Pimpernel and Rosemary

The rest of the evening was like a dream. Elza presided at dinner and she and Jasper did most of the talking—that is to say, Elza asked innumerable questions to which Jasper gave long replies, with forced cheerfulness. Maurus, it seemed, was better. The doctor was coming again the last thing at night, but the patient was much calmer, had taken some nourishment in the way of milk, and had slept for an hour. Elza, self-possessed, wonderful as usual, lingered over dessert. She poured out coffee, offered liqueur and cigarettes. For her hospitality and its duties were a religion; she would as soon have neglected them as a devout Catholic would neglect confession. The very fact that they cost her an effort made them all the more imperative and in a way comforting.

At ten o'clock Rosemary found herself once more alone in her room. Jasper had kissed her tenderly when he bade her goodnight. Only when she did find herself alone did Rosemary realize how much she had dreaded this goodnight. She knew that she had no reserve of strength left to stand one of Jasper's savage outbursts of passion; to-night of all nights she would have gone down under it like the tuberoses below her window under the lashing of the storm.

The rain beat against the window-panes, terrific crashes of thunder followed one another in close succession, and every few minutes the sky seemed rent right through with blinding flashes of lightning. The heat was nearly intolerable through this almost tropical storm. Rosemary had dismissed Rosa. She undid her hair, which clung damp against her forehead and the back of her neck, and clad only in chemise and petticoat, with bare arms and neck, and bare feet thrust into slippers, she sat down at the table with Jasper's notes before her, and read them through once more.

After that she searched through the chest of drawers for a bundle of manuscript paper, and taking up her fountain-pen she began to write. She had Jasper's notes in front of her, and she put them, as he had suggested, into her well-known, picturesque language. She enlarged upon them, amplified them, always keeping his suggestions as a background for her own statements.

For hours she sat there writing. It was the longest spell of uninterrupted work that she had ever accomplished, but she was not even conscious of fatigue. The storm raged for a while longer, but she did not hear it. Only the heat worried her, and from time to time she mopped her forehead and the back of her neck with her handkerchief.

The storm passed by, and the air became very still as slowly the dawn chased away the night. The waning moon peeped through the clouds, only to melt away in the translucent ether; one by one the birds awoke, shook their wet feathers and called to their mates. But not until she had written the last line did Rosemary rise from the table. Then she put her papers together, put a clip through them, arranged Jasper's notes separately, and locked up both sets in her dressing-case.

After that she put on a wrap and threw open the window. The clock in her room struck five. She had been writing for six hours! The task was done. There it stood ready, and Elza should decide. In this Jasper had been quite right-wasn't he always right? It was for Elza to decide. Her son's life on the one hand, her people's welfare on the other. It was for her to decide. Philip was her son; the oppressed people of Transylvania her kindred. Jasper was quite right. Let Elza decide.

And after Rosemary had saturated her lungs with the pure air of the morning, she went to bed and slept soundly, heavily, until Rosa came into her room later on with her breakfast.

And when, presently, Jasper came in, Rosemary was able to greet him with a smile which was not altogether forced. She was able to return his kiss, and after awhile to tell him what she had done.

"The articles are written," she said, "and ready for publication. I have even written a covering letter and addressed the envelope to the editor of The Times, asking him kindly to arrange for their publication at the earliest possible date. But before I put the articles in the post, I shall give them to Elza to read. She shall decide if they are to go. You were quite right, dear," she added, and looked Jasper quite frankly, unwaveringly, in the eyes. "It is a matter for Elza to decide."

CHAPTER XXX

Rosemary found herself alone with Elza in the early part of the afternoon. The doctor had been over in the morning to see Maurus, and on the whole the bulletin was satisfactory: "The patient was doing well. If he was kept very quiet there would be no complications. He was no age, and on the whole had led an abstemious life. The most important thing was to keep all worry, all agitation from him, both now and in the future."

Both now and in the future! Elza dwelt on those words when she told Rosemary just what the doctor had said.

"The future!" she murmured with a weary little sigh. "Of course, the doctor does not know. Perhaps I ought to tell him what the future holds in store for poor Maurus."

The nursing sisters had arrived overnight. Rosemary had caught sight of them about the house during the course of the morning, with their white-winged caps that made them look like doves with outspread wings. Their felt shoes made not the slightest noise as they walked. They were very sweet and very restful, entirely incompetent but exceedingly kind, and full of gentle pity and kind advice to the patient, who became terribly irritable as soon as they ministered to him.

After lunch Rosemary persuaded Elza to come out with her into the garden. It was the first bright moment in the day. Neither morning nor early afternoon had kept the promise made by the dawn. Storm clouds hung, heavy and leaden, over the mountains, and dull rumblings proclaimed the return of thunder. But about three o'clock there was a break in the clouds, and a pale sun shot fitful gleams of silvery light upon park and garden. It was oppressively hot. Rosemary led Elza to the summer-house and made her sit down. Elza was fidgety. It almost seemed as if she did not want to be left alone with Rosemary. She made one excuse after another: Maurus! the chef! the stables! But Rosemary insisted.

"Listen to me, Elza, darling," she said firmly. "I want your full attention for two minutes."

Elza turned her big blue eyes upon Rosemary and murmured like an obedient child: "Yes, dear! What is it?"

Rosemary had the papers in her hand: the newspaper articles which she had written during the night. The hand that held the manuscript shook ever so slightly, but her voice was quite steady.

"I want you," she said to Elza, "to read very carefully what I have written here. They are newspaper articles which General Naniescu would like to see published in England and in America. When you have read them you will understand why. He wants this so badly that on the day these articles are published Philip and Anna will receive a full pardon, Kis-Imre will not be taken from you, and, if you wish, you can all leave the country for a time until things settle down and better times come for you all."

She thrust the papers into Elza's hands and turned to go.

"I will leave you to read quite quietly," she said.

But Elza's round blue eyes were still staring at her.

"I don't understand you, dear," she murmured vaguely.

"Of course you don't, darling," Rosemary rejoined gently; "but you will when you have read what I have written. The gipsy was quite right; it is in my power to save Philip and Anna, but only to a certain extent, because it is you alone who can decide if I am to exercise that power or not. God bless you, darling!"

She put her arms round Elza and kissed her tenderly. Thank Heaven all self-pity, all selfish introspection had gone from her. Her thoughts, her love, her pity were all for Elza. But it had to be. Elza must decide. Her people! Her son! She must decide!

When Rosemary hastened across the lawn she turned once more toward the summer-house. Elza was still sitting there, staring with big blue eyes into vacancy. Every line of her attitude indicated bewilderment. She had the packet of paper in her hand and was tapping it against her knee. Poor Elza! A heavy sob rose from Rosemary's aching heart.

CHAPTER XXXI

Rosemary did not Elza against that day. Just before dinner Rosa came with a short scribbled note from her. "Maurus is very restless," it said; "I don't like to leave him. Will you and dear Lord Tarkington forgive me if I don't join you at dinner?"

The evening was dreary. Jasper said very little, and Rosemary felt thoroughly out of tune with him; he had a meek air about him that irritated her. Hers was not a nature to sympathize with remorse, and Jasper's manner gave the idea that he regretted having forced her into a decision. So she gave curt answers when he spoke to her, and after dinner he retired into the smoking-room with the excuse that he had some business letters to write. She sat reading most of the evening, her nerves on edge, hearing all sorts of mysterious sounds through the apparent stillness of the house.

When Jasper came to say good night she felt sorry for him. He looked forlorn and miserable, and reason told Rosemary that he of all people ought not to be allowed to suffer through a situation that was none of his making. Poor Jasper! She, his wife, had dragged him, unwillingly enough, into this impasse wherein his quiet habits of a wealthy English gentleman were hopelessly perturbed and his outlook outraged at every point. So, after she had returned his last kiss and saw him going upstairs, slowly, dragging one step after another, almost like an old man, she ran after him and linked her arm in his, and gave him an tender and sympathetic smile. The look of gratitude which he gave her in return warmed her heart. Here, at least, was no divided duty. In a moment of pique—it was nothing less than that—she had linked her fate with Jasper Tarkington, accepted from him all the lavish gifts that wealth could buy, and which he so generously bestowed upon her. In exchange for that he only asked for her love; and if the love which he gave and demanded did not reach that sublime ideal of which Rosemary had once dreamed, at any rate it was loyal and ungrudging and she had no right to let her caprice stand in the way of his happiness.

It was perhaps strange that these thoughts should come to her at a moment when her whole soul was torn with a terrible sorrow and a racking anxiety; perhaps they came because on this very day she had made the greatest abdication of her will that she had ever done in all her life. She had always acted for herself, judged for herself, set herself a high standard of straight living and straight thinking, and lived up to it. To-day she had left a decision which should have been hers in the hands of another. She knew that she had done right, but her pride was humiliated, and to soothe that pride she set herself a fresh standard of duty to Jasper and determined to live up to that.

But ever afterwards she turned away with a shudder from thoughts of this evening, when she probed the full depth of Jasper's passion for her, and saw before her like a row of spectres the vision of an endless vista of years, during which every caress would mean for her an effort, and every kiss a lie.

The new standard of duty which she had set herself would be very difficult to live up to. She had never loved Jasper, only hoped that she might learn to love him one day, but on this fateful evening she realized that she might in time learn to hate him.

When at last she was alone she found herself unable to rest. Through the open window the sounds of the oncoming storm became more and more insistent. It was rolling in on the bosom of the clouds from over the mountains in the west. Already one or two vivid flashes of lighting had rent the sky, and now and then great gusts of wind swept across the valley and sent a soughing and whispering through the trees. The poplars bowed their crests, and the twisted branches of the old acacias shivered and cracked in the blast. It was insufferably hot, and there was a smell of sulphur in the air. Rosemary in a thin lace wrap could not succeed in keeping cool. She stood by the open window, longing for the storm to break in all its fury, so that she might be rid of this feeling of oppression which was so unendurable, because the storm, far or near, had gone on almost uninterruptedly for over twenty-four hours. Rosemary's thoughts now were with Elza. She pictured to herself the unfortunate woman wrestling with a decision which either way must mean the breaking of her heart. Elza, who outwardly seemed just a soft, futile, pampered doll, with thoughts fixed on her menus and her servants, was a veritable heroine, strong and tenacious, proud without vanity, loving without weakness, the type that represented everything that was finest and best in a woman. She was of the stuff that religious martyrs were made of in the past, and she would not come to a decision without a terrible struggle. If in the end her heart overruled the dictates of justice and of right, her remorse would be as devastating as her courage hitherto had been sublime.

If Elza had been a religious woman she would not have suffered nearly so cruelly. The pagan knows nothing of the comfort of prayer, of diving blindly from the rocks of care into the ocean of God's love. And Elza was only a pagan from whom the thin veneer of Christianity laid on in early life had been rubbed off long ago. She would not now be on her knees, murmuring with heaven-born resignation: "Lord, not my will, but thine be done!" she would be fighting a tough battle, wrestling with her heart, castigating her tenderest feelings, fighting alone, unaided, unconsoled.

Poor, poor Elza! Rosemary, looking out into the storm, seemed to see the pretty round face distorted by grief, the big, child-like eyes gazing bewildered on the immensity of the puzzle which the Fates had set for her to solve. And while Rosemary gazed the storm became full of pictures, each lightning flash revealed a face. Elza! Philip, dark-eyed, enthusiastic, the idealist! Anna, gentle and resigned. Maurus, the man, the head of the family, the trunk of the tree weaker than its branches. And then Peter. Oh, Peter filled the night with his presence. There was Peter in flannels, a boy with bright eyes and curly head, fighting life's battles with a cricket bat and a joke. Peter home on leave from that hell in Belgium, receiving from his king the supreme reward for an act of almost unequalled bravery, of which, in his boyish way, he would often look quite ashamed. And Peter that night in June, long ago. Peter's strong arms round her shoulders. Peter's impassioned words, vying in melody with the nightingale. Peter's kiss that opened wide the portals of Heaven; and, lastly, Peter the mysterious, the subtle, unseen influence in whose wake strode sorrow and disaster. And the rumbling of the thunder brought back to Rosemary's ears Jasper's words of warning: "I only wish I had your belief in coincidences"; and "Ever since Peter's arrival I have seen nothing but one calamity after another fall upon these wretched people here." And then that awful, awful indictment which she had been unable to refute: "Don't you know that Peter Blakeney is a paid spy of the Roumanian Government?" The thunder brought the echo of those terrible words. Louder and louder, for the storm was drawing nearer, and the echo of those awful words drowned the very sound of thunder.

All at once the storm broke in all its fury; there was a deafening crash and a flash of lightning so vivid that for the space of one second the garden stood revealed as if in broad daylight before Rosemary's gaze, clear-cut in every detail, every tree, every leaf, every flower, every ripple upon the lake, each pebble upon the garden walk; and in that one second Rosemary had seen Peter standing on the gravel walk, not fifty yards from her window, and looking up at her—gazing. She caught his eyes in that one flash. He was dressed in a dark suit, his cricketing cap was on his head. It had been an instant's flash, but she had seen him, and he was gazing up her window. And their eyes had met in that one flash, right through the storm.

After that all was darkness, and though from time to time the night was rent by lightning flashes, Rosemary did not see Peter again. And when later on the storm subsided, and, wearied out, she went to bed and slept, she dreamt that all her suspicions of Peter had been proved to be wrong. She dreamt that she was a few years younger, that they were on the river together, in a punt, and that the nightingale was singing. She dreamt of the lapping of the water against the low-lying river bank, of the scent of meadow-sweet, and of the honey-coloured moon that painted long lines of golden light upon the reeds. She dreamt that Peter kissed her, and that she was free to give him kiss for kiss.

CHAPTER XXXII

When Rosemary woke the next morning she felt quite convinced that the vision which she had had in the night, of Peter standing on the gravel walk and looking up at her window, was only a creation of her own fancy. Rosa had opened the curtains and the volets, and Rosemary saw a dull, grey sky before her. The storm had certainly abated, but it was still raining. Rosemary thought of the cricket match, which would probably have to be postponed owing to the weather, and of the disappointment this would mean to many, especially to Peter, who had set his heart upon it.

During breakfast Jasper told her that he had received a note from his agent de change at Cluj, and that the latter said in his letter that the cricket match which should have been begun yesterday had to be postponed owing to the weather.

"Steinberg goes on to say," Jasper continued, "that he had heard that the cricket pitch—the playground he calls it—was like a swamp. The storm seems to have been very severe the other side of the frontier. It went on for twenty-four hours without a break, and was still raging at the time of writing. Unless the weather improves very much, Steinberg says that the match will have to be abandoned altogether, as Payson and several of his team have to be back in Budapest in time for work on Monday morning, which means leaving Hódmezö on the Sunday."

Then, as Rosemary made no comment on the news, only stared rather dejectedly out of the window, Jasper went on after awhile:

"I am afraid it will mean a disappointment all round, as the weather can hardly be said to have improved, can it?"

Rosemary said: "No, it cannot," after which the subject was dropped. Somehow the idea of the postponed cricket match worried her, and there was one insistent thought which would force itself into the forefront of her mind to the exclusion of all others, and that was the thought that the postponed cricket match would have left Peter free yesterday to come over to Kis-Imre, and that therefore it might have been himself in the flesh who was standing during the storm in the garden last night.

Why he should have chosen to stand in the garden in the rain rather than come into his aunt's house was a problem which Rosemary felt herself too wearied and disheartened to tackle.

When she went downstairs soon after ten o'clock she met Elza in the hall, dressed ready to go out. She looked more tired, more aged, more ill than the day before; obviously she had spent another sleepless night. But she kissed Rosemary very tenderly. "Come into the smoking-room, darling," she said. "I want to say something to you."

Rosemary followed her into the smoking-room and at once asked after Maurus.

"He has had no sleep," Elza said, "and at times his brain wanders. But physically he seems no worse-rather stronger, I think, than yesterday, and he enjoyed his breakfast. If we could only keep him quiet!"

She opened her handbag and took out the papers which Rosemary gave her yesterday.

"I read your articles through very carefully, dear," she said, "but I did not have to pray for guidance. I knew at once, that none of us, not Maurus or I, or Anna's people, would accept the children's safety at such a price. The children themselves would refuse."

With a perfectly steady hand she held the papers out to Rosemary. "Take them, darling," she said. "Thank you for letting me decide. This is the one thing which we none of us would have forgiven, if you had published these articles without consulting us."

CHAPTER XXXIII

Half an hour later!

Rosemary thought that Jasper was still in his room, and she had a longing to get away from his nearness and out into the open. It was still raining and the sky was the colour of lead. She threw a cape over her shoulders and opened the door of her room. She was dreading to meet Jasper again, so she listened intently for awhile for any sound that might betray his presence. From Maurus' apartments at the opposite end of the gallery there came a buzz of voices, and from down below where the servants were laying the table in the dining-room for luncheon a clatter of crockery. Otherwise silence. And no sound from Jasper's room close by, so Rosemary ran quickly downstairs.

She had just reached the hall intending to go out into the garden when she heard a strange clatter coming apparently from the smoking-room. It sounded like a scuffle. Of course it could not be, but that was just what it sounded like. She stood still to listen. And then she heard quite distinctly a smothered cry. Something like a curse. And she thought that she recognized Jasper's harsh voice. At once she ran to the door of the smoking-room and threw it open.

Jasper was on the ground, struggling to get back to his feet. He appeared dazed, and to be moving with difficulty. His hand was tearing at his collar, as if he were choking; his clothes were disarranged, his face looked pallid and blotchy, and his eyes bloodshot. But Rosemary did not scream when she caught sight of him. Something else that she had seen had paralysed her limbs and seemed actually to be holding her by the throat. The tall window which gave on this side of the garden was wide open, and in a flash, just as she entered the room, Rosemary had seen Peter in the act of getting over the window-sill. The next second he had disappeared over the ledge, and she heard his footsteps crunching on the gravel as he ran in the direction of the main gates.

A moment or two later Jasper had recovered his voice and the use of his limbs.

"Call to the servants!" he cried in a raucous voice. "Curse that devil—he will get away."

But Rosemary could not move. She could only stand where she was in the doorway and stare at the open window. Jasper had struggled to his feet, lurched forward and tried to push past her. He tried to call out, but the words were choked in his throat. He put his hand up again and tore at his collar, then he tottered and would have fallen backwards if Rosemary had not been quick enough and strong enough to catch him and to guide him to the nearest chair, into which he sank, half fainting. One of the servants came across the hall from the dining-room. Rosemary called to him to bring some brandy.

"The gracious lord feels faint," she said. "Be quick, Sàndor, will you?"

