THE IRON COUNT

When King, in the kindness of his heart, grasped the old woman to keep her from falling to the floor, he played directly into the hands of very material agencies under her control. There was nothing ghostly or even spiritual in the incidents that followed close upon the simulated fainting spell of the fortune-teller. It has been said before that her bony fingers closed upon his arms in a far from feeble manner. He had no time for surprise at this sudden recovery; there was only time to see a fiendish grin flash into her face. The next instant something struck him in the face; then with a fierce jerk this same object tightened about his neck. His attempt to yell out was checked before a sound could issue from his lips.

It all came to him in a flash. A noose had been dropped over his head; as he was pulled backward, his startled, bulging eyes swept the ceiling. The mystery was explained, but in a manner that left him small room for satisfaction. Above him a square opening had appeared in the ceiling; two ugly, bearded faces were leaning over the edge and strong hands were grasping a thick rope. In a frenzy of fear and desperation he cast the old woman from him and tore violently at the rope.

They were drawing hard from above; his toes were barely touching the floor; he was strangling. Frantically he grasped the rope, lifting himself from the floor in the effort to loosen the noose with his free hand. A hoarse laugh broke upon his dinning ears, the leering faces drew nearer; and then, as everything went black, a heavy, yet merciful blow fell upon his head. As consciousness left him, he felt himself rushing dizzily upward, grasped by powerful hands and whisked through the opening into air so hot and stiffling that his last thought was of the fires of Hell.

Not many minutes passed before consciousness, which had been but partially lost, returned to him. The ringing sensation remained in his head, but he was no longer choking. The noose had been removed from his neck; the rope itself was now serving as a bond for his hands and feet, a fact that impressed itself upon him when he tried to rise. For some time he lay perfectly still, urging his senses into play: wondering where he was and what had happened to him.

It was pitch dark and the air was hot and close. Not a sound came to his throbbing cars. With characteristic irrepressibility he began to swear softly, but articulately. Proof that his profanity was mild—one might say genteel—came in an instant. A gruff voice, startlingly near at hand, interrupted him.

"Spit it out, young feller! Swear like a man, not like a damn canary bird."

Truxton tried hard to pierce the darkness, a strange thrill passing through his veins. The hidden speaker was unquestionably an American.

"What the devil does all this mean?" demanded the captive. "Where am I?"

"It means business, and you're here, that's where you are," was the sarcastic answer.

"Are you an American?"

"No. I'm a Chinaman."

"Oh, come off! Answer square."

"Well, I was born in Newport." As an afterthought: "Kentucky."

"You're in a damned nice business, I'll say that for you," growled Truxton. "Who is responsible for this outrage?"

He heard the man yawn prodigiously. "Depends on what you call an outrage."

"This is the damnedest high-handed outrage I've ever—"

"Better save your breath, young feller. You won't have it very long, so save what you can of it."

Truxton was silent for a moment, analysing this unique remark. "You mean I am to stop breathing altogether?"

"Something like that."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? Well, who does?"

"You'll find out when the boss gets good and ready."

"You are a fine American!"

"Look here, young feller, I've been polite to you, so don't get gay. I'll come over there and kick your jaw in."

"Come ahead. Anything to break the monotony."

"Didn't you get enough of the hangman's knot and the sandbag? Want more, eh? Well, if I wasn't so darned comfortable I'd come over there and give it to you. Now don't rile me!"

"I deserve to be kicked for being such a blithering fool as to get into this mess. Come on and kick me."

"You wanted to get a poke at the old man's eye, did ye? By thunder, that's like an American. Never satisfied to let things alone. See what it got you into?"

"The old man's eye? What old man?"

"That's for you to find out, if you can. You've made a hell of a poor start at it."

"You're a good-natured scoundrel"

"Thanks for them kind words."

"Well, what are you going to do with me? I don't like the air in here. It's awful. How long do I stay here?"

"Say, you're a gritty little man. I like your nerve. Too bad we ain't on the same side. I'll tell you this: you won't be here long. How would the old girl down there put it? You're going on a long voyage. That's it. But first we'll get out of this rat hole, just as soon as them other guys come back from the cave. You'll get fresh air purty soon. Now, don't talk any more. I'm through gossipin'!"

"How do you, an American, happen to be mixed up in a deal like this?"

"It's healthier work than makin' barrels at—I was goin' to say Sing Sing, but I hear they've changed the name. I prefer outdoor work."

"Fugitive, eh?"

"You might call it that. I'm wanted in seven States. The demand for me is great."

Truxton saw that he could get nothing out of the satirical rascal, so fell to speculating for himself. That he was still in the loft above the hovel was more or less clear to him. His mind, now active, ran back to the final scene in the kitchen. The trap-door in the ceiling, evidently a sliding arrangement, explained the mysterious disappearance of the owner of the eye; he had been whisked up through the aperture by confederates and the trap-door closed before it could be discovered. The smoking kettle no longer puzzled him, now that he knew of the secret room above the kitchen; a skilfully concealed blow-pipe could have produced the phenomenon. The space in which he was now lying, half suffocated, was doubtless a part of the cleverly designed excavation at the back of the hovel, the lower half being the kitchen, the upper an actual gateway to the open air somewhere in the mountainside.

That he had fallen into the hands of a band of conspirators was also quite clear to him. Whether they were brigands or more important operators against the Crown, he was, of course, in no position to decide. Time would tell.

It was enough that they expected to kill him, sooner or later. This, in itself, was sufficient to convince him that he was not to be held for ransom, but to be disposed of for reasons best known to his captors.

Like a shot the warning of Olga Platanova flashed into his brain. Here, then, was the proof that she actually knew of the peril he was in. But why should he be an object of concern to these men, whoever they were? His guard had mentioned "the old man." Good heavens, could he mean Spantz? The cold perspiration was standing on King's brow. Spantz! He recalled the wickedness in the armourer's face. But why should Spantz wish him evil? Again intuition, encouraged by memory, supplied him with a possible, even plausible explanation.

The Anarchists! The Reds! Olga was an avowed Anarchist; she was almost a prisoner in the house of her uncle. Truxton's guard sat up suddenly and felt for his weapon when the captive let out a bitter oath of understanding and rage.

