistress as a genius, and genius had the right to do strange things.

The man who called himself John Peters received the note an hour later. He read it in the hall and went slowly to his room. The key seemed to burn his fingers. He threw himself into an easy chair and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. His eyebrows contracted into a frown.

"Have I made a mistake?" he muttered. "Does she understand?"

He hated the thought. Presently, in a saner frame of mind, he cursed himself for it. There was a knock at the door, and Vlasto entered. He looked up inquiringly.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything, sir," Vlasto answered. "Your Royal Highness is now sleeping between Calais and Paris."

John Peters nodded. "I shall remain here," he said, "perhaps for a week."

Vlasto looked a little disturbed. "So long, sir?" he ventured to observe.

"Why not?"

"Every day increases the risk," Vlasto affirmed. "Your appearance in the restaurant on Sunday night staggered us all."

"It amused me," John Peters said, "and I was not recognized."

"Ferringhall was curious," Vlasto remarked. "A dangerous man, Ferringhall, too!"

"Ferringhall was squared, anyhow. The young lady who was with him recognized me as John Peters. I skated with her at St. Moritz."

"You mean Grace Pellisier?" Vlasto said slowly.

"Yes."

"You have not forgotten that you were at her theatre on Monday night?"

"She did not recognize me."

"You are very rash, sir," Vlasto said simply. "You know what recognition might mean."

"Ridicule and failure, I suppose," John Peters answered. "Therefore, we must avoid it. Don't be faint-hearted, Vlasto. I play to win, always. Remember—to win! There is no other possibility."

"You have faith in your star, sir," the young man remarked, with a bow.

"No one ever succeeded who hadn't," John Peters answered firmly. "Is there any work for us to do to-night?"

"No, sir."

"Any letters from home?"

"None, sir. I see from the papers that there was some rioting in Varia last night."

"Crushed severely, I hope?"

"Six peasants shot, sir, according to the papers. We shall have authentic news to-morrow."

The elder man frowned heavily. "It seems a shame," he said. "Poor fellows!"

"There is no other way, sir," said Vlasto firmly.

John Peters stared into the fire with knitted brows. "It is the same always," he muttered, "the same eternal butchery. Every nation on God's earth has had to climb to freedom on the bodies of her dead children."

"Willingly given, sir," Vlasto murmured.

"Aye! willingly given, but it is death none the less."

Vlasto smiled a little curiously. "There is no one," he reminded his master, "who runs a greater risk than you yourself."

John Peters nodded. The thought made him more complaisant. "I suppose so," he admitted; "in fact, my young friend, my position when the general flare-up comes, will be just a trifle embarrassing, I am afraid. I must have made a fair number of enemies."

Vlasto looked grave. "It is true, sir," he admitted.

John Peters became instantly more cheerful. "I can think of at least half a dozen," he remarked, "who will want to have a dagger in my body. Well, well, it is something to have deserved so much hatred. Can you keep a secret, Vlasto? A private secret, I mean?"

"Without a doubt, sir."

"I am going to make a call—upon a lady."

"To-night, sir?"

"Now. It is necessary that some one knows where I am. I am going to 20 Redditch Mansions."

The young man's face was disturbed. "I wish you wouldn't, sir," he said simply.

"Why not?" John Peters asked. "Hergmann and his friends have followed me to Paris, beyond a doubt."

"One can never tell," Vlasto answered. "Hergmann is a clever man, after all. He may have a suspicion."

John Peters laughed softly. "One must trust a little to one's star, Vlasto," he answered, "and I have a fancy that it is my star which is calling me to-night."

Vlasto's eyes were fixed upon the man whom he adored. The change was there for him to see—something which seemed to soften every feature, to smooth out the hard lines, to fill with a strange light the deep, brilliant eyes. Vlasto sighed. It was like the shattering of an ideal to him, this first sign of human weakness in the man of iron.

"I shall wait for you here, sir," he said simply. "I shall not be needed at the embassy."

John Peters nodded.

"I shall not be long," he said, "or, again, I may be. One cannot tell."

He rose from his chair and lit a cigarette. The gloom on Vlasto's face attracted his notice. "What is the matter with you, Leopold?" he asked abruptly.

"Presentiments," the young man answered frankly. "I do not like your errand, sir. I do not recognize you in the character of a midnight adventurer."

John Peters frowned on him. His face was suddenly dark. "Don't talk like a fool, Leopold," he said curtly. "The lady whom I am going to visit is of ourselves. Since when have I aped the cattle, that you should suspect me of a vulgar intrigue?"

Vlasto accepted his rebuke, but his expression was none the less serious. "There are intrigues and intrigues, sir," he said, "and I hate all women. They have bitten the heart out of too many great men's lives."

John Peters walked away with a laugh. But again it seemed to him that the key which he held in his fingers was burning his flesh.