As soon as Sàndor had brought the brandy, Rosemary sent him peremptorily away. Fortunately neither he nor any of the other servants had heard anything of the scuffle, and Rosemary, for very life, could not have said anything to them just then. She knelt down beside Jasper and made him swallow some of the brandy. Obviously he had not been hurt, only scared, and the scared look was still in his eyes when he came to himself.

"You haven't let him go?" were the first words he uttered.

"Let whom go, Jasper?" Rosemary asked quietly. She rose to her feet and offered him an arm to help him get up.

"That spying devil," Jasper replied, with a savage oath. "Peter Blakeney."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"You know quite well what I mean. You must have seen him—I told you to call the servants. Are you in collusion with him, then, that you did not do it?"

"I heard a scuffle," Rosemary rejoined coldly, "when I reached the hall. I opened the door and saw you lying on the ground. I only had enough presence of mind to send for some brandy. Perhaps you will tell me what else happened."

"What else?" he retorted, with a sneer. He had risen and gone over to the mirror to readjust his clothes. She could see his face in the glass, livid with passion, his eyes fixed upon her reflection, while he fumbled with his tie and collar. But even while she watched him she saw a change come slowly over his face. The colour came back to his cheeks, his eyes narrowed, and an indefinable expression crept into them. Perhaps he did not know that Rosemary was watching; certain it is that she had never seen such an expression on his face before—the lips parted above the teeth, which gleamed sharp and white and gave the mouth a cruel, wolfish look. It was all over in a moment, the next he had swung round and faced her, apparently quite himself again, with just the habitual expression of high-bred weariness which he always affected.

"I was obviously wrong," he said coolly, "to suggest that you were in collusion with that young devil, and for this I beg your pardon."

"Wouldn't it be best," she retorted equally coolly, "if you were to tell me what did happen?"

"Peter Blakeney sneaked in through that open window. My back was turned that way and I heard nothing, as I was intent on reading your manuscript. He attacked me from behind. I was taken unawares, but I tried to put up a fight. However, he is younger and more athletic than I am, and he knocked me down. He had already snatched your manuscript out of my hand, and he disappeared with it the way he came, through that open window, at the very moment that you entered the room."

Rosemary had listened to this without moving a muscle. She stood in the middle of the room as if she had been turned to stone, alive only by her eyes, which were fixed with such an intensity of questioning on Jasper that instinctively he turned away, as if dreading to meet her glance.

"That is all, my dear," he said, with a sudden assumption of meekness. "I was certainly to blame for allowing that precious manuscript to be taken from me. I should, I know, have guarded it with m life, and so on, and I have probably sunk very low in your estimation as a coward. But I was taken entirely unawares, and one is not usually prepared for daylight robbery in a house filled with servants. So that must be my excuse—" He paused a moment, then added drily: "That and the fact that I warned you more than once that Peter Blakeney was working against you. Now perhaps you are convinced."

At last Rosemary recovered the use of her tongue, but her voice sounded strange to herself, toneless and distant, as if it came from beneath the earth. "You are quite sure, I suppose," she said slowly, "that it was Peter Blakeney who—who did what you say?"

"Aren't you?" he retorted with a harsh laugh.

She made no reply to the taunt. Outwardly she did not even wince.

"You are quite sure that he got away with the manuscript?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I am quite sure," he replied.

"What do you supposed he means to do with it?"

"Sell it to Naniescu, of course."

"In exchange for Philip and Anna's freedom?"

Jasper looked at his wife keenly for a moment or two, and the corners of his lips curled in a satiric smile. He took out his cigar-case, carefully selected a weed, struck a match, lit his cigar, and blew out the flame. Then only did he reply.

"Hardly that, I think, seeing that he was instrumental in getting them locked up. More probably, I should say, in exchange for a few thousand pounds."

This time the shaft struck home. Rosemary had some difficulty in smothering the cry of protest which had risen to her throat. But she recovered herself in less than a second and said coolly:

"The manuscript must be got back, of course."

Once more Jasper shrugged his shoulders.

"It might have been done at the moment; but I was helpless, and you were so concerned for my welfare that you did not raise hell to send the servants after the thief."

"I did not know then—about the manuscript."

"You know now," he retorted, "and have not called the servants yet."

"This is not the business of the servants. I look to you to get me back the manuscript."

"To me?" he rejoined with a harsh laugh. "Are you not putting to great a strain on my allegiance? You know my views. Should I not rather be wishing that damnable spy God-speed?"

"Jasper," she said earnestly, "you must get me back the manuscript."

"How is that to be done, my dear? From all accounts our friend Peter is as elusive as his ancestor, the Scarlet Pimpernel. He has ten minutes; advance of us already . . . a car probably waiting for him in the village. Are you quite sure you can't hear the whirring of a motor now?"

"You could try, at any rate." And now there was a distinct note of pleading in her voice. "General Naniescu—"

"Give yourself no illusion in that quarter, my dear," he broke in quickly. "Once Naniescu is in possession of those precious articles of yours he will send a courier flying across Europe with them. Remember that with the manuscript there was your covering letter to the editor of The Times, asking for immediate publication. Let me see," he went on slowly, "this is Saturday. I believe we shall see the first of those wonderful articles in print in The Times on Wednesday."

"I don't care how it's done," she replied impatiently. "If you won't help me I'll manage alone."

"What can you do, my dear?"

"Telegraph to The Times, for one thing, and start for London this evening."

"Plucky!" he remarked drily; "But I doubt if you'll succeed."

"Will you put obstacles in my way?"

"I? Certainly not. But Naniescu will." Then, as without attempting further argument she turned to go, he added blandly: "And Peter."

To this final taunt Rosemary made no reply. Her thoughts were in a whirl, but through the very confusion that was raging in her brain her resolution remained clear. She would wire to the editor of The Times not to act on any letter he might receive from her until he heard from her again, and in the meantime she would start for London immediately. Even if her wire were stopped by Naniescu's orders, she would be in London in time to stop the publication of the articles. Though she had a great deal of influence in the journalistic world, it was not likely that so important a paper as The Times would be ready to print her articles the moment they were received. Yes, she had plenty of time. And the whole conspiracy, whatever it was, had been clumsily engineered and would certainly prove futile.

The conspiracy! Rosemary could not think of that. Yet when she did it would mean such a terrible heartache that the whole world would become a blank. Peter blotted out of her life. That is what it would mean to her probably in the train, travelling alone across Europe, hurrying to nullify work done by Peter—shameful, despicable work that would sully the reputation of a pariah. The work of a spy, of hands tainted with ill-gotten wealth! Rosemary's gorge rose at the thought. The conspiracy would prove futile-there was plenty of time to subvert it—but it was an evil, noisome thing that had been. It had existed—and Peter had given it birth!

Peter!

Never again could the world be bright and beautiful. The thing was so loathsome that it would taint with its foulness everything that Rosemary had up to this hour looked on as sweet and sacred and dear. She herself would remain noisome: a body to execrate, since it had once lain passive and willing in Peter's arms, since her lips still retained the savour of his kiss.

Rosemary went out into the village as far as the post office. She wrote out her telegram to the editor of The Times and asked whether it could be sent out immediately. In order to stimulate the zeal of the postmistress she emphasized her instructions with a hundred lei note. The post-mistress smiled and thanked the gracious lady for the note, and she promised that she would send the telegram off within the next few minutes. Then, as soon as Rosemary had gone out of the stuffy little office and disappeared down the village street, the woman rang up at the Imrey Palace at Cluj and asked to be allowed to speak with His Excellency the General.

CHAPTER XXXIV

Rosemary's wire was repeated over the telephone to General Naniescu, who promptly gave orders that it should not be sent. When he put down the receiver he was very much puzzled. Something had apparently happened at Kis-Imre which had greatly disturbed the beautiful Uno. It seemed indeed as if she had actually written those articles which Naniescu wanted so badly that he was prepared to pay ten thousand pounds sterling of Government money for them. And having written the articles, the lady seemed first to have sent them off, then to have repented.

Well, well! It was all very puzzling. Even M. de Kervoisin, experienced diplomat though he was, could suggest no solution. He advised the obvious: to wait and see.

"We shall see our friend Number Ten soon," he said. "If I am not mistaken he has at least one key to the puzzle in his possession."

But it was not Number Ten who presented himself at the Imrey palace that afternoon. It was ce cher Monsieur Blakeney, who had come all the way from England in order to preside over a game of cricket that had not come off because of the weather. His Excellency was delighted to see him, and so was M. de Kervoisin. This charming, most unexpected but most welcome visit was due no doubt to the cricket and the bad weather. So tiresome! Mais hélas! Man proposes and the rain disposes.

His Excellency was most sympathetic. Would M. Blakeney have a cigar and a glass of fine? No? Then what could His Excellency do for M. Blakeney.

"Pray command men, my dear Monsieur Blakeney. We are all so grateful to you for the kind interest you are taking in our young athletes. It will be such a happy recollection for them in after years that so distinguished an English champion as yourself has helped them with their games."

Peter let him talk on. He thought it a pity to stem this flood of eloquence, and he was looking forward to the moment when Naniescu's complacent effusions would turn to equally comic puzzlement first, and subsequently to amazement and delight.

"Shall I tell your Excellency now," he said as soon as he could get a word in edgeways, "why I have come?"

"Mais comment donc?" the general replied suavely. "I am hanging on your lips, mon cher Monsieur Blakeney."

"Well," Peter said, quite slowly and speaking in French since M. de Kervoisin did not know English. "well, it's just this. Lady Tarkington has written certain newspaper articles, which you, general, very much desire to see published. That's so, isn't it?"

But though this opening almost betrayed Naniescu into an exclamation of surprise, he had enough control over his nerves not to give himself away. Fortunately he was a great adept at expressive gestures and his cigar also helped to keep him in countenance.

He leaned back in his chair, was silent for a moment or two blowing rings of smoke through his full, red lips.

"Articles?" he queried at last with an assumption of perfect indifference. "I don't know. What articles do you mean, cher ami? "

"Those," Peter replied with equal indifference, "for which you were prepared to pay a deuced lot of money to your spy-in-chief."

Naniescu waved his podgy hand that held the cigar, then he deliberately dusted away a modicum of ash that had dropped upon his trousers.

"Ah!" he said innocently. "Lady Tarkington, you say, has written such articles?"

"Yes. She has."

"Then no doubt she will honour me by allowing me to see the manuscript. She knows how deeply I am interested in her work."

"No, general," Peter broke in drily. "Lady Tarkington has no intention of allowing you to see that particular manuscript of hers."

"Ah! May I be permitted to inquire how you happen to know that?"

"I happen to know—no matter how—that Lady Tarkington only wrote the articles tentatively; that after she had written them she repented having done so, and that her next act would have been to throw the manuscript into the fire."

"Very interesting. But, forgive me, my dear Monsieur Blakeney, if I ask you in what way all this concerns you?"

"I'll tell you," Peter said coolly. "I also happen to know—no matter how—that you are prepared to pay a large sum of money for those articles, so I thought that I would forestall your spy-in-chief by driving a bargain with you over the manuscript."

"But how can you do that, my dear young friend, without the manuscript in your possession?"

"The manuscript is in my possession, Excellency," Peter said coolly.

"How did that come about, if I may ask the question?"

"You may. I stole it this morning from Lady Tarkington."

"What?"

Naniescu had given such a jump that he nearly turned himself out of his chair. The cigar fell from between his fingers, and the glass that contained the fine was upset and its contents spilt over the table. Even M. de Kervoisin had given a start; and his pale, expressionless face had flushed. Though the report of the post-mistress of Kis-Imre had given Naniescu an inkling that something unexpected had occurred, he certainly had not been prepared for this.

He looked up at Peter and frowned, trying to recover his dignity which had been seriously jeopardized. Peter was laughing—very impolitely, thought His Excellency. But then these English have no manners.

"You'll forgive my smiling, won't you, sir?" asked Peter quite deferentially.

"Go on with your story," Naniescu retorted gruffly. "Never mind your manners."

"I can't very well mind them, sir," Peter rejoined, with utmost seriousness, "as I don't possess any. And I can't go on with my story because there is none to tell."

"You have got to tell me how you knew that Lady Tarkington had written certain newspaper articles; how you knew that I wanted them; how you came to—to steal them—the word is your own, my dear Monsieur Blakeney—and where they are at the present moment."

"None of which facts, I am thinking, concern your Excellency," Peter retorted coolly, "except the last. The manuscript of Lady Tarkington's newspaper articles is in my pocket at the present moment, together with her letter to the editor of The Times, asking for these articles to be published at an early opportunity. So, you see, sir, that I am bringing you a perfectly sound proposition."

"I'll have to read those articles first."

"Of course," Peter agreed, and took the sheets of manuscript out of his pocket. "At your leisure."

Naniescu thrust out his podgy hand for them, his large, expressive eyes had lit up with a gleam of excitement. Peter gave him the manuscript, and as he did so he remarked casually, "They are no use to your Excellency without the covering letter."

Which remark seemed to tickle M. de Kervoisin's fancy, for he gave a funny, dry cackle which might pass for a laugh. Naniescu, however, appeared not to notice the taunt. His white, downy hands shook slightly as he unfolded the manuscript. He leaned back in his chair and began to read, the excitement of his nerves was chiefly apparent by his stertorous breathing and his almost savage chawing of the stump of his cigar.

M. de Kervoisin remained silent. He offered Peter a cigarette, and while the Englishman struck a match, lit the cigarette and smoked it with obvious relish, the Frenchman watched him through his half-closed lids with an expression of puzzlement upon his keen, wrinkled face. No sound disturbed the silence that had fallen over the actors of the little comedy, only the ticking of an old-fashioned clock and now and then the crisp crackling of paper as Naniescu turned over the sheets of the manuscript. From time to time he nodded his head and murmured complacently, "C'est très bien! C'est même très, très bien!" And once he looked across at his friend and asked: "Would you like to read this Kervoisin?" But the Frenchman only shrugged and replied with a slightly sarcastic smile: "Oh, my dear friend, if you are satisfied—"

Peter said nothing. He waited quite patiently, seemingly completely indifferent, and smoked one cigarette after another.

When Naniescu had finished reading, he carefully folded the manuscript, laid it on the table beside him and put his hand upon it.

"What do you want for this?" he asked.

And Peter replied coolly: "The title-deeds of the Kis-Imre property."

Naniescu stared at Peter for a moment or two, then he threw back his head and laughed until the tears trickled down his cheeks.

"You are astonishing, my friend," he said. "The property is worth fifty thousand sterling."

"I have paid an option on it of five thousand," Peter retorted, "and the rest of it wouldn't come out of your Excellency's pocket, I take it."

"Not out of my pocket, of course," Naniescu was willing to admit, "but out of that of my Government. We are going to sell Kis-Imre for the benefit of the State."

"And won't your Excellency be purchasing these newspaper articles for the benefit of the State?"

"These articles are not worth it," Naniescu retorted gruffly.

"Very will, let's say no more about it. I'm sorry I troubled your Excellency."

Peter rose as if to go and put out his hand toward the sheets of manuscript.

"Don't be a fool," Naniescu broke in. "I'll give you a good price for the thing, but a property worth fifty thousand sterling—hang it all—it's a bit stiff."

Peter smiled. "How tersely you put the matter, general," he said. "I dare say it is a bit stiff, but I am not prepared to bargain—only to sell. And if you are not satisfied—"

"Easy, easy, my impetuous young friend. Did I say that I was not satisfied—or that I refuse to consider the matter? But there are considerations."

"What considerations?"

"To begin with, how do I know that the English newspaper would accept these articles as the genuine work of Lady Tarkington?"

"I told you that I had Lady Tarkington's own covering letter to the editor of The Times, asking him to publish the articles as soon as possible."

"Let me see it," Naniescu retorted.

"With pleasure."

Peter took the letter out of his pocket, but before handing it over to Naniescu he said drily: "May I in the meanwhile refresh my memory of the articles?"

The eyes of the two men met across the table. Naniescu's flashed with resentment, but Peter's face wore a disarming smile. He looked for all the world like a schoolboy bartering marbles for stamps. But the situation appeared to tickle Kervoisin's fancy. He gave a dry chuckle and said:

"You are quite right, mon ami. They are astonishing, these English."

The exchange was effected without Naniescu losing his sense of resentment or Peter his pleasant smile, and Peter held on to Rosemary's manuscript while the general read the letter through.

While he read, the look of resentment vanished from his face and a complacent smile rose to his full, sensuous lips.

"Il n'y pas à dire," he murmured; "c'est très, très bien."

When he had finished reading he looked up at Peter.

"Now then, Monsieur Blakeney," he said curtly, "your last price?"

"I have told you, sir-the title-deeds of Kis-Imre."

"You are joking."

"I was never more serious in my life."

"But, hang it all, man, if I make the property over to you, how are we to get rid of the Imreys?"

Peter shrugged his shoulders, and, still smiling, said coolly: "That, Excellency, is your affair, not mine."

"But the Countess Imrey is your aunt."

"What has that got to do with the whole thing, Excellency?"

"What has it got to do with it? What has it—?" Naniescu was gasping with astonishment. He was something of a rascal himself, but never in all his life had he come across such callousness or such impudence. He turned to Kervoisin as much as to say: "Have you ever seen such an unmitigated young blackguard?" But the Frenchman's face was inscrutable; his keen, pale eyes rested with obvious puzzlement on Peter.

"Then you want me," Naniescu asked, as soon as he had recovered his breath, "you want me to turn the Imreys out of their home?"

"It won't be the first time, Excellency, that you have done that sort of thing, will it?" Peter retorted, with his most engaging smile.

Strangely enough, Naniescu was losing his temper. He wanted those articles and wanted them badly, and if this preposterous deal went through he could have them without putting his hand in his pocket. But this young blackguard exasperated him. Perhaps professional pride was wounded at meeting a man more corrupt, more venal than himself. To further his own ends Naniescu would have plundered and bullied to an unlimited extent, but he would not have robbed and bullied his own kith and kin; whereas this handsome young athlete with the engaging smile did not seem to have the slightest scruple or the least pricking of conscience. It would be a triumph to get the better of him in some sort of way. Unfortunately the scamp had not yet given up the manuscript, and Naniescu only had the letter, whilst de Kervoisin was in one of his abstracted fits when he wouldn't open his mouth to give friendly advice.

The general, sitting back in his chair, and blowing smoke rings through his pursed lips, had a swift but exceedingly pleasant day-dream. Those articles were just what he wanted. They were so beautifully written! So convincingly! What a stir they would make! They were a complete vindication of his administration here in Transylvania. The country prosperous. The people contented. Only a small minority grumbling without the slightest justification. Oh, those articles! Published in the English Times and signed by the illustrious "Uno"! Naniescu, closing his eyes to enjoy this wonderful day-dream, saw himself summoned to Bucharest, there to receive the personal thanks of his King and a substantial reward from his Government, whilst all he need do now to obtain these glorious results was to hand over to this young rascal a property that belonged to that fool Maurus Imrey.