"By gad, they think I am a detective!" he added, light coming to him with a rush.

"What's that?" snapped the other. Truxton could almost feel the other's body grow tense despite the space between them. "Are you a detective? Are you? By God, if you are, I'll finish you up right here. You—"

"No! They're on the wrong scent. By Jove, the laugh's on old man Spantz."

"Oho! So you do know what's up, then? Spantz, eh? Well, what you've guessed at or found out won't make much difference, my fine young fellow. They've got you, and you'll be worse off than Danny Deever in the mornin'! Hello! Here they come. Now we'll get out of this infernal bake-oven. Say, do you know, you've been cuddlin' up against a j'int of warm stove pipe for nearly an hour? Sh!"

The glimmer of a light came bobbing up from somewhere behind Truxton; he could see the flickering shadows on the wall. Two men crept into the room a moment later. One of them carried a lantern; the other turned King's body over with his foot.

"You damned brute," grated the captive.

"Call him what you like, young feller," said his first acquaintance. "He can't understand a word you say. Well, do we pull out?" This to the man with the lantern.

The roof was so low that they were compelled to stoop in moving about. Truxton saw that the three ruffians were great, brutal-faced fellows, with bared arms that denoted toil as well as spoils.

"Immediate!" said the lantern bearer. "Come; we drag him to the cave."

"Drag? Nix; we c'n carry him, pard. I'm not for draggin' him down that passage. Grab hold there,—you! Hey, get his feet, damn you!" The third man was reluctant to understand, but at last grasped the prisoner by the feet, swearing in a language of his own. The Yankee desperado took his shoulders, and together, with earnest grunts, they followed the man with the lantern, Truxton knew not whither except that it was away from the wretched sweat-hole.

He could see that they were crowding through a low, narrow passage, the earthen sides of which reeked with moisture. Twice they paused to rest, resuming the journey after a season of cursing, finally depositing him with scant courtesy upon the rocky floor of what proved to be a rather commodious cave. The breath was almost jarred from his body. He had the satisfaction of driving his two heels viciously against the person of the man who had held them the last ten minutes, receiving a savage kick in return.

Daylight streamed into this convenient "hole in the wall;" lying upon his side, Truxton faced the opening that looked out upon the world. He saw nothing but blue sky. Near the opening, looking down as if into the valley below, stood the tall, gaunt figure of a man, thin-shouldered and stooped. His back was to the captive, but King observed that the three men, with two companions, who sat at the back of the cave, never removed their gaze from the striking figure outlined against the sky.

Many minutes passed before the watcher turned slowly to take in the altered conditions behind him. King saw that he was old; grey-haired and cadaverous, with sharp, hawk-like features. This, then, was the "old man," and he was not William Spantz. Unlike Spantz in every particular was this man who eyed him so darkly, so coldly. Here was a highborn man, a man whose very manners bespoke for him years at court, a life spent in the upper world, not among the common people. Truxton found himself returning the stare with an interest that brought results.

"Your name is King, I believe," came from the thin lips of the old man. The tones were as metallic as the click of steel.

"Yes. May I inquire—"

"No, you may not inquire. Put a gag in his mouth. I don't care to hear anything from him. Gag him and cut the rope from his feet. He may walk from now on."

Three men sprang to do his bidding.

King felt in that instant that he was looking for the first time upon the features of the Iron Count, Marlanx the dishonoured. He lay there helpless, speechless for many minutes, glancing at this cruel tyrant. Into his soul sank the conviction that no mercy would come from this man, this hater of all men; justice would play no part in the final, sickening tragedy. It was enough that Marlanx suspected him of being in the way; to be suspected was to be condemned. The whole, hellish conspiracy flashed through his brain. He closed his eyes with the horror of it all.

Here was Marlanx on Graustark soil, conniving with cutthroats, commanding them without opposition. What could it mean except a swift-growing menace to the Crown—to the little Prince.

Marlanx was speaking. Truxton looked up, as at an executioner. The lean, cruel face of that beautiful girl's husband was not far from his own; the fiery eyes were burning into his. The Iron Count sat upon a boulder near his feet.

"So you are the Quixote who would tilt at invisible windmills, eh? I remember you quite well. We have met before. Perhaps you remember meeting my eye in Dame Babba's cabin—twice, I think. You remember, I see. Ha, ha! You were very slow not to have caught such an old man. You were near to it the first time, but—you missed it, eh? I thought you might have seen my heels as I disappeared. I dare say you are wondering what I intend to do with you, now that I have you. Well, I am not the man to mince words. Mr. King, you are quite young, but the good die young. I am very old, you observe. I will not say that you are to die to-night or to-morrow or any day, for I do not know. I am going to send you to a court. Not an ordinary court, Mr. King, but one of extreme perspicacity. I fancy you will die before long. We can spare you. I do not approve of meddlers. It seems to be quite settled that you are a police agent. Be that as it may, I imagine our little court of last resort will take no chances, one way or the other. A man or two, more or less, will not be counted a year from now."

The steady, cruel eyes fascinated King. He knew that he was in desperate straits, that he had one chance in a million to escape, and yet he found himself held by the spell of those eyes, drinking in certain metallic monotones as if hypnotised.

"I am glad you called again at my temporary abode, Mr. King. Americans are always welcome: the sooner they come, the sooner it's over. It may interest you to know that I am very partial to Americans. Were I a cannibal, I could eat them with relish. If I had my way, all Americans should be in heaven. The earth surely is not good enough nor big enough for them, and hell is already overcrowded. Yes," reflectively pressing his nose with a bony forefinger, "I love the Americans dearly. I should enjoy a similar visit from Mr. John Tullis. Although, I may say, he seems to be choosing another way of testing my hospitality. I expect him to visit me in my humble castle before many days. I should like to have him remain there until his dying day." There was a deep significance in his smile. King shuddered. His gaze followed the gaunt, spidery old man as he returned to the opening for another long survey of the valley below. Night was falling; the sky was growing darker, and the wind was rising. Marlanx's sharp features were not so distinguishable when he returned to the boulder. The men in the cave had not spoken except in whispers. They appeared to be living in abject fear of this grim old nobleman.