It was a lovely day-dream. A stroke of the pen would make it reality. No wonder that General Naniescu swore loudly when the crackling of paper woke him from his short trance. The young rascal was quite unconcernedly stowing that precious manuscript away in his pocket.

"Halt!" Naniescu exclaimed, on the impulse of the moment. "I accept—" Then he added guardedly: "On principle, I mean."

"And in fact?" Peter queried, without making the slightest movement towards taking the manuscript out of his pocket again.

"Yes, yes!" Naniescu replied impatiently. "But, curse you for a jackanapes, these things take time—"

"They need not," Peter rejoined curtly. "All you need do is to give me an official receipt for forty-five thousand sterling, the balance of the purchase-money for the Kis-Imre property. The British Consul and your lawyer will do the rest."

"And when do you want possession?"

"At once."

Naniescu made a final appeal to his friend: "What do you say, Kervoisin?"

But the Frenchman's face remained inscrutable. He was watching the smoke that curled upwards from the tip of his cigarette, and only from time to time did he throw a quick, indefinable glance at the tall, athletic figure of the man who was driving such a contemptible bargain. When Naniescu appealed directly to him, he only shrugged his shoulders to indicate his complete detachment from the whole affair. Peter, on the other hand, showed not the slightest sign of impatience. He even went to the length of buttoning up his coat.

"Would you like to think it over?" he said coolly. "I can leave my offer open for another few hours."

"No! damn you!" Naniescu exclaimed, and jumped to his feet. "Wait for me here. I'll have the receipt ready in five minutes."

After which, from sheer force of habit, he swore in several other languages before he finally strode out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXV

Peter met de Kervoisin's shrewd eyes fixed searchingly upon him. He gave a quaint, good-humoured laugh.

"Are you trying to make up your mind, sir," he asked, "just what kind of a blackguard I am?"

M. de Kervoisin's thin lips curled in a wry smile. "I am not sure," he said, "that you are a blackguard. But I confess that I do not understand you."

"Which is very flattering, sir. But isn't it natural that a man should covet a beautiful property and seize the cheapest means to become possessed of it? That sort of thing has been largely done by the conquering nations since the war. Then why not by individuals?"

"Why not, as you say? But I was not thinking of that side of the question, chiefly because I do not believe that you stole Lady Tarkington's manuscript in order to drive a bargain with our friend here over the Kis-Imre property. I may be wrong, but you don't look to me the sort of man who would do this dirty trick for mere gain. I am giving you the credit of desiring above all to save your kinsfolk, young and old, from certain highly unpleasant eventualities."

"You are very generous, sir, in your estimate of me."

"The question is," Kervoisin mused, "whether after all this they will be grateful to you for what you have done, or will they hate you, do you think, for what the publication of those articles will mean to their people? Lady Tarkington must at one time have intended to publish those articles, since she took the trouble to write them. Something turned her from the purpose: either her own conviction, or the desire of the Imreys themselves."

"I suppose so," Peter said, with a shrug of complete indifference.

"Whereupon you, my dear friend, stepped in like an unwanted deus ex machinâ, and settled the business to your own satisfaction, if not to theirs."

"I never was good at Latin" Peter said, with his most engaging smile, "but we'll leave it at that if you like."

De Kervoisin was silent for a moment or two, his attention being seemingly riveted on the rings of smoke that rose from his cigarette.

"I wonder," he murmured after a while.

"Don't trouble, sir. I am not worth it."

"Ah! but youth always is a perpetual wonder to me. It is such a long time since I was young myself. And I was wondering which of the two levers youth pulled in order to make you act as you did."

"Two levers?"

"Love or hate."

Then, as Peter was silent in his turn, M. de Kervoisin went on: "You know, we in France always look for the woman in every case. Now here we have not far to seek. And yet love would seem to me to have gained nothing by this adventure, whilst hate, on the other hand—"

He paused abruptly, his keen eyes narrowed, and his lips curled in a sardonic smile.

"Ah!" he said. "I think I understand, after all."

"That's more than I do, sir," Peter retorted ingenuously.

M. de Kervoisin would no doubt have pursued the subject, which seemed greatly to interest him, had not Naniescu just then made a noisy re-entry into the room. He had a large, official-looking document in his hand, which he threw down on the table.

"Have a look at this, my dear Monsieur Blakeney," he said curtly. "I think that you will find it in order."

Peter took up the paper and examined it at great length. It was a receipt for the sum of forty-five thousand pounds sterling, in full satisfaction for the sale of the estate of Kis-Imre here described as the property of the Crown of Roumania. It was signed with Naniescu's elaborate flourish, countersigned and stamped; it stated further that the sale would be duly inscribed in the Bureau des Hypothèques in accordance with the law, and the acte de vente and title-deeds handed over within one month to M. Peter Blakeney or his duly appointed representative.

It was all in order. Peter folded the receipt, but before putting it away he said to Naniescu:

"The whole thing, of course, is conditional on a free pardon being granted to Philip Imrey and Anna Heves, with permission to leave the country immediately. That was the original bargain between yourself and Lady Tarkington."

"They can clear out of the country the day the last of these articles is published in The Times," Naniescu rejoined gruffly. "I'll arrange for that fool Maurus Imrey and his wife to clear out at the same time. The sooner I am rid of the whole brood of them, the better I shall like it."

"I am sure you will," Peter said blandly. "Then perhaps you won't mind letting me have passports for them. You can post-date them, of course. I shouldn't then have to intrude on you again."

"You are very kind. The passports post-dated, say, a week from to-day will be in the bureau at your disposal whenever you like to call for them. You understand that I should revoke them if at least one of these articles has not appeared within the week."

"I quite understand," Peter concluded. Everything now being in order, he slipped the receipt into his pocket-book, then, without further words, he handed Rosemary's manuscript over to Naniescu.

"You have the covering letter," he said simply.

Naniescu nodded, and he took the papers with a sigh of satisfaction, which he did not even attempt to disguise. His ill-temper had vanished. The day-dream was coming true: the journey to Bucharest, the thanks of his King, the reward from a grateful Government! Naniescu felt at peace with all the world. He would even have hugged Peter to his breast.

"We part the best of friends," he said suavely, "my dear Monsieur Blakeney."

"Oh! the very best," Peter assented.

"And when you come to take possession of Kis-Imre you will command my services, I hope,"

"I shall not fail to do so."

"I will see to it that you can do it at the earliest possible moment. By the way," Naniescu went on with some hesitation, "the furniture—and other contents of the château—they are not included in the sale, of course."

"Of course not."

"You won't mind the Imreys having those? It might create an unpleasant impression—if we were to—er—"

"It might," Peter assented.

"I was sure you would agree with me about that," Naniescu rejoined unctuously. "Then what would you like us to do in the matter?"

"Leave everything as it is until you hear from me again. The British Consul will look after things for me."

"Ah!" Naniescu concluded with perfect affability, "then I don't think I need detain you any longer, my dear young friend. May I express the wish that you will spend long and happy years in this beautiful country."

"Thank you."

Peter did not shake hands with either of the two men, but he caught Kervoisin's glance and gave him a pleasant nod. To Naniescu he said just before leaving:

"I suppose you have realized that Lady Tarkington will probably wish to start for England immediately."

"Yes, my dear young friend," Naniescu replied blandly. "I had realized that, and I have taken measures accordingly. But how kind of you to remind me!"

And when Peter finally went out of the room the general, breathless, perspiring, nerve-racked, threw himself into a chair and exclaimed:

"Il n'y a pas à dire! They are astonishing, these English!"

He poured himself out a glass of fine and drank it down at one gulp.

"Did you ever see such an unmitigated young blackguard?" he exclaimed.

But de Kervoisin had remained thoughtful. His shrewd, pale eyes were fixed upon the door through which Peter had just disappeared. Naniescu had taken his handkerchief and was mopping his streaming forehead and his neck round the edge of his collar.

"I feel quite sick," he murmured. "Ah, these English! mon ami. You don't know them as I do. I firmly believe that they would sell their fathers, their mothers, their sisters, or their wives if they saw money in the transaction."

Kervoisin made no comment on this tirade; after a while he asked abruptly: "What are you doing to prevent the lovely Uno from putting a spoke in your wheel?"

Naniescu gave a complacent laugh.

"Doing?" he retorted. "Why, I've already done everything, my friend. My courier starts to-night for London with Lady Tarkington's letter and manuscript. He will be in London on Monday evening. On Tuesday he will call on the editor of The Times. Ostensibly he is Lady Tarkington's messenger. When he has delivered the letter he will ask for a reply. That reply he will telegraph to me. Then we shall know where we are."

He drank another glass of fine, then he went on:

"I have no doubt that the fair Uno has already got her boxes packed and is ready to start for England by the express to-night, but—"

Naniescu paused. He stretched out his legs, examined the toes of his boots and the smoke of his cigar; his face wore an expression of fatuous self-satisfaction. "I think," he said, "that you will be surprised at what I have done in the time. And so will the incomparable Uno," he added with an expressive twinkle in his fine, dark eyes.

"What about friend Number Ten?" Kervoisin remarked drily.

"Well," Naniescu retorted with his affected smile, "I imagine that friend Number Ten will be the most surprised of the lot."

CHAPTER XXXVI

At Kis-Imre the day dragged on leaden-footed. Luncheon, then a long afternoon, then dinner. Time wore on and Elza had not returned.

Rosemary was ready, dressed for the journey; her suit-case was packed. She was only taking a very little luggage with her as she had every intention of returning as soon as her errand in London was accomplished. She would not for the world have left Elza alone too long with her troubles. She made herself no illusions with regard to the telegram which she had sent from the village. It would, she was sure, be intercepted, and Naniescu would not allow it to go. Rosemary's intention was to send another directly she was the other side of the frontier. This would prevent the articles being published hurriedly, and, of course, she would be in London thirty-six hours later.

Indeed, the odious deed which Peter had planned and carried through appeared to her now not only in its hideousness but in its futility. What did he hope to accomplish? Did he know her so little as to imagine that she would merely call the occurrence an adverse blow of Fate and quietly sit down under it—be content to send one wire which would be intercepted? It was futile! Futile! She was a British subject. She had a British passport. No power on earth could stop her from going to London or to the outermost ends of the earth if she had a mind. No one. Not even Jasper. Least of all Jasper!

But in the meanwhile Elza had not returned. Time went on, slowly but certainly. Eight o'clock—nine o'clock—ten o'clock. unless Elza was home within the next half-hour Rosemary could not start for London before the next night. There was only one through train to Budapest every twenty-four hours, the midnight express! Any other slow train would be no help for getting the communication with the Orient Express.

And Rosemary could not go to London without knowing what Elza's wishes were. Elza was to decide—not she. And Elza had not come back from Anna's mother. Soon after ten Rosemary sent Rosa round to Maurus to ask if she might see him. She hoped that he could perhaps tell her something definite about Elza's movements. Rosemary found him very much altered since last she had seen him. He looked well in health, but his whole expression, even his appearance, seemed strange. The gipsy strain was more apparent—the eyes seemed darker and more restless, the mouth redder and fuller, and the nose more hooked and narrower across the bridge. But he talked very quietly about Elza, because he had not really expected to see her back this evening.

"She was going to Cluj first," he said, "to see Philip and Anna. Probably it took time to get permission to visit the children in prison. Then after that she was going to Ujlak. I suppose she wanted to let Charlotte know how little Anna is getting on. Poor child! Poor child!" Maurus went on slowly, wagging his head. "Isn't it pitiable? She is such a nice little girl. And my Philip—my Philip—"

He rambled on, and his speech became thick and unintelligible. The sister in charge gave Rosemary a hint that it would be better for her to go. Rosemary rose at once.

"Well, my dear Maurus," she said, "I don't want to tire you. I thought perhaps you might know something definite about Elza. But if you are not anxious about her I am sure it is all right."

"Oh, yes, yes, it is all right. You see, she went to visit the children. Then she was going to Ujlak. It is a long way for the horses—"

"You don't think she would stay in Cluj for the night?"

"I don't know. I don't know. She was going to Cluj first to see the children—then she was going to Ujlak. It is a long way for the horses—Elza will stay with Charlotte for the night. A hard woman, Charlotte. But Anna is such a nice child. And my Philip—my Philip—"

The mind was obviously wandering. Maurus, while he spoke was staring straight out before him. Rosemary tried to explain to him that she had to go away on business for a day or two and she hoped to start this evening, but she could not go, of course, without seeing Elza first.

"Ah! you are going away, dear Lady Tarkington?" the invalid said with a quick gleam in his restless, dark eyes. "I wish I could go with you. I am so sick of this place, and now that my Philip has gone. . . . But how can you go to-night, dear Lady Tarkington?"

"I won't go before I have seen Elza."

"No, no, you must not go before Elza comes. I have only the one comfortable carriage now. They have taken everything from me, my horses, my cattle, my carriages, and my motor-cars—I can't send you to Cluj in comfort until Elza comes back in the carriage. I have another pair of horses—but no comfortable carriage. They took everything away from me. Soon they will turn me out of this house—"

"Don't worry about that, dear, my husband has the use of a small car and a soldier-chauffeur. We can get to Cluj all right."

The sister in charge interposed again, more peremptorily this time. Rosemary took as cheerful a farewell of the invalid as she could.

"You must arrange," she said, "As soon as you are well enough, to come over to us in England for a visit. It would be such a change for you, and Jasper and I would make you and Elza very welcome."

But Maurus shook his head, and stared straight out before him. "That, dear Lady Tarkington," he said, "can never be now." And slowly the tears gathered in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. Broken-hearted, Rosemary bade him a final good night.

There was only one more chance of getting in touch with Elza to-night, and that was to ascertain if she were staying at any of the hotels in Cluj. And this Jasper did at Rosemary's request. He telephoned to the "Pannonia" and to the "New York," the only possible places where Elza might have put up for the night. True, when the Roumanian Government took over the Imrey palace two or three rooms were allowed to remain in possession of the family if they required them, but it was not likely that Elza would elect to sleep under the same roof as General Naniescu. Both hotels replied on the telephone that the gracious Countess Imrey was not there. Ujlak, unfortunately, had not the telephone installed.

There was, then, nothing to be done.

But the next day was even more trying than the one before. The morning wore on and there was no news of Elza. Anxiety for her friend was added to the heavy load which Rosemary had to bear. Anxiety and this unexpected uncertainty, which was positive torture.

Jasper, on the other hand, had become both helpful and sympathetic. Already the day before he had announced his intention of accompanying Rosemary to London. At first she had protested, but he looked so contrite and so abashed that she relented, and said more graciously:

"It is more than kind of you, dear, to suggest it, but I really am quite capable of looking after myself."

"I don't doubt it," he had replied with a sigh, "but I, too, have certain privileges, chief of which is looking after your welfare—and your safety."

She laughed. "I am perfectly safe. No one is going to run away with me."

"You might have trouble on the frontier."

"Not very likely," she retorted, "with a British passport."

Jasper had made no further remark just then, and the subject was dropped. But Rosemary knew from his manner and his look that he intended to accompany her. It would be no use protesting, though she had the feeling that she would so much rather have travelled alone.

But when the morning of the next day went by without news of Elza, Jasper was ready with a fresh suggestion. "Let me go to London for you," he said. "I could see the editor of The Times and ask him in any case to withhold publication until he heard from you. Then after that, if Elza's decision went the other way, you could always wire or write again."

Rosemary hesitated for a moment or two. She could not very well put into words the thought that was in her mind. But Jasper presently did it for her.

"You do not trust me," he said quietly.

For another fraction of a second she hesitated, then with a frank gesture of camaraderie she put her hand out to him: "I think I ought to carry my own business through myself," she said, and added softly: "You understand, dear, don't you?"

She could always win any man over with her smile, and at the soft tone of her voice Jasper captured her hand and buried his face in the soft, smooth palm.

"Tell me how I can serve you," he said, "but, in God's name, don't go away from me."

He was once more all kindness and consideration, more like the charming companion of the early days of her brief married life. With utmost patience he discussed the whole situation with her: the possibility of getting in touch with Elza and the advisability of communicating with The Times in any case, leaving it open for an ultimate change of tactics.

But though he was so kind, so unselfish, so generous, Rosemary could not respond in the same way as she had done in the past. Her confidence in him had been wavering for some time, whenever those wild outbursts of ungovernable passion, when he claimed her body and her soul as he would a slave or a chattel, had outraged as well as mystified her, and she could not free her mind from that vision which she had of him in the mirror yesterday, with his mouth parted in a cruel, wolfish grin. The dual nature in him puzzled her. She would not admit that she feared him, because she had never in her life been afraid of anyone, but she did own to a certain vague dread which would creep into her heart whenever she found herself alone with him; she had accepted his kisses at first, hoping that in time friendship and confidence would turn to warmer feeling, but she had a horror of them now, and knew that the last shred of friendship was being torn to rags by all that was violent, passionate and cruel in him. At the same time she did admit quite readily that he was very helpful and kind in the present emergency, and gladly did she accept his final offer to motor straightway to Cluj to see if he could find out something definite about Elza.

"If she was not at Cluj," he said, "I would go on to Ujlak; and, in any case, I can be back by about eight o'clock. If in the meanwhile, as I hope and think, Elza has turned up, we can make our plans in accordance with what she has decided, and either start for England at once, or leave matters as they stand."

The suggestion was so practical that Rosemary felt really grateful. She walked with him to the village where he garaged the car that Naniescu had leant him. It was a powerful little car, of a well-known French make and built for speed. The soldier-chauffeur was fortunately on the spot, and with a friendly handshake Rosemary wished her husband God-speed.

"I don't know how I shall live through this day!" she said to him at the last.

Jasper was very self-contained and practical. He satisfied himself that everything about the car was in order, then only did he get in. He took the wheel and waved Rosemary a last farewell, and very soon the car disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

CHAPTER XXXVII

General Naniescu was enjoying himself thoroughly. He had his friend Number Ten sitting there opposite him, and Number Ten was looking as savage as a bear. Naniescu had offered him a cigar, a glass of fine , even whisky and soda, but Number Ten had declined everything and remained very truculent.

"You had no right," he said, with a savage oath, "to go behind my back."

But Naniescu was at his blandest. "What could I do, my dear friend?" he asked, and waived his white, downy hands to emphasize by appropriate gesture, both his perplexity and his contrition. "What would you have had me do? Decline to deal with that young Blakeney? Then those precious articles would have been lost to me for ever. Lady Tarkington would not have written them all over again."