"Night is coming. I must say farewell, my bold young friend. My way lies to the north. This is merely a land of promise to me. You go southward, to the city of Edelweiss. But not through the gates; oh, no! There are other ways, as you will find. If you should, by any chance, escape the jurisdiction of the court I am sending you to, I sincerely trust you may honour me with another visit here. I come often to the hovel in the glen. It is the only friendly house I know of in all Graustark. Some day I may be able to recompense its beauteous mistress. My good friends, Dangloss, and Halfont, and Braze—and Tullis, whom I know only by reputation—are, as yet, unaware of my glorious return to Graustark, else they would honour me with their distinguished presence. Some day I may invite them to dine with me. I shall enjoy seeing them eat of the humble pie I can put before them. Good-bye, my brave Sir Galahad; I may never see you again."

With a courtly bow he turned from the tense-muscled captive and directed his final instructions to the men. "Take him at once to the city, but be on your guard. A single false move now means utter ruin for all of us. Our affairs go so well at present that we cannot afford to offend Dame Fortune. She smiles on us, my men. Take this fool to the house on the Monastery road. There you will turn him over to the others. It is for them to drag the truth from his lips. I'd suggest, dear Mr. King, that you tell them all you know before they begin the dragging process. It is a very unpleasant way they have." With a curt nod to the men, he strode out through the mouth of the cave and was gone. Dusk had settled down upon mountain and valley; a thin fog swam high in the air above. One of the men cut the rope that bound Truxton's feet.

"Get up," said the Newport man. "We've got to be movin'. How'd you like the old man? Smart bug, ain't he? Say, he'll throw the hooks into them guys down in Edelweiss so hard one of these days that they won't come out till they rot out."

Still gagged and somewhat dizzy, King was hurried off into the narrow mountain path, closely surrounded by the five men.

"They tell me your friend, the Cook guy, got plugged down in the Gap when he tried to duck this afternoon," volunteered the Yankee unconcernedly.

Hobbs shot? King's eyes suddenly filled with tears, a great wave of pity and shame rushing to his heart. Poor Hobbs! He had led him into this; to gratify a vain-glorious whim, he had done the little Englishman to death.

The silent, cautious march down the valley, through the Gap and along the ridge carried them far into the night. King knew that they were skirting the main roads, keeping to the almost hidden trails of the mountaineers. They carried no light, nor did they speak to each other, except in hoarse whispers. In single file they made their way, the prisoner between them, weary, footsore and now desperate in the full realisation of his position. Being gagged, he could make no appeal to the one man who might befriend him—his villainous countryman. It occurred to him—grim thought—that the astute Marlanx had considered that very probability, and had made it impossible for him to resort to the cupidity of the hireling.

At last, when he could scarcely drag his feet after him, they came to a halt. A consultation followed, but he could not understand a word. This much he knew: they were in the hills directly above the northern gates. Two of the men went forward, moving with extreme caution. In half an hour they returned and the march was resumed.

Their next halt came sooner than he expected. The vague, black shadow of a lightless house loomed up before them. In a twinkling he was hustled across the road and into a door. Then down a flight of stairs, through pitchy darkness, guided by two of the men, a whispered word of advice now and then from the Yankee saving him from perilous stumbles. He was jerked up sharply with a command to stand still. A light flashed suddenly in his face, blinding him for the moment. Voices in eager, quick conversation came to his ears long before his eyes could take in the situation.

Soon he saw that they were in a broad, bare cellar; three men in heavy black beards were in earnest conversation with several of his captors; all were gesticulating fiercely.

His Newport companion enlightened him, between puffs of the pipe he was struggling with. "Here's where we say good-bye, young fellow. We turn you over to these gents, whoever they are. I'm sort of out of it when they get to jabberin' among themselves. I can understand 'em when they talk slow, but, say, did you ever hear a flock of Union Square sparrows chirp faster than them fellers is talkin' now? Nix. You go into the village gay with these Schwabs by the sewer line, I guess." Truxton pricked up his ears. "The old man has had a hole chopped in the sewer here, they tell me, and it's a snap to get into the city. Not very clean or neat, but it gets you there. Well, so long! They're ready, I see. They don't monkey long when they've got a thing to do. I'd advise you not to be too stubborn when they get you to headquarters; it may go easier with you. I'm not so damned bad, young feller. It's just the business I'm in—and the company."

King felt a thrill of real regard for the rascal. He nodded his thanks and tried to smile. The fellow grinned and slapped him on the shoulder, unobserved by the others. In another moment his guardianship was transferred; he was being hurried across the cellar toward an open doorway. Down a few stone steps he was led by the bearded crew, and then pushed through a hole in what appeared to be a heavy brick wall. He realised at once where he was. The gurgle of running water, the odor of foul airs came up to him. It was the great sewer that ran from the hills through the heart of the city, flushed continuously by a diverted mountain stream that swept down from above.

He was wading in cold water over a slippery bottom, tightly held by two men, the third going ahead with the lantern. Always ahead loomed the black, opaque circle which never came nearer, never grew smaller. It was the ever receding wall of darkness.

He did not know how long they traversed the chill sewer in this fashion. In time, however, the water got deeper; rats began to scurry along the sides of the circle or to swim frantically on in front of the disturbers. The smells were sickening, overpowering. Only excitement, curiosity, youth—whatever you may care to term it-kept him up and going. The everlasting glory of youth never ends until old age has provided the surfeit of knowledge; the strife to see ahead, to find out what is to be, to know,—that is youth. Youth dies when curiosity ends. The emotion is even stronger than the dread of what may lie beyond in the pallid sea of uncertainty.

His bones were chilled and creaking with fatigue. He was remorselessly hungry. There was water, but he could not drink it.

At last the strange journey ended. They came to a niche in the slimy wall. Up into this the men climbed, dragging him after them. The man above was cautiously tapping on what appeared to be solid masonry. To King's surprise a section of the wall suddenly opened before them. He was seized from above by strong hands and literally jerked through the hole, his companions following. Up narrow steps, through a sour-smelling passage and—then, into a long, dimly lighted room, in the centre of which stood a long table.

He was not permitted to linger here for long, but passed on into a small room adjoining. Some one, speaking in English, told him to sit down. The gag was removed from his stiff, inflamed mouth.