"I told you the other day that I would get those articles for you. Ask M. de Kervoisin here if I have ever failed in anything I have undertaken. I had the manuscript in my hand when that young blackguard snatched it out of my hand. Curse him!"

Naniescu leaned back in his chair and gave a guttural, complacent laugh: "I do agree with you, my dear friend," he said. "That young Blakeney is an unmitigated blackguard. I have had to deal with some in my day, but never with such a corrupt, dirty scoundrel. Yes, dirty, that's what he is. But you know, you English, you are astonishing! Everything big with you—big fellows, big Empire, big money, big blackguards! Yes, big blackguards! Oh, là, là!"

"Yes," Number Ten assented drily. "And the big blackguard who is also a big fellow, got big money out of you, for you have been a fool, as well as a knave, my friend. I only asked you ten thousand sterling for the manuscript."

"Are you pretending that you know what I paid Blakeney?" Naniescu asked, with his most fatuous smile. "Because, my friend, in picturesque poker parlance—I am very fond of a game of poker myself—and in poker language, we call what you are doing now 'bluff.' You don't know what I paid Blakeney for the manuscript. But I don't mind telling you that I paid nothing at all. Yes, my dear friend, nothing at all."

And with the tip of his well-manicured little finger, Naniescu emphasized every syllable with a tap on the table.

"I am glad to hear it," Number Ten retorted curtly, "because that will make it easier for you to pay me the ten thousand now."

But this idea amused the General so much that he nearly rolled off his chair laughing.

"Ils sont impayable ces Anglais!" he said, when with streaming eyes and scanty breath he found words to express his sense of the ludicrous. "Why in the name of Tophet should I pay you ten thousand pounds sterling?"

"Because if you don't, those newspaper articles will never be published."

"Ah, bah!" Naniescu exclaimed with a mocking grin, "who will prevent it?"

"I, of course."

"You, of course? How, I should like to know?"

"That's my business."

"You can't do it, my friend," Naniescu rejoined complacently. "You can't do it . I defy you to do it."

"Is that a challenge?"

Number Ten had said this very quietly. He was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he spoke, and he finished lighting it, blew out the match, and threw it into the nearest ash-tray before he glanced at Naniescu. Then he smiled, because Naniescu's face expressed arrogance first, then bewilderment, and finally indecision.

"Is it a challenge?" he reiterated sardonically. "I don't mind, you know, one way or the other. There are at least three governments—neighbours of yours, by the way—who will pay me ten thousand pounds apiece for certain services which they require, and which I can render them. But you have behaved like a knave and a fool, my friend, and it will amuse me to punish you. So listen to me! Unless you give me a cheque for the ten thousand pounds which you promised me, and which I can cash at your fusty old bank over the way this very afternoon, I guarantee you that Lady Tarkington's articles will not be published in any English newspaper."

He smoked on in silence for a little while longer, blowing rings of smoke through his pursed lips, and in the intervals laughing softly, mockingly to himself, or throwing an occasional glance of intelligence in the direction of Kervoisin, who apparently immersed in a book had taken no part in the conversation. Naniescu's bewilderment had become ludicrous, and at one moment when he took his perfumed handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his streaming forehead, the face of his spy-in-chief became distorted with that look of ferocious cruelty which was so characteristic of him.

"I haven't a great deal of time to spare," Number Ten remarked drily, after a few minutes' silence; "if you accept my challenge I start for London to-night."

"You'll never get there in time," Naniescu rejoined, with an attempt at swagger.

Number Ten smiled. "Don't you think so?" he asked simply.

"The frontier is closed—"

"Would you rather risk it than pay me the ten thousand pounds?"

Naniescu appealed to his friend.

"De Kervoisin—" he said, almost pitiably.

But M. de Kervoisin, with a shrug, indicated that this was no concern of his.

"M. de Kervoisin," Number Ten said, still smiling, "knows my methods. During the war I had other and more dangerous frontiers to cross than this one, my friend—and I never failed."

In Naniescu's puny mind, obviously a war was waging between greed and avarice. He was seeing his beautiful day-dream vanishing into the intangible ether—whence come all dreams—and he was not prepared to take any risks. Those articles which a reliable courier was even now taking to London with all speed were the most precious things he, Naniescu, had ever possessed. They meant honour, security, money—far more money than Number Ten was demanding with such outrageous impudence. And Naniescu was afraid of Number Ten—afraid of his daring, is courage, his unscrupulous determination to carry through what he had set out to do.

Ten thousand pounds! It was a great deal, but it would come out of secret service funds, not out of Naniescu's own pocket. There was only that slight desire to get the better of Number Ten, to win this battle of wits against so crafty an opponent. But what was amour propre when weighed in the balance with the realization of Naniescu's wonderful daydreams?

Nevertheless he made one more effort at a bargain.

"If I pay you that the thousand," he said, with a savage oath, "what guarantee have I that the articles will be published?"

"None," was Number Ten's cool reply; "but if you don't pay me the ten thousand, I guarantee that they will not be published."

At which M. de Kervoisin put down his book and indulged in a good laugh.

"Take care, my friend," he said to Number Ten, "our friend here is beginning to lose his temper, and you may find yourself under lock and key before he has done with you."

"I wonder!" Number Ten retorted drily "It would mean raising hell in the English press, wouldn't it? if a British subject—what?"

He did not pursue the subject. Even Naniescu himself had put such a possibility out of his reckoning.

"All that our friend could do," Number Ten went on, speaking over his shoulder to M. de Kervoisin, "would be to have me murdered, but he would find even that rather difficult. Ten thousand pounds of secret service money is considerably safer—and cheaper in the end."

Then at last Naniescu gave in. "Oh, have it your own way, curse you!" he exclaimed.

"The money now," Number Ten said coolly, raising a warning finger. "You may as well send one of your clerks over to the bank for it. I prefer that to taking your cheque."

Then he turned to Kervoisin, and picked up the book which the latter had thrown down on the table "Ah!" he remarked, with a total change of tone, "Marcel Proust's latest. You are an epicure in literature, my friend."

He fingered the book, seemingly as indifferent to what Naniescu was doing and saying, as if the whole matter of a ten thousand pound cheque did not concern him in the least.

The general had gone across to a desk which stood in the farther corner of the room. He had written out a cheque, rung the bell, and was now giving orders to a clerk to fetch the money from the Anglo-Roumanian bank over the way.

On the whole he was not displeased with the transaction. The articles signed by Uno and published in The Times would redound to his credit, would bring him all that he had striven for all his life; and, after all, they would cost him nothing—nothing at all.

Number Ten and de Kervoisin were discussing Marcel Proust; he, Naniescu, was savouring his day-dreams once again; and presently when the clerk returned with a bundle of crisp English bank-notes in his hand, Naniescu handed the money over to his spy-in-chief without a qualm, and certainly without regret.

"This being Monday," Number Ten said, after he had stowed the money away in his pocket-book, "and your courier having started last night, you will probably see the first of the articles in Thursday's Times . By the way," he went on casually, "what are you doing about young Imrey and the girl?

"What do you mean by that? What should I be doing with them?"

"Well, when these articles appear—"

"I send them packing, c'est entendu. I never go back on my word," Naniescu said, with a grandiose gesture.

"It would not pay you to do that in this case, my friend. Lady Tarkington has your written promise and she would raise hell if you played her false. But I wasn't thinking of that. I only wished to warn you to keep an eye on those two young firebrands."

"Oh," Naniescu retorted, with a shrug, "once I have them out of the country they can do what they like. They no longer hurt me. Especially after the publication of those beautiful articles."

"That is so, but you are sending Count and Countess Imrey out of the country aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you paid Blakeney for the articles with the title-deeds of Kis-Imre, didn't you?"

"How did you know that?"

"I didn't," Number Ten replied drily. "I guessed, and you gave yourself away."

"Well, and if I did—what is it to you?"

"Nothing, my friend. Nothing. I come back to my original warning. Keep a close eye on young Imrey and Anna Heves, and above all keep a close eye on Blakeney."

"That young blackguard?"

"Yes, that young blackguard! He may be playing a double game, you know. I suppose he is still in Cluj?"

"I thought of that," Naniescu broke in curtly, "so I have had Imrey and the Heves girl transferred to Sót."

"Sót? Isn't that rather near the frontier?"

"Thirty kilometres."

"But why Sót?"

"We have commandeered a château there, which we use as a prison for political offenders. We chose it because it stands alone in an out-of-the-way part of the country, and it saves the nuisance of public manifestations and disturbances when a prisoner who happens to have been popular is condemned. We try them by a military tribunal which holds it sittings at Sót, and if an execution is imperative—well, it is done without any fuss."

"I see. Well," Number Ten went on, as he rose to take his leave, "I need not detain you any longer. Let me assure you," he concluded, with his habitual sardonic smile, "that I shall not now think of interfering with any of the measures which you have adopted to stop Lady Tarkington from running after her manuscript."

"I don't believe that you could have interfered in any case," Naniescu retorted gruffly.

"It is not too late, my friend. I would rather like to pit my wits against yours. So if you have repented of the bargain—" And Number Ten half drew his bulging pocket-book out of his pocket.

"Oh, go to the devil!" Naniescu exclaimed, half in rage and half in laughter.

"And I hope soon to meet you in his company," Number Ten replied, and he finally took his leave from the two men.

As soon as the door had closed on him, Naniescu turned and looked at his friend. But de Kervoisin had picked up his book, and gave him no encouragement to discuss the intriguing personality of Number Ten.

His face, too, was quite inscrutable. Marcel Proust was engaging his full attention. For a moment it seemed as if Naniescu would fall back on his stock phrase, or else on a string of cosmopolitan oaths; he even drew his breath ready for either; then it seemed as if words failed him.

The intriguing personality was above comment.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Rosemary had never before welcomed her husband so eagerly as she did that afternoon. As soon as she heard the whirring of his motor she ran to the gates to meet him.

"What news?" she cried when he had brought the car to a standstill.

As usual, his dark eyes flashed with joy when he saw her. He jumped down and raised both her hands to his lips.

"Very vague, I am afraid," he replied. "And some of it a mere conjecture."

"Tell me."

"To begin with, young Imrey and Anna Heves have been transferred to Sót."

"Where is that?"

"Between Cluj and the frontier. It seems that there is a château there that is being used as a prison for political offenders."

"Who told you that?"

"Naniescu. I saw him for a moment. He was very busily engaged with the Minister for Home Affairs who was over from Bucharest, so he could only give me a few minutes."

"Had he seen Elza?"

"No. But she had applied for permission to see Philip and Anna, and he gave the permission. He supposed that she had gone on to Sót by train."

"Even so," Rosemary mused, "she would be back by now, or else she would have wired."

Jasper appeared to hesitate for a moment or two, and then he said: "I don't think that she has been allowed to do either."

"Why not?"

"It is mere surmise, my dear," Jasper went on quietly, "but one thing Naniescu did tell me and that was that he had on behalf of his government definitely made over the Kis-Imre estates to Peter Blakeney."

They were walking round the house towards the veranda when he said this. Rosemary made no response; indeed, it might be thought that she had not heard, for the next question which she put to Jasper appeared irrelevant."

"Does the midnight express stop at Sót?"

"It does," Jasper replied.

"Then, I can see Elza there. I am sure that is where she is. You inquired at Ujlak?"

"Yes, Elza went there first and then to Cluj."

They had reached the veranda now, and Rosemary went up the steps and then into the house.

"You still wish to come with me to-night?" she asked her husband before she went upstairs.

"Why, of course."

"You are not too tired after all this running about?"

"I?" he exclaimed with a laugh. "Tired? When it is a question of being near you!"

He tried to capture her wrist, but she evaded him and ran quickly through the hall and up the stairs. Before going into her room she called down to him:

"If we use your motor we need not start before eleven o'clock, and there is still a chance of Elza being home before then."

It was just before dinner that the culminating tragedy occurred. Rosemary was in her room, when she heard loud commotion coming form the hall—harsh, peremptory voices, a word or two from Anton, and then Jasper's voice raised as if in protest. She opened her door, and to her horror saw a squad of soldiers in the hall, and between them an officer, and a man in civilian clothes who had an official-looking paper in his hand, and was apparently explaining something to Jasper.

"I regret, my lord, but these are my orders," the man was saying, "and I cannot enter into any discussion with you."

Jasper tried to protest again. "But surely—" he began. The man, however, cut him short.

"If you like," he said, "I can allow you to see Count Imrey first, but this order I must deliver into his own hands."

Rosemary in the meanwhile had run downstairs.

"What is it, Jasper?" she asked quickly.

"An order of eviction," Jasper replied curtly, "against that wretched Maurus."

"Whatever does that mean?"

"That he must quit this place within twenty-four hours."

"Impossible!" she exclaimed hotly.

She turned to the officer and the civilian who had brought this monstrous order.

"The whole thing is a mistake," she said coolly; "some error in the name. Count Imrey is a loyal subject of the King. There has never been a hint of disloyalty levelled against him."

The officer in charge gave a curt laugh and shrugged his shoulders, and the civilian said with a sneer:

"They all say that, milady. They are all wonderfully loyal after they have been found out."

"But General Naniescu himself is a friend of the family. And Lord Tarkington and I can vouch—"

"Pardon, milady," the civilian broke in coldly. "This affair does not concern you or Lord Tarkington, and the order of eviction is signed on behalf of the present owner of Kis-Imre by His Excellency the Governor himself."

"On behalf—"

It was Rosemary who spoke, but the sound of her voice might have come out of a grave. She had never been so near to swooning in her life. The walls around her, the woodwork, the stairs, all took on distorted shapes, and moved, round and round and up and down, until everything was a blur through which the faces of the Roumanian officer and the civilian stared at her and grinned. "On behalf of the present owner of Kis-Imre!" But that was Peter! Peter! And the world did not totter, the earth did not quake, and engulf all these monstrous crimes, this cruelty and this shame!

Luckily none of the Roumanians appeared to have noticed this sudden weakness in her; the civilian was consulting with the officer whether he should allow milord Tarkington to break the awful news to Maurus. Neither raised any objection, and Jasper pronounced himself ready to go. Rosemary turned appealingly to him:

"You will be very patient, Jasper," she begged, "and very, very gentle?"

"Leave it to me, dear," he responded; "I'll do my best."

When he was gone, Rosemary mechanically asked the officer and his companion to come into the smoking-room and sit down. She offered cigarettes. They made her ceremonious bows, and were as polite and conventional as circumstances demanded. She tried to talk; she even asked questions; but they were diplomatically ignorant of everything except of their duty. They explained that this consisted in seeing Count Imrey personally, and giving the eviction order into his own hands.

"It will kill him," Rosemary said, with conviction, "or else send him out of his mind."

Both the men shrugged. They had seen so much of this sort of thing, one of them said, people always threatened to die or to go mad, but nothing of the sort had ever happened.

"Are you quite sure of that?" Rosemary retorted.

Somehow the episode had brought back into the forefront of her consciousness her responsibility with regard to her newspaper articles. Not that conscience had been dormant, but Peter's infamy had been such an overwhelming shock that every other emotion had slipped away into the background. But now it all came back to her. Those articles of hers if they were published would bring a justification of all this—of these orders of eviction, the sort of thing that men died of, or went mad over out of grief, while officials shrugged their shoulders, having seen it all so often.

A few minutes after Jasper returned and Maurus was with him. At sight of Maurus, Rosemary had risen from her chair as if drawn up by mechanical force, and she remained standing, staring at the man whom she had last seen as a fragile weakling, babbling incoherent words. Maurus had dressed himself with unusual care. It almost seemed as if he had been expecting visitors. Rosemary had never seen him with hair so sleekly brushed, or chin so smooth. The officer and the civilian had risen to greet him, and he went up to them with perfect calm, inquiring politely what they desired to say to him. Rosemary turned a questioning glance on Jasper. He, too, appeared puzzled, and followed Maurus' every movement as if he dreaded that something would happen presently, and all the man's self-possession disintegrate in a tempest of fury.

But nothing of the sort happened. Maurus took the order from the civilian, and read it through carefully. Not a muscle of his face twitched, and his hands were perfectly steady. For the moment Rosemary wondered whether this outward calm was not some form of madness.

"I can't understand it," she whispered to Jasper, while the three men were engaged together.

"I am just as puzzled as you are," Jasper replied.

"So long as he is not just putting a terrible strain on himself—in which case the reaction will be frightful.

Maurus was now taking leave of the officials.

"I quite understand the position," he said quietly. "If I had bought a house, I, too, would wish to take possession of it as soon as possible. Perhaps," he added, with a smile, "I should not have been quite in such a hurry, but we all know that with the English time is money, eh, messieurs? And now all I need do is to thank you for your courtesy. I will comply with the order, chiefly because I have no choice."

It was almost unbelievable. Rosemary thought that her eyes and ears must be playing her a trick. The two Roumanians took their leave with their habitual elaborate politeness and Maurus himself saw them to his front door, where the squad of soldiers still stood at attention. When they had all gone, he came back into the smoking-room, and he was actually laughing when he entered.

"Did you ever see such swine?" he said lightly, and then apologized to Rosemary for his language.

"You are taking it so bravely, Maurus, dear," Rosemary murmured bewildered. "But what about Elza?"

"Oh, she prepared me for it; she knew all about it yesterday, and she sent me word what to bring along in the way of clothes for her. And, of course, there will be her jewellery, and one or two little things to see to. However, I have got twenty-four hours before me, and there will be Anton and Rosa to help me."

"But, Maurus, dear—"

"You are astonished, dear Lady Tarkington," Maurus broke in, with rather a sad smile, "to see me take it all so calmly. I was born in this house, and I always thought that I would die in it; but lately these walls have seen so much sorrow and so many villainies that I would just as soon turn my back on them"

"But what does Elza feel about it?"

"The same as I do. She writes quite calmly."

"When did you hear from her?"

"Early this afternoon—so you see I was prepared."

"But where is she?" Rosemary asked insistently.

"She was at Sót when she wrote to me. She had seen Philip and Anna. And she was on the point of leaving for Hódmezö. This was late last night. She is in Hungary by now—and in safety. Please God I shall be with her soon."

He still spoke quite quietly, in short, crisp sentences, with nothing of the rambling and babbling about his speech that had been so pathetic to witness yesterday. But though Rosemary ought to have felt reassured and comforted about him, she could not rid herself of a persistent feeling of dread: the same sort of feeling that invades the nerves at the manifestation of a supernatural phenomenon. There was nothing supernatural about Maurus certainly, but his attitude was so abnormal, so unlike himself, that Rosemary caught herself watching with ever-increasing anxiety for the moment when his real, violent nature would reassert itself.

A moment or two later the dinner-bell rang, and Maurus was full of apologies.