"Fetch him some water," said a voice that he was sure he recognised—a high, querulous voice.

"Hello, Spantz," articulated Truxton, turning to the black-bearded, bent figure.

There was an instance of silence. Then Spantz spoke, with a soft laugh: "You will not know so much to-morrow, Herr King. Give him the water, man. He has much to say to us, and he cannot talk with a dry throat."

"Nor an empty stomach," added King. He drank long of the pitcher that was held to his lips.

"This is not the Regengetz," growled a surly voice.

"You mean, I don't eat?"

"Not at midnight, my friend."

"It seems to be an all-night joint."

"Enough," cried Spantz. "Bring him out here. The others have come."

King was pushed out into the larger room, where he was confronted by a crowd of bewhiskered men and snaky-eyed women with most intellectual nose-glasses. It required but a glance to convince him that the whiskers were false.

For nearly an hour he was probed with questions concerning his business in Edelweiss. Threats followed close upon his unsatisfactory answers, though they were absolutely truthful. There was no attempt made to disguise the fact that they were conspiring against the government; in fact, they were rather more open than secretive. When he thought of it afterward, a chill crept over him. They would not have spoken so openly before him if they entertained the slightest fear that he would ever be in a position to expose them.

"We'll find a way to make you talk to-morrow, my friend. Starving is not pleasant."

"You would not starve me!" he cried.

"No. You will have the pleasure of starving yourself," said a thin-eyed fellow whom he afterward knew as Peter Brutus.

He was thrown back into the little room. To his surprise and gratification, the bonds on his wrists were removed. Afterward he was to know that there was method in this action of his gaolers: his own utter impotency was to be made more galling to him by the maddening knowledge that he possessed hands and feet and lungs—and could not use them!

He found a match in his box and struck it. There was no article of furniture. The floor was bare, the walls green with age. He had a feeling that there would be rats; perhaps lizards. A search revealed the fact that his purse, his watch and his pocket-knife were missing. Another precious match showed him that there were no windows. A chimney hole in the ceiling was, perhaps, the only means by which fresh air could reach this dreary place.

"Well, I guess I'm here to stay," he said to himself. He sat down with his back to the wall, despair in his soul. A pitiful, weak smile came to him in the darkness, as he thought of the result of his endeavour to "show off" for the benefit of the heartless girl in rajah silk. "What an ass I am," he groaned. "Now she will never know."

Sleep was claiming his senses. He made a pillow of his coat, commended himself to the charity of rats and other horrors, and stretched his weary bones upon the relentless floor.

"No one will ever know," he murmured, his last waking thought being of a dear one at home.

UNDER THE GROUND

Day and night were the same to the occupant of the little room. They passed with equal slowness and impartial darkness. Five days that he could account for crawled by before anything unusual happened to break the strain of his solitary, inexplicable confinement. He could tell when it was morning by the visit of a bewhiskered chambermaid with a deep bass voice, who carried a lighted candle and kicked him into wakefulness. The second day after his incarceration began, he was given food and drink. It was high time, for he was almost famished. Thereafter, twice a day, he was led into the larger room and given a surprisingly hearty meal. Moreover, he was allowed to bathe his face and hands and indulge in half an hour's futile stretching of limbs. After the second day few questions were asked by the men who had originally set themselves up as inquisitors. At first they had treated him with a harshness that promised something worse, but an incident occurred on the evening of the second day that changed the whole course of their intentions.

Peter Brutus had just voiced the pleasure of the majority by urging the necessity for physical torture to wring the government's secrets from the prisoner. King, half famished, half crazed by thirst, had been listening to the fierce argument through the thin door that separated the rooms. He heard the sudden, eager movement toward the door of his cell, and squared himself against the opposite wall, ready to fight to the death. Then there came a voice that he recognised.

A woman was addressing the rabid conspirators in tones of deadly earnestness. His heart gave a bound. It was the first time since his incarceration that he had heard the voice of Olga Platanova, she who had warned him, she who still must be his friend. Once more he threw himself to the floor and glued his ear to the crack; her voice had not the strident qualities of the other women in this lovely company.

"You are not to do this thing," she was saying. King knew that she stood between her companions and the door. "You are not to touch him! Do you hear me, Peter Brutus? All of you?"

There followed the silence of stupefaction, broken at last by a voice which he recognised as that of old man Spantz.

"Olga! Stand aside!"

"No! You shall not torture him. I have said he is no spy. I still say it. He knows nothing of the police and their plans. He has not been spying upon us. I am sure of it."

"How can you be sure of it?" cried a woman's voice, harsh and strident.

"He has played with you," sneered another.

"I will not discuss the point. I know he is not what you say he is. You have no right to torture him. You have no right to hold him prisoner."

"God, girl, we cannot turn him loose now. He must never go free again. He must die." This was from Spantz.

"We cannot release him, I grant you," she said, and Truxton's heart sank. "Not now, but afterward, yes. When it is all over he can do no harm. But, hear me now, all of you. If he is harmed in any way, if he is maltreated, or if you pursue this design to starve him, I shall not perform my part of the work on the 26th. This is final."

For a full minute, it seemed to King, no one spoke.

"You cannot withdraw," exclaimed Peter Brutus. "You are pledged. You are sworn. It is ordained."

"Try me, and see if I will not do as I say. He is to be treated kindly so long as we hold him here and he is to be released when the committee is in power. Then he may tell all that he knows, for it will be of no avail. He cannot escape, that you know. If he were a spy I would offer no objection to your methods. He is an American gentleman, a traveller. I, Olga Platanova, say this to you. It is not a plea, not a petition; it is an ultimatum. Spare him, or the glorious cause must suffer by my defection."

"Sh! Not so loud, girl! He can hear every word you say!"

"Why should it matter, madam? He is where he can do no harm to our cause. Let him hear. Let him understand what it is that we are doing. Are we ashamed of our duty to the world? If so, then we are criminals, not deliverers. I am not ashamed of what God wills me to do. It is horrible, but it is the edict of God. I will obey. But God does not command us to torture an innocent man who happens to fall into our hands. No! Let him hear. Let him know that I, Olga Platanova, am to hurl the thing that is to destroy the life of Prince Robin. I am not afraid to have him know to-day what the world will know next week. Let him hear and revile me now, as the world will do after it is over and I am gone. The glory will be mine when all the people of this great globe are joined to our glorious realm. Then the world will say that Olga Platanova was not a beast, but a deliverer, a creator! Let him hear!"

The listener's blood was running cold. The life of Prince Robin! An assassination! "The thing that will destroy!" A bomb! God!

For half an hour they argued with her, seeking to turn her from the stand she had taken; protesting to the last stage, cursing her for a sentimental fool. Then they came to terms with her. Truxton King owed his life to this strange girl who knew him not at all, but who believed in him. He suffered intensely in the discovery that she was, in the end, to lend herself to the commission of the most heartless and diabolical of crimes—the destruction of that innocent, well-worshipped boy of Graustark.

"You must be in love with this simple-minded American, who comes—" Peter Brutus started to say at one stage of the discussion, when the frail girl was battling almost physically with her tormentors.

"Stop! Peter Brutus, you shall not say that! You know where my love lies! Don't say that to me again, you beast!" she had cried, and Brutus was silenced.

Truxton was brought into the room a few minutes later. He was white with emotion as he faced the Committee of Ten. Before a word could be addressed to him he blurted out:

"You damned cowards! Weak as I am, I would have fought for you, Miss Platanova, if I could have got through that door. Thank you for what you have done to convince these dogs! I would to God I could save you from this thing you are pledged to do. It is frightful! I cannot think it of you! Give it up! All of you, give this thing up! I will promise secrecy—I will never betray what I have heard. Only don't do this awful thing! Think of that dear little boy—"

Olga Platanova cried out and covered her eyes with her hands, murmuring the words "dear little boy" over and over again. She was led from the room by William Spantz. Peter Brutus stood over King, whose arms were held by two stalwart men.

"Enough!" he commanded. "We spare you, not for her sake, but for the sake of the cause we serve. Hear me: you are to be held here a prisoner until our plans are consummated. You will be properly fed and cared for. You have heard Miss Platanova say that she will cook the food for you herself, but you are not to see her. Do not seek to turn her from her purpose. That you cannot do. She is pledged to it; it is irrevocable. We have perhaps made a mistake in bringing you here: it would have been far wiser to kill you in the beginning, but—"

King interrupted him. "I haven't the least doubt that you will kill me in the end. She may not be here to protect me after—after the assassination."

"She is prepared to die by the same bomb that slays the Prince," was all that Brutus would say in response to this, but King observed the sly look that went round amongst them. He knew then that they meant to kill him in the end.

Afterward, in his little room, he writhed in the agony of helplessness. The Prince, his court, the government—all were to be blasted to satisfy the end of this sickening conspiracy. Loraine! She, too, was doomed! He groaned aloud in his misery and awe.

Food and water came after that, but he ate and drank little, so depressed had he become. He sought for every means of escape that suggested itself to him. The walls, the floors, the doors, the stairway to the armourer's shop—all were impassable, so carefully was he guarded. From time to time he heard inklings of the plot which was to culminate on the fatal 26th; he did not get the details in particular, but he knew that the bomb was to be hurled at the Prince near the entrance to the plaza and that Marlanx's men were to sweep over the stricken city almost before the echo died away.

There was a telegraph instrument in the outer room. He could hear it ticking off its messages day and night, and could hear the discussion of reports as they came in or went out. It soon became clear to him that the wire connected the room with Marlanx's headquarters near Balak in Axphain, a branch instrument being stationed in the cave above the Witch's hut. He marvelled at the completeness of the great conspiracy; and marvelled more because it seemed to be absolutely unknown to the omnipresent Dangloss.

On his third night he heard the Committee discussing the failure of one of Marlanx's most cunning schemes. The news had come in over the wire and it created no small amount of chagrin among the Red conspirators. That one detail in their mighty plot should go contrary to expectations seemed to disturb them immeasurably. King was just beginning to realise the stupendous possibilities of the plot; he listened for every detail with a mind so fascinated by horror that it seemed hardly able to grasp the seriousness of his own position.

It seemed that Marlanx deemed it necessary—even imperative—to the welfare of the movement, that John Tullis should be disposed of summarily before the crucial chapter in their operations. Truxton heard the Committee discussing the fiasco that attended his first attempt to draw the brainy, influential American out of the arena. It was clear that Marlanx suspected Tullis of a deep admiration for his wife, the Countess Ingomede; he was prepared to play upon that admiration for the success of his efforts. The Countess disappeared on a recent night, leaving the court in extreme doubt as to her fate. Later a decoy telegram was sent by a Marlanx agent, informing Tullis that she had gone to Schloss Marlanx, never to return, but so shrewdly worded that he would believe that it had been sent by coercion, and that she was actually a prisoner in the hands of her own husband. Tullis was expected to follow her to the Castle, bent on rescue. As a matter of fact, the Countess was a prisoner in the hills near Balak, spirited away from her own garden by audacious agents of the Iron Count. Tullis was swift to fall into the trap, but, to the confusion of the arch-plotter, he was just as swift to avoid the consequences.

He left Edelweiss with two secret service men, bound for Schloss Marlanx. All unknown to him, a selected company of cutthroats were in waiting for him on the hills near the castle. To the amazement of the conspirators, he suddenly retraced his tracks and came back to Edelweiss inside of twenty-four hours, a telegram stopping him at Gushna, a hundred miles down the line. The message was from Dangloss and it was in cipher. A trainman in the service of Marlanx could only say, in explanation, that the American had smiled as he deciphered the dispatch and at once left the carriage with his men to await the up-train at six o'clock.

Peter Brutus repeated a message he had just received from Marlanx at Balak. It was to the effect that he had reason to believe that his wife had managed, through an unknown traitor, to send word to the Tower that she was not at Schloss Marlanx, nor in any immediate danger. He felt himself supported in this belief by the obvious fact that no further efforts had been made by Tullis or the police since that day. The authorities apparently were inactive and Tullis was serenely secure at the Royal Castle. The guard about the Prince, however, had been largely increased.