"My stupid affairs have prevented your getting on with your packing, dear Lady Tarkington. Can you forgive me?"

Rosemary could only assure him that all her packing was done. "And anyway," she added, "as Jasper has a car we need not start before eleven o'clock."

"Ah, then, "Maurus said, and offered her his arm to lead her into the dining-room, "we need not hurry over dinner; and I shall have the pleasure of two or three more hours of your company."

Jasper all the while had been strangely silent. Rosemary could see that he was just as much puzzled as she was, and that he was studying Maurus very keenly while the latter was talking. During dinner and while the servants were about, the conversation drifted to indifferent subject. This was the first time that Maurus had a meal in the dining-room since he was taken ill four days ago, and he was like a child enjoying his food and delighted with everything. It was only when coffee had been brought in and the servants had gone away that he reverted to the important subject of his departure.

"My chief cause of regret, dear Lady Tarkington," he said, "is that I cannot welcome you here when you return from your journey. But perhaps we could meet at Budapest, not? Elza speaks about that in her letter to me. She is very anxious to see you."

"I shall break my journey at Hódmezö," Rosemary said, "and probably wait there twenty-four hours till you come."

She had it in her mind that she could wire from there to The Times office, and in any case she had to see Elza.

"There are two good hotels in Hódmezö," Maurus rejoined. "Elza is staying at the Bristol. A very grand name for a simple provincial hotel, but it is very comfortable, I believe. Peter Blakeney's cricket people stayed there last week, you know."

He even could mention Peter's name calmly; and a quaint old English saying came to Rosemary's mind, ever her professional activities brought her in contact with extraordinary people. "Nought so queer as folk!" She almost said it aloud; for never in all her life had she witnessed anything so strange as this metamorphosis of a violent-tempered, morbid epileptic into a calm, sensible man of the world, who takes things as he finds them, and Fate's heaviest blows without wearing his heart on his sleeve.

"I shall not forget the Bristol at Hódmezö," she said after a little while, "and I will certainly remain with Elza until you come. Perhaps I can help her to endure the suspense."

"Perhaps."

"How did the letter get to you? Through the post?"

"No; she sent a peasant over from Sót, a lad who lives in Kis-Imre and was returning home. You know him, dear Lady Tarkington—him and his brother—the two sons of János the miller."

"Those two brave lads who—"

Rosemary paused abruptly. The last thing she wanted to do was to bring back to Maurus' memory that fateful night of the children's abortive escape; but Maurus himself broke in quietly:

"Yes, the two fellows who helped us all they could that night when Philip and Anna tried to get out of the country. The attempt was unsuccessful, as you know. Philip and Anna were captured. They are in Sót now. But the two sons of János—I forget their names—got over the frontier safely. They joined the cricketers at Hódmezö, and are safely back at the mill now."

"Thank God," Rosemary exclaimed fervently, "they did not suffer for their devotion."

"No, I am glad of that," Maurus concluded, with obvious indifference. "But the authorities don't trouble about the peasants. It is the landed aristocracy and the professional classes who have to suffer, if they belong to the conquered race."

It was past ten o'clock before the small party broke up. During the latter part of the time it had been Rosemary's turn to become silent. Maurus started the subject of politics, and Jasper carried on a desultory argument with him on that inexhaustible question. In almost weird contrast to his previous calmness, Maurus' violent temper broke out once or twice during the course of the discussion, and it needed all Jasper's tact and Rosemary's soothing influence to steer clear of all that tended to aggravate him. It was the real man peeping through the armour of all the previous unnatural self-control, the gipsy blood reasserting itself-self-willed, obstinate, impatient of control, bitter against humiliation. Rosemary almost welcomed the change when it came. It was more like the Maurus she knew—a man eccentric and violent, walking close to but not over-stepping the borderland that separates the sane from the insane. It was only when Philip, or Elza, or Kis-Imre were mentioned that he seemed to step over that borderland, encased in an armour of impish indifference.

The soldier-chauffeur brought the car round at eleven o'clock. Rosemary took affectionate leave of Maurus.

"We meet very soon," she said. "In Hungary."

"Yes," he replied. "In Hungary. I shall be so thankful to be there."

He also shook hands very cordially with Jasper.

"I am afraid this has not been a very agreeable stay for you," he said.

"Better luck next time," Jasper responded, as he settled himself down in the car beside his wife.

The car swung out of the gates. Rosemary, looking back, had a last vision of Maurus standing under the electric lamp in the porch, his hand waving a last farewell.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Rosemary must have fallen asleep in the corner of the carriage, for she woke with a start. The train had come to a halt, as it had done at two or three stations since Cluj was left behind. So it was not the sudden jerk, or the sound of the exhaust from the engine, that had caused Rosemary suddenly to sit up straight, wide awake and with that vague feeling of apprehension which comes on waking when sleep has been unconsciousness rather than rest. Jasper sat in the other corner with his eyes closed, but Rosemary did not think that he was asleep. They had a sleeping compartment, but hadn't had the beds made up; it was perhaps less restful for the night journey, but distinctly cleaner. The carriage was in semi-darkness, only a feeble ray of blue light filtered through the shade that tempered the gas-light up above.

Rosemary pulled up the blind. They were at a small station dimly lighted by one oil-lamp above the exit door. A clump of acacia trees in full leaf effectually hid the name of the station from view. A couple of soldiers stood at the door through which a number of peasants, men with bundles and women with baskets, one or two Jews in long gabardines and a prosperous-looking farmer in town clothes and top-boots were filing out. Someone blew a tin-trumpet, a couple more soldiers stalked up the line in the direction of the engine. There was a good deal of shouting.

Rosemary drew the blind down again, and tried to settle herself comfortably in her corner once more. But sleep would not come. She looked at her watch. It was past two. This seemed an unconscionably long halt, even for a train in this part of the world. Rosemary peeped again behind the blind. The station appeared quite deserted now except for the two soldiers on guard at the door. Everything seemed very still—of that peculiar stillness which always seems so deep when a train comes to a halt during the night away form a busy station, and all the more deep by contrast with the previous ceaseless rumbling of the wheels. From the direction of the engine there came the sound of two men talking. Otherwise nothing.

Rosemary reckoned that they should be over the frontier soon, but, of course, if they were going to have these interminable halts—"

Half an hour went by. Even the distant hum of conversation had ceased, and the silence was absolute. Feeling unaccountably agitated rather than nervous, Rosemary called to Jasper. At once he opened his eyes.

"What is it, my dear?" he asked vaguely. "Where are we?" And he added, with a shake of his long, lean body: "These carriages are deuced uncomfortable."

"We are at a small station, Jasper," Rosemary said. "And we've been over half an hour. Have you been asleep?"

"I remember this confounded train pulling up. I must have dropped off to sleep after that. I wonder where we are."

"We can't be very far from the frontier. I thought at first they would turn us out for the customs, or passports or something. But nothing has happened, and we don't seem to be getting on. I do hope there has not been a breakdown on the line."

"My dear!" Jasper exclaimed, rather impatiently, "why in the world should you think that there is a breakdown on the line? There's a signal against us, I suppose. That's all."

But Rosemary was not satisfied. "Do you mind," she said, "seeing if you can get hold of anybody. I can't help feeling nervous and—"

At once Jasper was on his feet, courteous, attentive as always. "Of course I'll go and see, my darling," he said. "But it's not like you to be nervous."

He drew back the shade so as to get a little light into the carriage, straightened his clothes, then went out into the corridor. Everything was so still that Rosemary could hear his footstep treading the well-worn strip of carpet, then the opening of the carriage door, which sent a welcome draught of air through the stuffy compartment. Rosemary pulled up the blind, and leaned out the window. It was pitch-dark, though the sky was starry. The small oil-lamp still flickered over the exit door, and the two soldiers were still there. Rosemary saw Jasper's vague silhouette in the gloom. He stood for a moment looking up and down the line; then he walked away in the direction of the engine. A few minutes went by, and presently Rosemary saw Jasper coming back, accompanied by the guard.

"What is it, Jasper?" she called. "Where are we, and what has happened?"

The two men had come to a halt immediately beneath her window. The guard doffed his cap at sight of her, and scratched his head in obvious perplexity.

"We are at Sót, my darling, but I have bad news for you, I am afraid," Jasper said. "There has been a very serious landslide lower down the line. I suppose it is due to the heavy storms. Anyway, the line is blocked for a distance of nearly half a kilometre, and of course there will be considerable delay. I don't understand all the man says, but it seems to have been a terrible catastrophe."

But out of all this only two words had penetrated Rosemary's brain—"considerable delay." What did that mean? She asked the guard, but he only shook his head. He didn't know. He didn't know anything except that there had been a landslide, and that no train could get through till the line was clear. He supposed that a gang would come down in the morning, but he couldn't say. Rosemary wanted to know whether there would be any other way of continuing the journey and picking up a train the other side of the frontier. The guard again shook his head. He really couldn't say; he was a stranger to these parts, but perhaps in the morning— He suggested respectfully that the gracious lady should allow him to make up a couple of beds in two of the sleeping compartments. There was no one else on the train, so—

"No one else on the train?" Rosemary broke in curtly. "What does he mean, Jasper? There must be other passengers on the train. Where have they gone to?"

Jasper put the question to the guard.

"The last of the passengers got out at this station, gracious lady. When it was known that the line was blocked this side of the frontier, no one took a ticket further than Sót."

"How do you mean? When was it known that the line was blocked?"

"Before we left Cluj, gracious lady, and so—"

"But they sold us tickets to Budapest, and said nothing about a breakdown," Rosemary exclaimed. And then she turned to her husband: "Jasper, tell me, is this man a fool or a liar, or am I half-witted? You took our tickets to Budapest. Did the man at the ticket-office say anything to you about a block on the line?"

"No," Jasper replied, "he did not."

"But our luggage?"

"We have no registered luggage—only what we have with us in the carriage."

"Of course, how stupid of me! But when the man clipped your ticket?"

"He didn't say anything."

Rosemary, impatient, her nerves on edge, turned again to the guard. "You saw the gracious gentleman's tickets," she said, "when we got into the train. Why didn't you warn us?"

"I thought perhaps the gracious lady and gentleman would only go as far as Sót and sleep there. I thought everyone knew about the landslide, and that every passenger had been warned."

"Can we get a car here that will take us to Hódmezö?"

"Not at this hour, gracious lady."

"Or a vehicle of any sort?"

The guard shook his head. Rosemary could have screamed with impatience until Jasper's quiet voice broke in: "I think, my dear, that by far the best thing to do will be to let the man make up a couple of beds for us, and to try and possess ourselves in patience until the morning. There is nothing to be done—really, darling, nothing. And, after all, it may only mean a delay of eight to ten hours."

Then, as Rosemary remained silent, making no further objection, he slipped some money into the guard's hand, and told him to get the beds ready. After that he re-entered the carriage, and rather diffidently sat down beside his wife.

"I feel terribly guilty, dear one," he said humbly, "but you know I don't speak Roumanian very well, and when these sort of people jabber away, I don't always understand what they say. And I was rather anxious about you at Cluj. You seemed so agitated, so unlike yourself."

"Can you wonder? Twenty-four hours' delay may mean that Naniescu's courier will get to London and make arrangements before I have time to wire. I must see Elza first, and in the meanwhile—"

"My darling," Jasper put in, with a quick, wearied sigh, "it is not like you to be so illogical. Do you really suppose that events move at such a rate in a newspaper office? There is bound to be delay—and there's ample time for your telegram to reach The Times before the editor has even thought of inserting your articles. Even if we are held up here for twenty-four hours, you can see Elza and send your wire from Hódmezö before Peter Blakeney, or whoever Naniescu's courier happens to be, can possibly have made any arrangements with The Times ."

"Of course, dear, of course," Rosemary said, more calmly. "I am stupid to-night. This whole business has got on my nerves, I suppose. I don't seem to know what I am doing."

CHAPTER XL

On the narrow made-up bed, with the coarse linen and the heavy blanket, and the smell of sulphur and dust about her, Rosemary found it quite impossible to get any rest. At first there had been a good deal of clumsy shunting, the engine probably had been detached, the tin-trumpet sounded at intervals, and there was a good deal of shouting; but all these noises ceased presently, and the night seemed peculiarly still. Still, but not restful. Rosemary could not sleep. Fortunately the communicating doors between her compartment and the one which Jasper occupied were closed, so she felt free to fidget, to get up or to lie down as the mood seized her, to turn on the light to read or to meditate, without fear of disturbing him.

She could not help feeling desperately nervous. Jasper, of course, was quite right: there was plenty of time in which to see Elza, and then to send a telegram to London if necessary, so there was nothing in a few hours' delay to worry about. Nevertheless she, who had always prided herself on independence and level-headedness, felt a strange kind of foreboding—something vague and indefinite that nevertheless was terrifying. She tried to compose herself and could not. She forced herself into quietude, deliberately kept her eyes closed and her body still. It was torture, but she did it because she wanted to feel that she still controlled her nerves, and that she was not giving way to this stupid sense of fear.

And there was no denying it; the fear that beset her was on account of her coming interview with Elza. Maurus' attitude had been very strange, even abnormal, and it was consequent on a letter from Elza. And Rosemary, though she had not owned it to herself before, felt a growing conviction that Elza's lofty patriotism had given way at last to mother-love. Confronted with Philip and Anna, who no doubt had youth's passionate desire to live, with Anna's mother who was all for conciliating the tyrants, and with Maurus whose reason was threatening to give way, Elza had laid down her arms, had capitulated and decided that her son's life must be saved at any cost. Perhaps she knew that Rosemary's articles had fallen into Naniescu's hands, perhaps she and Peter had actually been in collusion over the theft, perhaps—perhaps— There was no end to conjecture, and no limit to Rosemary's dread of what the next four-and-twenty hours would bring.

Only now did she realize what it had meant to her to place the final decision into Elza's hands. With it she had given her professional honour, her very conscience into another woman's keeping. She had probably only done it because she was so sure of Elza, of Elza's patriotism and her sense of justice and honour. Poor Elza! Who could blame her for being weak, for being a mother rather than a patriot? She should never have been placed before such a cruel alternative. Self-reproach, the stirrings of conscience helped to aggravate Rosemary's racking anxiety. She got up in the early dawn, made what sketchy toilet the limited accommodation allowed, and went out into the open. The little station appeared quite deserted; only the two soldiers were still there on duty at the exit door. Rosemary marvelled if they were the same two who had been there during the night. They looked perfectly stolid, unwashed and slouchy in their faded, coarse-looking uniforms and dusty boots and képis.

Rosemary looked up and down the line. The train, consisting of half a dozen coaches, looked derelict without its engine, and there was no guard in sight. She had no eyes for the beautiful scenery around—the narrow valley bordered by densely wooded heights; the mountain-side covered with oak and beech that were just beginning to clothe themselves in gold and at the approach of autumn; the turbulent little mountain-stream; the small station nestling amidst gnarled acacia trees; and on the right the quaint Transylvanian village with the hemp-thatched roofs and bunches of golden maize drying in the sun, with its primitive stuccoed church and whitewashed presbytery. Rosemary saw nothing of this; her eyes searched the landscape for the château—now a prison for political offenders—where Philip and Anna were detained—those children whose safety would be paid for perhaps by countless miseries, by worse tyranny and more cruel oppression. But there was no large building in sight, and presently Rosemary caught sight of Jasper, some way up the line, walking toward her in the company with a man in very négligé toilet, who probably was the station-master.

At sight of Rosemary, Jasper hastened to meet her, while the man kept at a respectful distance.

"What news?" Rosemary cried eagerly.

Jasper appeared dejected. "Not very good I am afraid," he said. "The station-master here tells me that he has been advised that the line will take the whole of the day to clear—probably more."

"Very well, then," Rosemary said resolutely, "we must get a car."

"Impossible, my dear; you can't get across if the road is blocked."

"All the roads in Transylvania are not blocked, I imagine," Rosemary retorted drily. Then she called to the station-master: "I want," she said, "to get to Hódmezö to-day. Can I get a car anywhere in Sót?"

"But the roads are impassable, gracious lady," the man exclaimed; "the landslide—"

"Never mind about the landslide. There are other roads in Transylvania besides this one. I can go by a roundabout way, but I can get there somehow if I have a car. Or," she added impatiently, seeing that the man was looking very dubious, "a conveyance of any sort, I don't care what it is."

"Alas! gracious lady, that is just the trouble. The soldiers were here yesterday, and they commandeered all the horses and bullocks in Sót for military purposes. It is so hard," the man went on, muttering half to himself; "no sooner does a man scrape together a little money and buy an old horse, then the soldiers come down and take it away from him."

The man was full of apologies and explanations, but somehow Rosemary had the impression that he lied. He rambled on for a while in the same strain; Rosemary did not hear him. Her brain was at work trying to find a way to combat this net of intrigue that was hemming her in. She was quite sure that the man was lying—that Naniescu had ordered these ignorant yokels to tell the lies that suited him. She, Rosemary, Lady Tarkington, a British subject, could not be held up at the frontier, of course, but there could be a landslide, a block on the line, no conveyance available, horses commandeered by the military, two, three, perhaps four days' delay while Naniescu's courier was speeding to London with Rosemary's manuscript and her letter to the editor of The Times asking for early publication.

She turned with some impatience to Jasper.

"What shall I do?"

Gravely he shook his head.

"Accept the inevitable," he replied gently. "I understand that there is quite a clean little hotel in the place, and twenty-four hours' delay is not very serious, is it?"

"It would not be," she admitted, "if it were not prolonged."

"It can't be prolonged indefinitely."

"No," she retorted, "for I can always walk to the frontier."

"Over mountain passes?" he queried, with a smile.

But she only gave a scornful shrug. "Accept the inevitable?" How little he knew her. The more she saw difficulties ahead, the more she felt ready for a fight. Time was still in her favour. Hódmezö was not far with its telegraph service, and Naniescu's power did not extend beyond the frontier.

Always supposing that Elza did wish her to wire.

Rosemary thought tings over for a moment or two; then she said to Jasper: "Very well! I'll possess myself in patience for twenty-four hours. Will you see about rooms at the hotel? And I suppose this man will see about our luggage being taken across?"

"Of course I'll see to everything, dear," Jasper said meekly. "But you would like some breakfast, wouldn't you?"

CHAPTER XLI

Meekly and obediently Jasper went off to see after the luggage, and Rosemary wandered away as far as the village. Her first thoughts as far as the village. Her first thought was to ascertain definitely whether indeed there was no chance of hiring some sort of conveyance to take her as far as Hódmezö. The first man she spoke to was the keeper of the inevitable grocery store. He had heard a rumour that there was a block on the railway line somewhere near the frontier, and this annoyed him very much because he was expecting a consignment of maize from Hungary, and he supposed that he would not now get it for two or three days. He had no horse. Hadn't had one since the beginning of the war, when his nag was commandeered. Now even an old crock was so dear it did not pay to buy.