Tullis was known to be re-organising the Royal Guard, supported by the ministry to a man, it was said; not even the Duke of Perse opposed him.

"The Count is more afraid of this man Tullis than of all the rest," averred Peter Brutus. "He has reasons to hate and fear the Americans. That is why he desires the death of our prisoner. He has said, time and again, over the wire that King will in some way escape and play the deuce with our plans. It does not seem possible, however. We have him absolutely secure, and Olga—well, you know how she feels about it."

"I don't see why he should be so disturbed by Tullis," growled one of the men. "He has no real authority at court and he is but one man against an unseen army that will not strike until everything is ready. There can be no—"

"That is what I have said to my master, Julius, but he will not be convinced. He says that he has had experience with one American, Lorry, and he knows the breed. Tullis has more power at court than the people think. He is shrewd and strong and not to be caught napping. As a matter of fact, the Count says, Tullis has already scented danger in the air and has induced the ministry to prepare for an uprising. Of course, he cannot know of the dynamiting that is to open the way to success, but it is true that if anybody can upset our plans, it is this meddling American. He is a self-appointed guardian of the Prince and he is not to be sneered at. The regents are puppets, nothing more."

Julius Spantz agreed with Brutus. "I know that the guard is being strengthened and that certain precautions are being taken to prevent the abduction of the Prince. It is common rumour among the soldiers that Count Marlanx will some day seek to overthrow the government and take the throne. The air is full of talk concerning this far-distant possibility. Thank God, it is to be sooner than they think. If Tullis and General Braze were given a month or two longer, I doubt if we could succeed. The blow must catch them unprepared."

"This is the 22d, Saturday is the 26th. They can do nothing in four days," said one of the women.

"Count Marlanx will be ready on the 26th. He has said so. A new strike will be declared on the railroad on the 25th and the strikers will be in the city with their grievances. Saturday's celebration will bring men from the mountains and the mines to town. A single blow, and we have won." So spoke Brutus.

"Then why all this fear of Tullis?" demanded Anna Cromer.

"It is not like the Iron Count," added Madame Drovnask with a sneer.

Olga Platanova had not spoken. She was not there to talk. She was only to act on the 26th of July. She was the means to an end.

"Well, fear or no fear, the Count lies awake trying to think of a way to entice him from the city before the 26th. It may be silly, madam, but Count Marlanx is a wiser man than any of us here. He is not afraid of Dangloss or Braze or Quinnox, but he is afraid of what he calls 'American luck!' He is even superstitious about it."

"We must not—we cannot fail," grated William Spantz, and the cry was reiterated by half a dozen voices.

"The world demands success of us!" cried Anna Cromer. "We die for success, we die for failure! It is all one!"

The next morning, after a sleepless night, Truxton King made his first determined attempt to escape. All night long he had lain there thinking of the horrid thing that was to happen on the black 26th. He counted the days, the hours, the minutes. Morning brought the 23d. Only three days more! Oh, if he could but get one word to John Tullis, the man Marlanx feared; if he could only break away from these fiends long enough to utter one cry of warning to the world, even with his dying gasp!

Marlanx feared the Americans! He even feared him, a helpless captive! The thrill of exultation that ran through his veins was but the genesis of an impulse that mastered him later on.

He knew that two armed men stood guard in the outer room day and night. The door to the stairway leading into the armourer's shop was of iron and heavily barred; the door opening into the sewer was even more securely bolted; besides, there was a great stone door at the foot of the passage. The keys to these two doors were never out of the possession of William Spantz; one of his guards held the key to the stairway door. His only chance lay in his ability to suddenly overpower two men and make off by way of the armourer's shop.

When his little door was opened on the morning of the 23d, Truxton King's long, powerful figure shot through as if sped by a catapult. The man with the candle and the knife went down like a beef, floored by a blow on the jaw.

The American, his eyes blazing with hope and desperation, kept onward—to find himself face to face with Olga Platanova!

She was staring at him with frightened eyes, her lips apart, her hands to her breast. The tableau was brief. He could not strike her down. With a curse he was turning to the man on the floor, eager to snatch the keys from his belt. A scream from her drawn lips held him; he whirled and looked into the now haggard face of the girl he had considered beautiful. The penalty for her crime was already written there. She was to die in three days!

"He has not the key!" she cried. "Nor have I. You have no chance to escape. Go back! Go back! They are coming!"

A key rattled in the door. When it swung open, two men stood in the aperture, both with drawn pistols. The girl leaped between them and the helpless, defeated American.

"Remember!" she cried. "You are not to kill him!"

Peter Brutus had risen from the floor, half dazed but furious. He made a vicious leap at King, his knife ready for the lunge.

"I'm glad it's you," roared King, leaping aside. His fist shot out and again Brutus went down. The men in the doorway actually laughed.

"A good blow, even if it avails you nothing," said one of them drily. "He is not an especial favorite with us. Return to your room at once. Miss Platanova, call your uncle. It is now necessary to bind the fellow's hands. They are too dangerous to be allowed to roam at large in this fashion."

All day long Truxton paced his little prison, bitterly lamenting his ill-timed effort. Now he would be even more carefully guarded. His hands were bound behind his back; he was powerless. If he had only waited! Luck had been against him. How was he to know that the guard with the keys had gone upstairs when Olga brought his breakfast down? It was fate.

The 23d dragged itself into the past and the 24th was following in the gloomy wake of its predecessors. Two days more! He began to feel the approach of madness! His own death was not far away. It would follow that of the Prince and of Olga Platanova, his friend. But he was not thinking of his own death; he was thinking of the Prince's life!

The atmosphere of suppressed excitement that characterised the hushed gatherings in the outer room did not fail to leave its impression upon him; he knew there was murder in the hearts of these fanatics; he could feel the strain that held their hitherto vehement lips to tense whisperings and mutterings. He could distinguish the difference between the footsteps of to-day and those of yesterday; the tread was growing lighter, unconsciously more stealthy with each passing hour.

Forty-eight hours! That was all!

Truxton found himself crying bitterly from time to time; not because he was in terror but because he knew of the thing that hourly drew nearer despite the fact that he knew!