Rosemary asked him if he knew of anyone in the village from whom she could hire a horse and cart to take her as far as the frontier, but the man shook his head. The Jew at the hotel had two horses, and the priest had one, but the military were down from the barracks yesterday and took those away. There were maneuvers in progress somewhere, it seems. The soldiers said they would bring the horses back in two or three days, but it was very hard and inconvenient for everybody when that sort of thing was done.

Rosemary asked, what about oxen? But draft-oxen and some buffaloes belonging to the mayor had also been commandeered. It was very hard. Did not the gracious lady think so?

Finally the storekeeper made a suggestion that with the help of a little baksheesh the gracious lady might succeed in getting the officer at the château to let her have what she wanted. The château was only a couple of kilometres from the village. It lay close to the road; the gracious lady couldn't fail to spy the great iron gates. It had belonged at one time to Count Fekete, but the family had been gone some time, and the château was now a cavalry barrack, and some prisoners of war were still kept there.

The storekeeper offered his son as an escort to the gracious lady, so that she should not miss her way. But Rosemary declined the offer; she purchased a few stale biscuits from the man, intending to ask for a glass of milk from some cottage on the way; then she set out at a brisk pace down the road. It ran along the mountain-side, and some fifty feet below the turbulent little stream tossed and tumbled over stones and boulders, its incessant murmuring making a soothing accompaniment to Rosemary's thoughts. At the last cottage in the village, where Rosemary had obtained a glass of fresh milk from a comely peasant woman, the latter had directed her to a mountain path which ran below the road, parallel with it, and close to the edge of the stream. Here it was perfectly lovely; the moist, sweet air, the occasional call of birds, the beech and oak and dense undergrowth, the carpet of moss, the occasional clearing where the grass was a luscious green, and the mauve campanula grew to a stately height. At times the path rose sharply, twenty feet or more above the stream; at others it ran level with the water's edge; and at one place the stream widened into a little bay, where the water was as clear as a fairy pool and of a translucent blue.

Rosemary lingered for a little while beside the pool, thinking how delicious it would be to bathe in it. When she went on again she came to a sharp bend in the path, and as soon as she had rounded this she saw some twenty yards farther on a man dressed in the uniform of a Roumanian officer, sitting upon a tree stump close by the water's edge. The man sat with his elbows resting on his knees, and his head was buried in his hands. He looked like a man in trouble. Rosemary walked on, a dry twig crackled under her tread, and the man suddenly looked up.

It was Peter.

The moment he caught sight of Rosemary he jumped up, and then made a movement as if he meant to run away. But Rosemary, with sudden impulse, called to him at once:

"Don't go, Peter."

It seemed as if the magic of her voice rooted him to the spot. He stood quite still, but with his back to her; and then he took off his képi with one hand, and passed the other once or twice across his forehead.

Rosemary felt strangely disturbed and puzzled. Why was Peter here? How did he come to be here? And in this uniform?

"Aren't you going to speak to me, Peter? she asked, because Peter being her seemed so amazing that for the moment she thought that she was seeing a vision; "or even look at me?" she added.

"I did not suppose you particularly wished me to speak to you," he said, without turning round to face her.

"Why should you say that?" she asked simply.

"Because I imagine that you look upon me as such an unmitigated blackguard that the very sight of me must be hateful to you."

She said nothing for a moment or two. Perhaps she was still wondering if he was real, and if so, how he came to be here—just to-day and at this hour. Then she went deliberately up to him, put her hand on his arm, and forced him to look at her.

"It is true, then?" she asked, and her eyes, those pixie eyes of hers, luminous and searching, were fastened on his as if seeking to penetrate to the very soul within him. But a look of dull and dogged obstinacy was all that she got in response.

"It is all true, Peter?" she insisted, trying with all her might to steady her voice, so that he should not hear the catch in her throat.

He shrugged his shoulders, indifferent and still obstinate.

"I don't know what you mean," he retorted, almost roughly.

"I mean," she said slowly, "that these last few days have not just been a hideous nightmare, as I still hoped until—until two minutes ago. That things have really happened—that you—that you—"

She paused, physically unable to continue. It was all too vile, too hideous to put into words. Peter gave a harsh laugh.

"Oh, don't spare me," he said, with a flippant laugh. "You mean that you did not believe until two minutes ago that I was really a spy in the pay of the Roumanian Government, and that you did not believe that I had intrigued to have Philip and Anna arrested, stolen your articles for The Times, and bought Kis-Imre over Aunt Elza's head, and turned her and Maurus out of their home. Well, you believe it now, don't you? So that's that. And as I am on my way to meet a friend, you'll excuse me, won't you, if I run away? Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes," she said. "You can look me straight in the eyes and tell me what has brought you down to—to this. Is it money?"

Peter shrugged. "The want of it, I suppose," he replied.

"I have no right to ask, I know. Only—only—we were friends once, Peter," she went on, with a note of pleading in her tone. "You used to tell me all your plans—your ambitions. You used to say that you did not want to—to bind me to a promise until you had made a name for yourself. If you had told me that you were short of money, and that you were actually thinking of taking up this—this sort of work, I could have helped you. I know I could have helped you. I know I should have found the right words to dissuade you. Oh, Peter!" she went on almost wildly, unable to hold her tears longer in check, or to control the tremor in her voice, "it is all so horrible! Can't you see? Can't you see? We were such friends! You used to tell me everything. You were taking up your father's work. Some of your scientific experiments were already attracting attention. And you were a sportsman, too! And your V.C. And now this—this! Oh, it is too horrible—too horrible!"

Her words were carrying her away. The murmur of the water grew louder and louder in her ears, and in the trees the soughing of the wind among the leaves grew almost deafening. She felt herself swaying, and for a few seconds she closed her eyes. But when she put out her hand she felt it resting on Peter's arm. There was the feel of the rough cloth of his tunic. So she opened her eyes and raised them slowly until they met his. Her glance had wandered on the ugly uniform, the livery of his unspeakable shame. Her eyes expressed the contempt which she felt, the loathing which was almost physical. But Peter's glance now was not only dogged, but defiant. In it she read the determination to follow in the path of life which he had chosen for himself, and a challenge to her power to drag him away from it. This was no longer the Peter of Kis-Imre, the irresponsible young English athlete, whose thoughts would never soar above the interest in a cricket-match. It was more the Peter of olden times—the tempestuous lover, the wayward creature of caprice, the temperamental enthusiast capable of heroic deeds, and always chafing under the restraint imposed by twentieth-century conventions; the Peter whose soul had once been equally great in virtue as it was now steeped in crime; the gallant soldier, the worthy descendant of the Scarlet Pimpernel. It was the Peter of olden times, but his love for her was dead. Dead. If one spark of it had remained alive, if something of her image had remained in his heart, he could never have given himself over to this vile, vile thing. But while she had been battling bravely to banish from her mind all memories of their early love, he had torn her out of his heart, and turned to this ignominious calling to help him to forget.

Rosemary felt giddy and ill; even the sweet woodland air seemed to have turned to poisonous fumes of intrigue and venality. She roughly pushed away from Peter's arm that supported her, but she was still swaying; her hat fell from her head, and her glorious hair lay in a tumbled mass of ruddy gold around her face.

"Better sit down on this old stump," Peter remarked drily. "You'll have to lean on me till you get to it."

But Rosemary did not really know what happened just then—she had such a gnawing pain in her heart. She certainly tottered forward a step or two until she reached the tree-stump, and she sank down on it, helped thereto, no doubt, by Peter's arm. The next thing of which she was conscious was a flood of tears that would not be checked. It welled up to her eyes, and eased that heavy pain in her heart. Great sobs shook her bowed shoulders, and she buried her face in her hands, for she was ashamed of her tears. Ashamed that she cared so much.

And the next thing that struck her consciousness was that Peter sank down on his knees before her, that he raised her skirt to his lips, and that he murmured: "Good-bye, sweetheart. My Rosemary for remembrance. God bless and keep you. Try to forget." Then he jumped to his feet and was gone. Gone! She called him back with a cry of despair: "Peter!" But he was nowhere to be seen. He must have scrambled up the incline that led to the road. She certainly heard high above her the crackling of dry twigs, but nothing more. Peter had passed out of her life, more completely, more effectually, indeed, than on the day when she became Jasper Tarkington's wife. Peter—her Peter, the friend of her girlhood, the master from whom she had learned her first lesson of love, was dead. The thing that remained was a vague speck, a creation of this venal post-war world. It was as well that he should go out of her life.

CHAPTER XLII

A minute or two later Rosemary was startled out of her day-dream by the sound of Jasper's voice calling to her from somewhere in the near distance. She had barely time to obliterate the traces of tears from her eyes and cheeks before he appeared round the bend of the path. The next moment he was by her side. Apparently he had been running, for he seemed breathless and not quite so trim and neat in his appearance as he usually was.

"I heard a scream," were the first words he said, as soon as he came in sight of her. "It terrified me when I recognized your voice. Thank God you are safe!"

He was obviously exhausted and, for him, strangely agitated. He threw himself down on the carpet of moss at her feet; then he seized her hand and covered it with kisses. "Thank God!" he kept on murmuring. "Thank God you are safe!"

Then suddenly he looked up at her with an inquiring frown. "But what made you scream?" he asked.

Rosemary by now had regained control over her nerves. She succeeded in disengaging her hand, and in smiling quite coolly down upon him.

"It was very stupid of me," she said, with a light laugh. "I saw a pair of eyes looking at me through the undergrowth. It startled me. I thought that it was a wild cat—I had heard that there were some in these parts—but it was only a homely one."

She tried to rise, but Jasper had recaptured her hand. He was engaged in kissing her finger-tips one by one, lingering over each kiss as if to savour its sweetness in full. Now he looked up at her with a glance of hungering passion. Rosemary felt herself flushing. She was conscious of an intense feeling of pity for this man who had lavished on her all the love of which he was capable, and hungered for that which she was not able to give. He looked careworn, she thought, and weary.

"You were not anxious about me, Jasper, were you?" she asked kindly.

He smiled. "I am always anxious," he said "when I don't see you."

"But how did you find me?"

"Quite easily; I went to the hotel, you know. Not at all a bad little place, by the way; rather primitive, but with electric light and plenty of hot water. In engaged the rooms, and had a mouthful of breakfast. Then I sallied forth in quest of you. A man in the village told me you had been asking the way to the château, and I knew you would never stand the dusty road. So when I found that there was a woodland path that went through the same way as the road, I naturally concluded that you would choose it in preference. You see," Jasper concluded, with a smile, "that there was no magic in my quest."

Then he looked up at her again, and there was a gleam of suspicion in his dark, questioning eyes. "You must have walked very slowly," he said. "I started quite half an hour, probably more, after you did."

"I did walk very slowly. This path is enchanting, and this is not the first time I have sat down to think and to gaze at this delicious little stream. But," Rosemary went on briskly, "I think I had better be getting on."

But Jasper putout his arms and encircled her knees. "Don't go for a minute, little one. It is so peaceful here, and somehow I have had so little of you these last days. I don't know, but it seems as if we had taken to misunderstanding one another lately." Then, as she made an involuntary movement of impatience, he continued gently: "Do I annoy you by making love to you?"

Rosemary tried to smile. "Of course not, dear. What a question!"

"Then tell me if there is anything in the world I can do to make you happier. You have not looked happy lately. I have been tortured with remorse, for I feel somehow that it has been my fault."

"You are sweet and kind, Jasper, as always. But you must be a little patient. I have gone through a great deal these last few days."

"I know, I know, little one. Don't let us talk any more about it."

He was wonderfully kind—kinder and gentler than he had been since the first days of their married life. It almost seemed as if he had set himself the task of making her forget all that he had involuntarily revealed to her of his violent, unbridled temperament, and of that lawless passion that lay at the root of his love for her.

He talked of the future, of their return to England, the home that he would make for her, which would be a fitting casket for the priceless jewel which he possessed. Rosemary, who felt inexpressibly lonely, was once more conscious of that feeling of gratitude towards him which she had once hoped might be transmuted, in days to come, into something more ardent than friendship.

She had suffered so terribly in her love for the one man who, with all his faults, had come very near to her ideals, that she felt a desperate longing to cherish and to cling to the husband whom she had chosen half out of pique, the man on whom she had inflicted so much cruelty by becoming his wife.

CHAPTER XLIII

Rosemary was the first to remember that time was slipping by. She looked at her watch. It was past ten o'clock—over an hour since Peter had asked her to try to forget. She rose briskly to her feet, and arm in arm, like two good comrades, she and Jasper made their way together towards the château. When they came in sight of the great gates-a couple of hundred yards still ahead of them—Rosemary was the first to spy a motor-car standing there, and some half-dozen persons in the act of getting into the car. There were two sentries at the gates, and seemingly a few people on the other side.

"It looks like a man and a woman and three soldiers in uniform getting into that car," Rosemary remarked casually. And immediately, for no apparent reason, Jasper started to walk along more rapidly; a few seconds later he almost broke into a run. At that moment the car started off, and was soon lost to sight in a cloud of dust. Rosemary thought that she heard Jasper utter a savage oath.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked. But he did not answer, only hurried along so quickly that she was not able to keep up with him. He had passed through the gates when she reached them, and when she tried to follow she was stopped by the sentry. She called to Jasper, who apparently did not hear; pointing to him, she explained to the man on duty that she was that gentleman's wife, and if he was allowed to go in, why not she? They were as mute as if she had spoken in an unknown tongue, but they would not allow her to pass. In the meanwhile Jasper had disappeared inside the château. Rosemary had seen him go in by the main entrance, challenged by the sentry on guard at the door, but after a second or two allowed to pass freely in.

Fortunately she was provided with money, and her experience of this part of the world was that most things could be accomplished with the aid of baksheesh. A young officer was crossing the courtyard; he looked in the direction of the gates, saw an excessively pretty woman standing there, and, true to his race and upbringing, came at once to see if he could enter into conversation with her. Very politely he explained to her that no one was allowed to enter the château, or to visit any of the prisoners, without a special permit from the commanding officer.

Rosemary told him that she desired to speak with the commanding officer. This also, it seems, was impossible. But a hint from Rosemary as to reward if the matter could be managed simplified matters a great deal.

The young officer conducted her across the courtyard and into the château. It had been a fine place once, not unlike Kis-Imre in architecture, but its occupation by the military had stripped it of every charm. There were not carpets on the floors, and only very rough furniture in the way of chairs and tables in what had obviously been at one time a cosy lounge hall. The officer led the way through a couple of equally bare rooms en enfilade, and came to a halt outside a door which bore roughly chalked upon the finely carved and decorated panels the legend: "Major Buriecha. Private. No admittance." He offered one of the rough chairs rather shamefacedly to Rosemary, and said: "Major Buriecha will becoming through here presently. Will you wait, gracious lady? You will be sure to see him. I am afraid," the young man added, with a pleasant smile, "that it is the best I can do."

"Couldn't you announce me? Rosemary asked. "I am Lady Tarkington. I am sure Major Buriecha would not refuse to see me."

The officer's smile became self-deprecating. "It is more that I should dare to do, milady," he said. "The major is engaged in conversation with an important government official. I would even ask you kindly, when you see him, not to tell him that I brought you as far as here."

"I couldn't do that, even if I wished, as I don't know your name."

"Lieutenant Uriesu, at your service, milady."

"I suppose," Rosemary went on, after a moment's hesitation, "you couldn't tell me what has become of my husband, Lord Tarkington. He went through the gates and entered the château, then I lost sight of him. But he seemed to be well known inside this place. Could you find out for me where he is?"

"I am afraid not, milady," the young officer replied politely. "I have not the honour of Lord Tarkington's acquaintance."

He stood at attention, waiting for a moment or two to see if the English lady had any further questions she wished to ask; then as she remained silent, he saluted gravely and went out of the room, leaving Rosemary to bear her soul in patience., and to wonder what in the world had become of Jasper.

At first only a confused murmur of voices came to her ears through the closed doors of Major Buriecha's private room. But gradually one of those voices grew louder and louder, as if raised in anger; and Rosemary, astonished, recognized that it was Jasper speaking—in French, and obviously with authority—to Major Buriecha, the officer commanding! . . . What in the world—?

She heard some words quite distinctly:

"You are a fool, Buriecha! No one but a fool could have been taken in like this."

And the voice that gave reply was humble, apologetic, decidedly tremulous with fear. Rosemary could not distinguish what it said.

Major Buriecha engaged in conversation with Jasper! And Jasper reprimanding him with obvious authority! What could it mean? At first she had only been puzzled, now a vague sense of uneasiness stirred in her heart. Uneasiness that almost partook of fear. With sudden impulse she rose and went to the door. Orders or no orders, she must know what was going on inside that room. Her hand was on the latch when she paused, listening. Was it mean to listen? Perhaps; but instinct was stronger than good conduct, and she had just heard Jasper's harsh voice giving a curt command:

"Get through to General Naniescu at once," and then the click of the telephone receiver being lifted from its hook and the whir of the bell-handle. What could she do but listen? There was silence inside the private room now, but Rosemary could hear Jasper's easily recognizable step pacing restlessly up and down. And one moment he paused quite close to the door, and Rosemary quickly drew back a step or two, ready to face him if he came. But he resumed his pacing and she her watch by the door. Presently she heard the other voice—the major's, presumably—saying: "Is that you, Marghilo? Ask his Excellency the Governor to come to the telephone, will you?" There was a pause, then Buriecha spoke again: "Tell him it is Major Buriecha. And, I say, Marghilo, tell him it is very important and desperately urgent."

Again there was a pause, a long one this time. Jasper was still pacing up and down the room. Rosemary could picture him to herself, with his habitual stoop and his thin hands held behind his back. Once he laughed, his usual harsh, mirthless laugh. "You'll get a fine dressing-down for this, my friend. I am thinking," he said. "Naniescu won't make light of it, I can tell you."

Silence once again. Then Jasper's voice speaking into the telephone, and always in French: "Hallo! Hallo! Is that you, Naniescu? good! Number Ten speaking."

Number Ten! What—? But there was no time to think, no time for puzzlement or fear. Jasper was speaking again.

"Buriecha has bade a complete fool of himself. He has allowed young Imrey and the girl Heves to escape! Hallo! Did you hear me? It's no use swearing like that, you'll only break the telephone. Yes, they've gone, and you've got to get them back. Went by car half an hour ago, in the direction of Cluj, but probably making for the frontier—what? Oh, a plot, of course, engineered by that damned Blakeney. No use cursing Buriecha; you are as much to blame as he is. Eh? Of course, for treating with that young devil behind my back! Yes, you— Well, hold on and listen. Blakeney, I am sure it was he, came here with a forged order from you, demanding that Imrey and the girl shall be delivered to him for transference to an unknown destination. Eh? Well, of course he should have known, but he says your signature looked perfect; he thought it was all in order. The rascal was in officer's uniform, and had two men with him also in uniform. What can you do? Telephone all along the roads to your frontier police, of course. If they stick to the car they are bound to be stopped. Yes, five persons—three of the men in uniform, in an open car. The prisoners have probably taken on some disguise by now. Shoot at sight, of course, if the car does not slow down. Police the mountain paths as well. Blakeney can't know them well. I don't know who the other two men are. Hungarian, perhaps, or English. Don't delay. Yes, yes! What's that? Marghilo getting through? Good! Well, that's the best you can do. We'll have a reckoning presently, my friend. You should not have treated with him, I say. He has probably robbed your courier of the newspaper articles or else telegraphed in Uno's name to The Times not to print them, and then got the prisoners out of your clutches by this impudent trick. Oh, all right. Hurry up! You have no time to waste, nor have I. Yes! All right. Come along if you want to. I shall be at Sót all right enough. But you won't enjoy the interview, my friend, I promise you that. What?"

Jasper had ceased speaking for some time, but Rosemary still stood beside the door—a woman turned to stone. Her hands and feet were numb. She could not move; only from time to time a cold shudder travelled down her spine. She felt nothing, not even horror. It was all too stupendous even for horror. A cataclysm, a ball of fire, a flame that froze, ice that scorched. A topsy-turvydom that meant the kingdom of death.

And Jasper, her husband, was on the other side of that door, Jasper Tarkington, her husband! The spy of an alien government, Number Ten! A thing! A rag torn and filthy. The man whose name she bore. She could hear his footstep in the next room, his mirthless laugh, his harsh voice muttering curses or else invectives against the other man, who was only a fool. Then suddenly the footsteps came to a halt. The door was pulled open and Rosemary stood face to face with Jasper.

At sight of her he stood stock-still. An ashen hue spread over his face. The curse that had risen to his throat died before it reached his lips.

From the room behind him Major Buriecha's tremulous voice was asking if anything was amiss. Jasper closed the door and stood with his back to it, still facing Rosemary. His eyes, always hawk-like and closely set, had narrowed till they were mere slits, and his lips had curled up over his jaws, showing his teeth white and sharp, like those of a wolf. An expression of intense cruelty distorted his face. He was about to speak, but Rosemary put up her hand to stop him.

"Not here," she commanded. "Not now."

He gave a hard laugh and shrugged his shoulders.

"It had to come some time, I suppose," he said coolly. "I am not sorry."

"Nor I," she replied. "But will you please go now? We'll meet later—in the hotel."

He looked her up and down with that glance which she had learned to dread, and for a moment it seemed as if he would yield to that ungovernable passion in him and seize her in his arms. Rosemary did not move. Her luminous eyes, abnormally dilated, never left his face for one instant. She watched the struggle in the man's tortuous soul, the passion turned to hatred now that he stood revealed. She did not flinch, because she was not afraid. The man was too vile to inspire fear.

"Go!" she said coldly.

For another second he hesitated, but it was the banal sound of Buriecha spluttering and coughing on the other side of the door that clinched his resolve. This was neither the place nor the time to assert his will, to punish her for the humiliation which he was enduring. Once more he laughed and shrugged his shoulders, then he walked slowly out of the room.

CHAPTER XLIV

For over half an hour Rosemary waited in that bare, cheerless room, and gazed unseeing out of the window while she tried vainly to co-ordinate her thoughts. In the forefront of her mind there was a feeling of great joy which she hardly dared to analyse. Joy! And she also had the feeling, though she had come to the very brink of an awful precipice, though she was looking down into an abyss of shame and horror, with no hope of ever being able to bridge the chasm over, that yet on the other side was peace—peace that she would never attain, but which was there nevertheless, to dwell on, to dream of, when the turmoil was past and she be allowed to rest.

After about half an hour the young officer who had first conducted her to the fateful spot came back to see what had happened. He seemed astonished that she was still there.

"Major Buriecha has not yet come out of his room," Rosemary managed to say quite coolly. "It is getting near dinner-time. I don't think I'll wait any longer."

The young man appeared relieved. Anyway he was not likely now to get into trouble on the English lady's account. He clicked his heels together, expressed perfunctory regret at her disappointment, the offered to conduct milady out of the château. Rosemary accepted his escort and took leave of him at the gates.

"If milady, will write to the commanding officer," Lieutenant Uriesu said at the end, "I am sure he will give the permit milady requires."

"I will certainly take your advice," Rosemary assented cheerfully. "Good-bye, Lieutenant Uriesu, and thank you for your kind efforts on my behalf."

She walked back towards the village by way of the path. When she came to the spot where first she had seen Peter that morning, she sat down on the tree-stump and listened to the murmur of the stream. She would not allow herself to think of Peter—only of Philip and Anna, whom he was taking across the frontier by another clever trick—in disguise, probably—and over the mountain passes. Rosemary could not believe that they would stick to the car and be stopped by the frontier police. They would get away into Hungary-on foot. They were young, they knew the country, and they could scramble over the mountain passes and be at Hódmezö soon, where Elza would be waiting for them. Elza knew, of course, and Maurus knew too. That was why he had been so calm and so composed when he was told that he must leave Kis-Imre within four-and-twenty hours. The all knew. Peter had trusted them. Only she, Rosemary, had been kept out of his councils, because she might have betrayed them to Jasper, and Peter could not tell her that it was Jasper who was the miserable spy.

But no, she would not think of Peter, or of how he had worked to circumvent Jasper at every turn. She only wanted to think of Philip and Anna, those two children who were so ingenuously learning the lesson of love one from the other, and of Elza, so patient and so heroic, and of Maurus, who had played his part so well. Maurus would be coming through from Cluj some time to-day, and he, too, would be held up at Sót, and perhaps spend the night in the funny little hotel. Rosemary hoped that she would see him. His company would be very welcome whilst Jasper was still there. Then to-morrow she and Maurus would get across the frontier somehow, and join up with Elza and the children at Hódmezö. And there was always the British Consul in Cluj to appeal to. There was no desperate hurry now. The children were safe and those articles of hers would not be published in The Times. Peter would have seen to that.

But no, she did not want to think of Peter. Was she not still Jasper Tarkington's wife?

CHAPTER XLV

It was late in the afternoon when Rosemary at last made her way back to the small hotel in Sót. She had spent the day roaming about the forests, and eating such scrappy food as she could purchase at one or other of the cottages. Twice she had been to the railway station to meet the trains that were due in from Cluj. She hoped that Maurus might have come by one of them. Now there was not another due before the midnight express, which got to Sót in the small hours of the morning. The farce of there being a block on the line was still kept up. Passengers got out of the train, grumbling, and the small hotel was full to capacity. It was a low, irregular building, with a very large courtyard closed on three sides, and a wide archway, through which cars and carriages could drive in, intersecting the fourth. One side of the house was given over to stabling and cowsheds, another to kitchens and offices, the other two held the guest-rooms and one or two public rooms. Some of the bedrooms were level with the ground, and on the floor above a wooden gallery ran right round the courtyard. The courtyard itself seemed to be the principal meeting-place for cows and chickens, and even pigs, which roamed freely about the place and entered any door that happened to be conveniently open. The best bedrooms gave on the balcony above. On inquiry Rosemary was informed that the English milord had booked three rooms that morning for himself and milady who would be coming during the day. A buxom, bare-footed peasant girl then conducted milady up to these rooms.

Rosemary went along heavy-footed. She was more tired than she would have cared to admit. She had had very little food all day, and her nerves by now were terribly on edge. It had been a day packed full of emotion and there was more to come. There was the inevitable interview with Jasper. Horrible as it would be, she had no intention of shirking it. she would leave him, of course, with the hope never to set eyes on him again, but certain matters would have to be arranged between them, and Rosemary's moral courage would not allow her to have recourse to letter-writing or to the help of lawyers. She knew what she wished to say to Jasper, and would have despised herself if she had shrunk from the ordeal.

The hours went slowly by. Later in the evening she ordered some supper to be brought up to her room. She found it difficult to swallow any food, but she drank two cups of deliciously strong coffee, and munched some of the excellent and very sustaining maize bread for which this part of the country is famous. She had a book in her suit-case and contrived to read for a while, but she could not concentrate on what she was reading, and soon had to put the book away. Time hung very heavily. She was terribly weary and yet she could not sleep. And she could not understand what had become of Jasper. She had seen or heard nothing of him since they parted in that ugly, bare room, the picture of which would for ever remain graven in her mind as the place where she had experienced the greatest horror in her life. No one in the hotel had seen him. A vague sense of uneasiness began to stir within her. At the same time she dismissed from her mind any fear for his safety. She was quite sure that whatever he ultimately decided to do, he would not pass out of her life without a final struggle for mastery. She did not dread the interview. she knew it to be inevitable; but she longed passionately for it to be over—to know the worst—to feel certain of that measure of freedom for which she meant to fight.

And because she longed for the interview to be over she would not go to bed before Jasper returned. She sat in the narrow slip-room, grandiosely described by the hotel proprietor as the salon, which divided Jasper's room from hers. The one window, which was wide open, gave her a beautiful view over the mountains, and the evening sky studded with stars. Somewhere the other side of those mountain-tops Philip and Anna were speeding towards freedom-the freedom which Peter had won for them by dint of courage, resource and wit. Instinctively, memory recalled that other weary waiting at Kis-Imre, when she and Elza had watched and prayed together through the hours of the night. And torturing fears rose out of the darkness lest this second attempt at flight should prove as unsuccessful as the first.

It was past midnight when Rosemary heard Jasper's familiar step along the wooden balcony. He came straight to the door of the salon and entered, apparently without the slightest hesitation. He closed the door behind him, and throwing down his hat said coolly:

"I saw the light under the door, so I knew you had not gone to bed yet. I've been in some time, but stayed to have some supper in the coffee-room. Very good supper, too. They know how to cook in Hungary. That is the one thing the Roumanians might with advantage learn from them."

He threw himself into a chair and drew his cigarette-case out of his pocket. Having selected one he offered his case to Rosemary.

"Have one?" he asked. When she shook her head he shrugged and laughed, then he struck a match and lighted his cigarette. His hand was perfectly steady. The flame of the match brought for a moment into relief his narrow hatchet face, with the dark eyes set closely together and the harsh Wellingtonian features. Rosemary looked at him curiously. It was the first time she had really studied his face closely since she knew. Once or twice, before she had been repelled by a flash of animal passion in his eyes, and once she had caught sight of his face in the mirror in the smoking room at Kis-Imre, when it was distorted by a wolfish expression of cruelty. Now both the passion and the cruelty were there, expressed around his mouth and in his eyes which looked at her over the tiny flickering flame.

Deliberately he blew the match out, took a long whiff from his cigarette, and said calmly:

"How you are going to hate me after this!"

After a second's pause he added: "Well, I have had so much cruelty to endure from you in the past, a little more or less won't make much difference."

"I have never meant to be cruel, Jasper," Rosemary rejoined coldly. "But I know now that the cruelest thing I ever did to you was to become your wife."

"You only found that out, my dear, since you saw Peter Blakeney again."

To this Rosemary made no answer. She shrugged her shoulders and turned her head away. Jasper jumped up and gripped her by the arm, making her wince with pain.

"Before we go any further, Rosemary," he said with a savage oath, "I'll have it out with you. Are you still in love with Peter Blakeney?"

"I refuse to answer," Rosemary said calmly. "You have no longer the right to ask me such a question."

"No longer the right," he retorted with a harsh laugh. "You are still my wife, my dear. What happened this afternoon will not give you your freedom in law, remember."

"I know that, Jasper. What happened this afternoon has broken my life, but, as you say, it cannot give me my freedom, save with your consent."

He gave a derisive chuckle. "And you are reckoning on that, are you?" he asked drily.

"I am reckoning on it."

"Then all I can say, my dear, is that, for a clever woman, your calculations are singularly futile."

"I don't think so," she rejoined. "I know enough about the laws of England to know that they do not compel me to live under your roof."

"You mean that you intend to leave me?"

"I do."

"And create a scandal?"

"There need be no scandal. We'll agree to live apart; that is all."

"That is not all, my dear," he retorted drily, "as you will find out to your cost."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Peter Blakeney chose to follow you to Transylvania; any number of witnesses can testify to that. I mean, that we are now in a country where money will purchase everything, even such testimony as will enable Lord Tarkington to divorce his wife, and raise such a hell of scandal around Mr. Blakeney that no decent club would have him as a member, and he would have to live out of England for the benefit of his health."

Rosemary had listened to him without attempting to interrupt. She even tried hard not to reveal the indignation which she felt. When he had finished speaking, and once more threw himself into a chair, with a sigh of self-satisfaction, she said quite quietly:

"I thought that this afternoon I had probed the lowest depths to which a man's nature could sink. But, God help me! I have seen worse now!"

"That is as it may be, my dear. A man fights for what he treasures with any weapon that comes to his hand."

"For what he treasures, yes! But you—"

"I treasure you beyond all things on earth," he broke in hoarsely. "You are my wife, my property, my own possession. You may love Blakeney and hate me, but I have rights over you that all the sophistries in the world cannot deny me. I am alone," he went on—and in one second he was on his feet again, and before she had time to defend herself he had her in his arms—"I alone have the right to hold you as I am holding you now. I alone have the right to demand a kiss. Kiss me, Rosemary, my beautiful, exquisite wife, with the pixie eyes! Though you hate me, kiss me—though you love him, kiss me— Mine is still the better part."

He pressed his lips against hers, and for these few horrible moments Rosemary, half swooning, could only lie rigid in his arms. But horror and loathing gave her strength. With her two hands she pushed against him with all her might. "Let me go," she murmured. "I hate you."

But he only laughed. "Of course you hate me. Well, I like your hatred better than the cool indifference I have had from you up to now. You hate me, my dear, because you don't understand. With all your vaunted cleverness you don't understand. Women such as you—good women, I suppose we must call them—never would understand all that there is in a man that is evil and vicious and cruel. Yes, in every man! Deep down in our souls we are blackguards, every one of us! Some of us are what women have made us, others have vices ingrained in our souls at birth. Have you ever seen a schoolboy tease a cat, or a lad set a terrier against a stoat? Would you hate him for that? Not you! If he has revolted you too much, you may punish him, but even so you'll only smile: it is boy's nature, you will say. Well, boy's nature is man's nature. Cruel, vicious! Civilization has laid a veneer over us. Some of us appear gentle and kind and good. Gentle? Yes! On the surface. Deep down in our souls, grown men as we are, we would still love to tease the cat, or to see a terrier worry a stoat. Whilst men had slaves they thrashed them. Where wives are submissive their husbands beat them. Give a man power to torture and he will do it. Boy's nature, I tell you, but we dare not show it. We are gentlemen now, not men. And most of us have a false idea that women would despise us if they knew. And so we smirk and toady and pretend, and those of use who are not puppets writhe against this pretence. I was born a savage. When I was a schoolboy I was not content with teasing a cat, I loved to torture it; if a horse was restive I would thrash it with the greatest joy. Later I reveled in twisting a smaller boy's wrist until he screamed, in pulling a girl's hair or pinching her arm—anything that hurt. Boy's nature. Most women only smiled! Then came the war and the world was plunged in an orgy of cruelty. I was a very fine linguist and became attached to the secret service. I worked for the French army. I no longer pulled girl's hair nor pinched their arms, but I—the spy—tracked enemy spies down—women and men—dragged them out of their lair as a terrier would a stoat, and brought them before the military tribunals to be condemned and shot. But the women still smiled. Good women, mind you! Those whom I was tracking down were Germans, and so I-the spy—was a hero and they were only human refuse whom to torture was a duty. When war was over and my uncle died I inherited a title, and civilization threw the mantle of convention over me, imposed on me certain obligations. My work was done. I became a puppet. I smirked and toadied and tried to pretend. Oh, how I loathed it! Restrictions, civilization, drove me mad! If I had never met you I should have gone off to a land where I could keep slaves and work my will on them, or turned Moslem and kept numberless wives, whom I could beat when the mood seized me. But I met you, and all my desires were merged in the one longing to have you for my own. You were adulated, famous, rich probably. I had a title to offer you and nothing else. My friend de Kervoisin, who knew my capabilities, spoke to me of Transylvania, a conquered country where rebellion was rife. He spoke to me of Naniescu, an ambitious man, unscrupulous and venal, who wanted help to consolidate his position, to put himself right before his government and before the world by brining to light intrigues and conspiracies that did not always exist. The work meant money. I took it on. I made over £100,000 in three years, and there was more to come. Already I was a rich man and the work satisfied the boy's nature in me. Following up a clue. Disguises. Tracking a man down, or a woman. Seeing their fear, watching their terror. Arrests, secret trials. Executions in the early dawn. Scenes of desolation and farewells. I had them all! They helped me to endure the London seasons, the evenings at the club, the balls, the crowds, the futility of it all. And the money which I earned brought me nearer and nearer to you. Luck was on my side. Peter Blakeney courted you, and like a fool he lost you. How? I did not know and cared less. I won you because I was different from other men, because you were piqued, and because I interested you. Because I knew how to smirk and toady better than most. Then came the question of Transylvania. Naniescu entrusted me with the task of discovering the authorship of certain articles that had appeared in English and American newspapers which impugned his administration. He offered me ten thousand pounds if I succeeded in brining the author to justice, and ten thousand more if certain articles which you were to write were published in The Times. The very first morning that we were in Cluj the girl Anna Heves gave away her secret. Once I had her and Philip under arrest it was easy enough to bring pressure to bear upon you. I almost succeeded, as you know. At first it was difficult—whilst Elza and Maurus Imrey were ignorant of the bargain that Naniescu had proposed to you. I had only gained one victory, I was not likely to win the other. So, while you thought me in Bucharest, I came back disguised as a gipsy and warned Elza that Philip and Anna were in danger of death. This brought everything to a head. Unfortunately Peter Blakeney already suspected me. It began probably in England—exactly when I shall never know—but he was my friend once, and then suddenly I felt that we had become enemies. I must have given myself away at one time, I suppose, and he is as sharp as a wild cat. He followed us to Transylvania—to make sure. . . . Then at Cluj Anna Heves confided in him. The children's arrest confirmed his suspicions, and that night at Kis-Imre he recognized me under my disguise as a gipsy. Curse him! After that the whole adventure became a battle of wits between him and me. I won the first round when I spied out the plan for Philip and Anna's escape; I won again when I persuaded you to place the whole bargain between yourself and Naniescu before Elza, and indirectly induced you to write the newspaper articles which he wanted. I thought I had won an easy victory then. But Peter Blakeney stole your manuscript, and I feared then that I had lost everything. The death of Philip and Anna Heves would have been some compensation, it is true, but I wanted that extra ten thousand pounds more than I did the joy of seeing those two children shot. I thought that Peter had stolen the manuscript in order to bargain with it for the lives of his two cousins, but I know better now. He sold your manuscript to Naniescu for the Kis-Imre property. It will stand in his name until he can hand it over to the Imrey's again. In the meanwhile by a clever ruse he has got Philip and Anna out of the country. And by now he will have sent a telegram in your name to The Times. He has won the battle hands down. I am beaten in all, except in one thing, I have you. Not all his cleverness—and he is as clever as a monkey, it seems—can take you away from me. If you leave me, you do so knowing the consequences. Remember what I said: we are in a country where money can purchase everything, even such testimony as will enable me to divorce you and to raise such a hell of scandal around Peter Blakeney that no decent man in England would shake him by the hand. So now you know. I have told you my history, and I have extolled Peter Blakeney's virtues—his heroism, if you like to call it so. And I have done it deliberately so that you may admire him, regret him, love him if you must, even whilst you feel yourself irrevocably bound to me. You are just as much my slave now, as if I had bought you in the open market. If you continue to hate me, I shall probably hate you too in the end. But that would not help to free you. On the contrary, I think it would rather amuse me. I was never content to tease a cat, I invariably tortured it."