Olga Platanova's voice was heard no more before the Committee of Ten. Something told him that she was being groomed and primed in an upstairs room! Primed like a gun of war! He wondered if she could be praying for courage to do the thing that had been set down for her to do. Food now came irregularly to him. She was no longer preparing it.

She was making herself ready!

Early that night, as he lay with his ear to the crack of the door, he heard them discussing his own death. It was to come as soon as Olga had gone to her reward! She was not there to defend him. Spantz had said that she was praying in her room, committing her soul to God! Truxton King suddenly pricked up his ears, attracted by a sentence that fell from the lips of one of the men.

"Tullis is on his way to the hills of Dawsbergen by this time. He will be out of the way on the 26th safe enough."

"Count Marlanx was not to be satisfied until he had found the means to draw him away from Edelweiss," said another. "This time it will work like a charm. Late this afternoon Tullis was making ready to lead a troop of cavalry into the hills to effect a rescue. Sancta Maria! That was a clever stroke! Not only does he go himself, but with him goes a captain with one hundred soldiers from the fort. Ha, ha! Marlanx is a fox! A very exceptional fox!"

Tullis off to the hills? With soldiers, to effect a rescue! Truxton sat up, his brain whirling.

"A wise fox!" agreed Peter Brutus, thickly. His lips were terribly swollen from King's final blow. "Tullis goes off chasing a jack-o'-lantern in the hills; Marlanx sits by and laughs at the joke he's played. It is good! Almost too good to be true. I wonder what our fine prisoner will say to it when the new prisoner comes to keep him company over the 26th."

A NEW PRISONER ARRIVES

It was far past midnight when King was roused from the doze into which he had fallen, exhausted and disconsolate, an hour earlier. Sounds of unusual commotion reached him from the outer room. Instantly he was wide awake, breathing heavily in the sudden overpowering fear that he had slept for many hours and that the time had come for the conspirators to go forth. Was it the 26th?

Loud, quick commands came to his ears; the moving of eager footsteps; the drawing of bolts.

"They are here at last," he heard some one say. "God, this suspense has been horrible. But they are here."

"Stand ready, then, with the guns!" cried Peter Brutus. "It may be a trick, after all. Don't open that door down there, Spantz, until you know who is on the outside."

Then followed a long interval of dead silence.

"It's all right," came at last in the relieved, eager voice of Peter Brutus. "Clear the way, comrades. Give them room! By our Holy Father, this is a brave triumph. Ah!"

Heavy footsteps clogged into the room, accompanied by stertorous breathing and no small amount of grunting from masculine throats. Doors were closed, bolts shot, and then many voices let loose their flow of eager exclamations. Not one, but three or four languages were spoken by the excited, intense occupants of the outer room; King could, make nothing of what they said. Finally the sharp, incisive voice of William Spantz broke through the babble, commanding silence.

"Still unconscious," he said, when some measure of order was secured.

"Yes," grunted one of the men, evidently a newcomer. "Since we left the house above the ramparts. No need for gags or bonds, but we used them, just the same. Now that we are here, what is to be done?"

"We will have our instructions to-morrow. The Count is to inform us before nightfall where she is to be removed to. Next week she is to go to Schloss Marlanx." Brutus inserted a cruel, heartless laugh, and then added: "There she is to remain until he is quite ready to take her to new apartments—in town. Trust the master to dispose of her properly. He knows how to handle women by this time."

A woman, thought Truxton. The Countess! They had brought her here from Balak, after all. What a remorseless brute Marlanx must be to maltreat his beautiful wife as—Truxton did not complete the angry reflection. Words from the other side of the door checked the train of thought.

"To my mind, she is more beautiful than his own wife," observed Anna Cromer. "She will be a fine morsel for the Count, who has even cast longing eyes on so homely a mortal as I."

"All women are alike to him," said Spantz sententiously. "I hope she is not to be left here for long. I don't like women about at a time like this. No offence, Madame Drovnask."

"She'll go to-morrow night, I'm sure," said Peter. "I told the Count we could not keep her here over the—over the 26th. You see, there is a bare possibility that none of us may ever come back after the bomb is hurled. See? We don't want a woman to die of starvation down here, in that event. I don't care what happens to the man in there. But the Count does not want this one to starve. Oh, no; not he."

"We must put her in the room with the American for the present. You are sure he will take her away before Saturday? A woman's cries are most distressing." It was Spantz who spoke.

"I'll stop her crying," volunteered Anna Cromer harshly.

"I fancy you could, my dear," agreed Spantz. They all laughed.

"She's regaining her senses," exclaimed one of the men. "Stand back, every one. Give her air."

"Air?" cried Anna Cromer. "It's at a premium down here, Raoul."

Presently the door to King's room was thrown open. He had got to his feet and was standing in the centre of the room, his eyes blinking in the glare of light.

"Holloh!" cried Peter Brutus, "you up, eh? We've got a fair lady for you, my friend. Get back there, you dog! Keep in your corner."

Truxton faced the ugly crowd beyond the door for a moment and then fell back to the corner to watch the proceedings with wondering, pitying eyes.

"You are a fine bunch of human beings," he blurted out, savage with despair and rage. No one gave heed to the compliment.

A man with a lighted candle entered first, holding the light above his head. He was followed by two others, who supported the drooping, tottering figure of a woman.

"Let her sit there against the wall, Drago. Julius, fetch in more candles. She must not be left in the dark. He says she is not to be frightened to death. Women are afraid of the dark—and strange dogs. Let there be light," scoffed Peter Brutus, spitting toward King.

"I'll get you for that some day," grated the American, white with anger. Peter hesitated, then spat again and laughed loudly.

"Enough!" commanded William Spantz. "We are not children." Turning to King he went on, a touch of kindness in his voice: "Cheer her if you can. She is one of your class. Do not let the lights go out."

Raising his hands, he fairly drove the others from the doorway. An instant later, King and his miserable, half-conscious companion were alone, locked in together, the fitful light from the candle on the floor playing hide and seek in shadows he had not seen before during his age of imprisonment.

For a long time he stood in his corner, watching the figure huddled against the opposite wall. Her face was not plainly visible, her head having dropped forward until the chin nestled in the lace jabot at her throat. A mass of tangled hair fell across her eyes; her arms hung limply at her sides; small, modish riding hoots showed beneath the hem of her skin, forlorn in their irresoluteness. Her garments were sadly bedraggled; a pathetic breast rose and fell in choking sobs and gasps.