Jasper Tarkington had been speaking without interruption for nearly ten minutes, but he had not spoken without a pause. He was pacing up and down the narrow room with his hands held behind his back, but now and again he had come to a halt, quite close to Rosemary, either to emphasize a point, or to look her up and down with a glance of cruelty or merely mockery. Rosemary withstood every glance without flinching. She was standing close to the table with her hand resting on it, to giver herself support. She did not interrupt him. She wanted to hear everything he had to say, right to the end. When he renewed his threat that he would call false witnesses in order to create deadly scandal around Peter, and warned her that she was as much his slave as if he had bought her in the open market, she had, quite instinctively, glanced down on the tray which contained the remnants of her supper. There was a knife on the tray; one with a broad blade narrowing into a sharp point. She shuddered and turned her eyes away, but Jasper had caught her glance. He had just finished speaking, and he went deliberately up to the table, picked the knife up by its point, and with a mocking smile held it with its handle towards her.

"Very dramatic," he said lightly. "Did you ever see La Tosca?"

When she made no reply he laughed and threw the knife back on the table. Then he sat down and lit another cigarette.

There was silence in the little room now. Rosemary had scarcely moved. The horror and indignation which she had felt at first when Jasper embarked upon the history of his life had given place to a kind of moral numbness. She had ceased to feel. Her body seemed turned to stone; even her soul no longer rebelled. She was this man's wife, and he had warned her of the means which he would adopt to bind her, unresisting, to him. Nothing but death could loosen the bonds which he had tightened by his threats against Peter.

Jasper smoked on in silence. Only the fussy ticking of the old-fashioned little clock broke the stillness that had descended like a pall over this lonely corner of God's earth. A little while ago Rosemary had been vaguely conscious of a certain amount of bustle and animation in the house, and subconsciously she had associated this bustle with the probable arrival of guests who had come off the night train. But that had been some time ago. How long she did not know; probably before Jasper had begun speaking. She looked at her watch. It was half-past two. Jasper jumped to his feet.

"It must be very late," he said coolly. "I really must beg your pardon for having kept you up so long. Reminiscences are apt to run away with one."

He put down his cigarette, deliberately went up to his wife and took her by the shoulders.

"Kiss me, Rosemary," he said quietly.

It seemed to amuse him that she did not respond, for he gave a mocking chuckle and put his arms round her. He pressed his lips upon her mouth, her eyes, her throat. Then suddenly he let her go and she almost fell up against the table.

He then walked across to the door of his room.

CHAPTER XLVI

Jasper Tarkington, on the point of entering his room, had switched on the light and then paused on the threshold, uttering a gasp of astonishment.

"Maurus!" he exclaimed, "what in the world are you doing here?"

Maurus Imrey was sprawling on the horse-hair sofa, apparently fast asleep. At Jasper's ejaculation he opened his eyes, blinked, yawned, and stretched his arms.

"Ah! my dear Tarkington," he said in Hungarian. "I thought you were never coming."

He rose and shook himself like a big, shaggy dog, and passed his fingers through his tousled hair.

"I must have been fast asleep," he said.

"But what are you doing here, my friend?" Jasper asked, frowning.

"Waiting for you to do me a little service. It is so late, I don't really like to ask you. But I should be badly stranded if you did not help me."

"What is it?"

"I left Cluj by the midnight express," Maurus explained. "You know that we have all been turned out of Kis-Imre. And, by the way, it is Peter Blakeney who has bought the place. Isn't it a scandal? I never thought he would be such a swine. You know he is a near relation of my wife's."

"Yes, yes!" Jasper muttered impatiently. "What about it?"

"Well, simply that those damned officials at Cluj station never told me that I could only get as far as Sót. So I arrived here with my luggage and Anton, and, of course, I found this beastly hotel full. Not a room to be had, my dear fellow. Did you ever hear of such a thing? In the olden days one would just have taken a man by the scruff of his neck and thrown him out of any room one happened to want for oneself. I don't know what it's like with you in England, but here—"

"Just as bad," Jasper broke in with a curse, "but in heaven's name get on, man."

"Well, then, I left my big luggage here, and Anton and I went on to another little tavern I know of in the village. There, as luck would have it, the proprietor whom I used to know is dead, and the new man is one of those Bulgarian agriculturists who come over every year, you know, for the harvesting. Some of these men do settle down here sometimes, and this man—"

"Well, what about him?"

"He doesn't know a word of Hungarian, my dear fellow, and he does not seem to understand much Roumanian either. You once told me that you had been in Bulgaria and that you knew a little of their beastly language, so I thought—"

"What is it you want me to do?" Jasper broke in impatiently. "Walk over with you and arrange with the man about your rooms?"

"If you would not mind. Or could you let me sleep on your sofa?"

Jasper had hesitated at first. It was close on three o'clock, and he did not relish the idea of turning out again at this hour; but the suggestion that Maurus should be his room companion for the night was far more unpleasant.

"Come along, then," he said curtly. "It isn't far, I suppose?"

"Five minutes' walk, my dear fellow," Maurus said with obvious relief, "just the other side of the stream. And Anton shall walk back with you afterwards."

"I don't want anybody to chaperon me," Jasper retorted roughly.

He had to go into the salon to fetch his hat. Rosemary was still standing there leaning against the table for support. She had very much wanted to see Maurus at one time, but now it did not seem to matter. Nothing probably would ever matter again. She heard Jasper's voice saying in a whisper, "You've heard what this fool wants. I suppose I shall have to go."

She nodded in response. And then Jasper added with mocking courtesy:

"Good night, Lady Tarkington."

CHAPTER XLVII

Anton saw it all, and it was he who broke the news to Rosemary.

He had been sitting up in the small slip of a room on the ground floor which had been assigned to him, waiting for his master and wondering why the gracious count should be so long upstairs at this hour with the English lord and lady, when he saw the gracious count and the English milord come along the first floor balcony, he heard them go downstairs, and saw them go out of the house.

Anton was rather anxious about his master because the gracious count had been very, very queer the last twenty-four hours. Sometimes he would be very hilarious; he would laugh and sing and shout "Hurrah for Peter! Bravo!" and so on; at others he would be terribly depressed and sit and cry like a child, or else tear about the place in a passion of fury. He had had a slight fit after the gracious English lord and lady had gone, and the sisters thought that probably the control he had put on himself when the Roumanian soldiers brought the expulsion order had been too much for his nerves.

So when Anton saw the gracious count go out with the English lord at this extraordinary hour he could not help but follow him. Though there was no moon the sky was clear and the darkness of the night was just beginning to yield to the first touch of dawn. The two gentlemen walked quite fast, but Anton was able to keep them in sight. When they came to the little wooden bridge that spans the stream the English lord was a few steps ahead of the gracious count. Suddenly, in mid-stream, the count sprang upon milord from behind, and in a moment had him by the throat. The English lord, taken entirely by surprise, fought desperately nevertheless. Anton had uttered a great shout, and ran to the rescue as fast as ever he could. Through the gloom he could just see the English milord forced down, with his back nearly doubled over the slender parapet of the bridge, and the gracious count bending over him and holding him by the throat. Anton's shout echoed from mountain to mountain, but all around there was the silence of the night, broken only by the howling of a dog outside a cottage door.

Then suddenly, before Anton set his foot upon the bridge, the catastrophe occurred. The parapet suddenly crashed and gave way under the weight of the two men, and they were hurled into the stream below. One awful cry rent the stillness of the night. Anton, half crazy with horror, waded into the stream, the waters of which at a point near a huge boulder were stained with a streak of crimson. The English milord in falling had broken his head against the stone. The gracious count had probably fallen at first on the top of him, and then rolled over on his back, thus breaking his fall. Anton dragged them both, single-handed, out of the stream, first his master, then the English lord. The latter was dead, but the gracious count was still breathing and moaning softly. Anton laid him down upon the grass, and made a pillow for him with his own coat, which he had taken off. Then he ran to the priest's house, which was quite close, and rang the bell until he made someone hear. The priest had been quite kind. He roused his servant, and together—the priest and Anton and the servant—carried the gracious count into the presbytery. But the English milord, who was quite dead, they laid upon the bier in the tiny mortuary chapel which was by the entrance to the churchyard.

The priest had already sent for the village doctor, who had done what he could for the gracious count, but of course, he was ignorant, and, anyhow, Anton was of the opinion that there was nothing that any man could do. But he had been to the station and roused the station-master and asked him to telephone to Dr. Zacharias at Cluj. Anton was just going to run back and see if the answer had come through. In the meanwhile he had come over to the hotel to see if he could speak with the gracious lady.

Rosemary had not yet thought of going to bed. For two hours after Jasper went out with Maurus she had sat, unthinking, by the open window. Time for her had ceased to be. She had heard the howling of a dog. At one moment she had heard a shout, and then a weird and prolonged cry. But these sounds conveyed no meaning to her brain. Her thinking powers were atrophied.

Then the bare-footed, buxom, very sleepy little maid came to tell her that Anton, the valet of the gracious count at Kis-Imre, desired to speak with her at once. She was fully dressed; she sent for Anton and he told her what he had seen.

Hastily seizing hat and wrap, she went with Anton out of the house and through the village to the priest's house. The soft, colourless light of dawn lay over the mountain and valley. On ahead the turbulent waters of the stream tossed and played around the projecting boulders, murmuring of the tragedy which had culminated within their bosom. Nearing the priest's house Rosemary could see the narrow bridge, with its broken parapet—

The priest met her at the gate. The gracious count, he said, had not regained consciousness. He still lived, the doctor said, but life only hung by a thread. Rosemary sat down by Maurus; bedside and watched that life slowly ebbing away. In the late afternoon Dr. Zacharias came over from Cluj. He only confirmed what the village doctor had said. The spine was broken. It was only a question of hours. He could do nothing, but at Rosemary's earnest request—or perhaps on the promise of a heavy fee—he agreed to come again in the morning.

Less than an hour after he left, the dying man rallied a little. He opened his eyes, and seeing Rosemary, his face was illumined by a great joy. She bent over him and kissed his forehead. Two tears rolled slowly down his wan cheeks. He murmured something, and she bent her ear till it was quite close to his lips.

"He was a monster," he murmured. "I heard everything. I had to punish him for the evil he did to my wife and the children. And I have made you free."

At sunset Maurus Count Imrey passed away into the Unknown.

Then only did Rosemary leave his bedside. Accompanied by the priest, she went to the little mortuary chapel to take a last look at the man who had done her such an infinity of wrong. Now that his stormy life was ended, and his hard features were set in lines of peace, Rosemary felt once more that aching sense of pity for him which so often before had prompted her to forgive. She was able to commend his turbulent soul to God without the slightest thought of hatred or revenge. He had said once that she would never understand; but the infinite pity in her heart was born of an infinite understanding. The man who had atoned for his sins by this tragic death was not wholly responsible for his actions. He was the victim of his temperament: more sinned against, perhaps, than sinning. Who knows? If some other woman had captured his fancy she might have made him happy, found what was strong and fine in him, and all that was cruel would perhaps have been submerged beneath a great wave of love.

CHAPTER XLVIII

Since then, nearly two years! And this was the season of 1924! Wembley! The Rodeo! Royalties from Italy and Denmark and Roumania! The Labour Government!

How far, how very far, seemed Transylvania and Sót and the little mortuary chapel wherein Rosemary had gazed for the last time on the enigmatic personality which had once been Jasper Tarkington—her husband.

Even in death he had kept his secret—the secret of the strange dual identity which she had never been able to reconcile one with the other, the cruel, wolfish nature so skillfully hidden beneath the mantle of super-civilization.

Rosemary had not seen Peter since then. After the tragedy at Sót she had at last succeeded, by dint of bribery, in entering into direct communication with the British Consulate at Cluj.

Arrangements for the conveying of Lord Tarkington's body to England took up some considerable time. She only met Elza in Budapest when she herself was on her way home. Peter had left by then for an unknown destination. He had conveyed Philip and Anna over the frontier. They had soon abandoned the car, fearing pursuit, and in disguise had made their way to the frontier over the mountains. They were young and strong, the hardships were not serious, and the dangers reduced to a minimum once they had reached the lonely mountain passes. It was the planning of the escape that had been so wonderful. Peter Blakeney, disguised as a Roumanian officer, and having with him Captain Payson and a young Hungarian cricketer, both dressed as Roumanian soldiers, had presented a forged order for the surrender of the two prisoners, Philip Imrey and Anna Heves. To the officer commanding the depôt the order appeared in no way suspicious, and he gave up the prisoners without question. After that the whole thing became just a delightful adventure, nothing more. But Elza spoke of Peter with tears in her eyes. They had all of them mistrusted him. Wasn't that strange? Did Rosemary guess? Elza wanted to know, and Philip and Anna plied her with questions.

These were sad days for them all. But still Elza was wonderful, as wonderful as she had ever been. Even Rosemary never actually found out just how much of the tragedy Elza knew or guessed. Anton did not tell her, and to their world the death of the two men who were known to have been friends was just a terrible accident. Darkness. A broken bridge. Fatality.

Rosemary never told, of course. She wondered if Peter knew. She waited on in Budapest for some days hoping for news of him. But none came. Captain Payson heard in an indirect way that Peter was still in Transylvania, but no reliance could be placed on the truth of the rumour. It was only when Rosemary was back in England that she heard definite news of Peter. Elza wrote to say that he was living in Kis-Imre. "He is administering the property for us," she went on. "Isn't he wonderful? I am sure he will make something more of it than poor Maurus was able to do. Of course, they dare not do anything to him, because he is a British subject, and he tells me in his last letter that he hopes in a very few years' time, when justice had been at last meted out to our unfortunate country, to hand over Kis-Imre to Philip in a better state than it is now. Then my poor Philip's dream will, I hope, come true. He and Anna have loved each other ever since they were tiny children. When he has once more a fine home to offer her they will be married with my blessing. And all this we shall owe to Peter Blakeney. Can you wonder, my dear, that we all worship him? When I look at him I seem to see my dear and beautiful sister gazing at me through his eyes, and in his smile I see something of hers, because, just like Peter, she was always ready to laugh, always smiling at the world, always doing great and kind things under cover of a joke. So Philip and Anna and I, we bless Peter and for some reason, which perhaps you can explain better than I, when we think of him we also think of you."

Since then nearly two years! Rosemary has resumed work. her powerful articles in The International Review on the conditions obtaining in Transylvania under alien occupation have begun at last to arouse from its apathy public opinion in England and America. Time and her own perseverance, aided by the lovers of justice and fairplay who abound in Anglo-Saxon communities, would after a while, she felt, do the rest. Rosemary had seen the rampant evil with her own eyes, now she was conscious of her power to help in remedying, or, at any rate, mitigating it. She threw herself heart and soul into the work not only because she loved it and because it thrilled her, but because work alone could help her to forget. "Try to forget" were the last words which she heard Peter speak, there in the woods beside the turbulent mountain stream when she had thought him a spy, a vile and venal wretch, and he had not said one word to exculpate himself. How could he when this might have meant rousing her suspicions of Jasper?—or perhaps it was just pride that had caused him to hold his tongue. Pride, which so often has proved love's most persistent enemy.

Or perhaps he no longer cared, and that was why he thought it would be so easy for her to forget.

Since then nearly two years! Rosemary walking through the park that late afternoon in July. She had been to the Albert Hall to hear Kreisler, and she wandered up the Broad Walk under the trees, because she did not feel that she could stand the noise and bustle of streets at a moment when her whole soul was still full of the exquisite music conjured up by that great magician. It was very hot and she was rather tired, so she sat down on a chair in the shade. Then suddenly she saw Peter. He was coming towards her, quite naturally, as if to an assignation. He looked just the same as he always did—like a boy, clean and straight-limbed as a young god, his eyes shining with excitement, that quaint, self-deprecating smile on his lips that Rosemary knew so well.

"I've been to hear old Kreisler," were the first words he said. "Wasn't he wonderful?"

So like Peter! He dragged a chair quite close to hers and sat down. He threw down his hat and passed his hand through his hair. He did not attempt to greet her in any way. "I've been to hear old Kreisler!" So like Peter! The very first words . . . and she hadn't seen him for nearly two years.

After a second or two he went on: "I wouldn't speak to you in the Albert Hall. When you went out I followed you. I knew you would wander out here."

And Rosemary asked quite casually: "Have you been in England long?"

"Only a few hours," Peter replied with a laugh. "I crossed over by the night boat, via Havre. I always meant to sample that journey, and it was really rather nice." After that he was silent for a moment; then suddenly he seized her hand. She had no gloves on, and he held the soft palm to his lips. Rosemary did not move. She was not looking at Peter; she was just watching a huge blackbird that had landed on the elm tree opposite and who was whistling away for dear life.

"Rosemary, when can we be married?" Peter asked abruptly.

She couldn't help smiling. It, too, was so like Peter. "I've waited two years, dash it all," he went on. "Two years in hell. Now I'm not going to wait any longer. When can we be married, Rosemary?"

Then Rosemary ceased to watch the blackbird and turned slowly to look at Peter.

"Whenever you like, dear," she replied.

The End