Suddenly he started forward, his eyes wide and staring. He had seen that grey riding habit before! He had seen the hair!

Two eager steps he took and then halted, half way. She had heard him and was raising her eyes, bewildered and wavering between dreamland and reality.

"Great Jehovah!" he gasped, unbelieving. "You? My God, is it you?"

He dropped to his knees before her, peering into her startled eyes. A look of abject terror crossed the tired, tear-stained face. She shrank away from him, shivering, whimpering like a cowed child.

"What is it? Where am I?" she moaned. "Oh, let me go! What have I done, that you should bring me here? Let me go, Mr. King! You are not so wicked as—"

"I? I bring you here?" he interrupted, aghast. Then he understood. Utter dismay filled his eyes. "You think that I have done this thing to you? God above us! Look! I, too, am a prisoner here. I've been here for days, weeks, years. They are going to kill me after to-morrow. And you think that I have done this to you!"

"I don't know what—Oh, Mr. King, what does it all mean? Forgive me! I see now. You are bound—you are suffering—you are years older. I see now. But why is it? What have you done? What have I done?"

She was growing hysterical with terror.

"Don't shrink from me," he urged. "Try to calm yourself. Try to look upon me as a friend—as a possible saviour. Lie quiet, do, for a little while. Think it all out for yourself."

He knelt there before her while she sobbed out the last agony of alarm. There were no tears in her eyes; racking sobs shook her slender body; every nerve was aquiver, he could see. Patiently he waited, never taking his firm, encouraging gaze from her face. She grew calmer, more rational. Then, with the utmost gentleness, he persuaded her to rise and walk about the little room with him.

"It will give you strength and courage," he urged. "Poor little girl! Poor little girl!"

She looked up into his face, a new light coming into her eyes.

"Don't talk now," he said softly. "Take your time. Hold to my arm, please. There! In a little while you'll be able to tell me all about it—and then we'll set about to find a way to escape these devils. We'll laugh at 'em, after all."

For five or ten minutes he led her back and forth across the room, very tenderly. At first she was faint and uncertain; then, as her strength and wits came back to her, courage took the place of despair. She smiled wanly and asked him to sit down with her.

"A way to escape, you said," she murmured, as he dropped to her side. "Where are we? What is it all about?"

"Not so loud," he cautioned. "I'll be perfectly candid with you. You'll have to be very, very brave. But wait. Perhaps it will be easier for you to tell me what has happened to you, so far as you know. I can throw light on the whole situation, I think. Tell me, please, in your own way and time. We're in a sorry mess, and it looks black, but, this much I can tell you: you are to be set free in a few days, unharmed. You may rest easy. That much is assured."

"And you?" she whispered, clutching his arm tightly, the swift thrill of relief dying almost as it was born. "What of you?"

"Oh, I'll get out all right," he affirmed with a confidence he did not feel. "I'm going to get you out of this or die in the attempt. Sh! Don't oppose me," he went on whimsically. "I've always wanted to be a hero, and here's my chance. Now tell me what happened to you."

Her piquant, ever-sprightly face had lost the arrogance that had troubled all his dreams of conquest. She was pale and shivering and so sorely distressed that he had it in his heart to clasp her in his arms as one might do in trying to soothe a frightened child. Her face grew cloudy with the effort to concentrate her thoughts; a piteous frown settled upon her brow.

"I'm not sure that I can recall everything. It is all so terrible—so unaccountable. It's like a dream that you try to remember and cannot. Finding you here in this place is really the strangest part of it. I cannot believe that I am awake."

She looked long and anxiously into his face, her eyebrows drawn together in an earnest squint of uncertainty. "Oh, Mr. King, I have had such a dreadful—dreadful time. Am I awake?"

"That's what I've been asking of myself," he murmured. "I guess we're both awake all right. Nightmares don't last forever."

Her story came haltingly; he was obliged to supply many of the details by conjecture, she was so hazy and vague in her memory.

At the beginning of the narrative, however, Truxton was raised to unusual heights; he felt such a thrill of exaltation that for the moment he forgot his and her immediate peril. In a perfectly matter-of-fact manner she was informing him that her search for him had not been abandoned until Baron Dangloss received a telegram from Paris, stating that King was in a hospital there, recovering from a wound in the head.

"You can imagine what I thought when I saw you here a little while, ago," she said, again looking hard at his face as if to make sure. "We had looked everywhere for you. You see, I was ashamed. That man from Cook's told us that you were hurt by—by the way I treated you the day before you disappeared, and—well, he said you talked very foolishly about it."

He drew a long breath. Somehow he was happier than he had been before. "Hobbs is a dreadful ass," he managed to say.

It seems that the ministry was curiously disturbed by the events attending the disappearance of the Countess Ingomede. The deception practised upon John Tullis, frustrated only by the receipt of a genuine message from the Countess, was enough to convince the authorities that something serious was afoot. It may have meant no more than the assassination of Tullis at the hands of a jealous husband; or it may have been a part of the vast conspiracy which Dangloss now believed to be in progress of development.

"Development!" Truxton King had exclaimed at this point in her narrative. "Good God, if Dangloss only knew what I know!"

There had been a second brief message from the Countess. She admitted that she was with her husband at the Axphain capital. This message came to Tullis and was to the effect that she and the Count were leaving almost immediately for a stay at Biarritz in France. "Mr. King," said the narrator, "the Countess lied. They did not go to Biarritz. I am convinced now that she is in the plot with that vile old man. She may even expect to reign in Graustark some day if his plans are carried out. I saw Count Marlanx yesterday. He was in Graustark. I knew him by the portrait that hangs in the Duke of Perse's house—the portrait that Ingomede always frowns at when I mention it to her. So, they did not go to France."

She was becoming excited. Her eyes flashed; she spoke rapidly. On the morning of the 23d she had gone for her gallop in the famous Ganlook road, attended by two faithful grooms from the Royal stables.

"I was in for a longer ride than usual," she said, with sudden constraint. She looked away from her eager listener. "I was nervous and had not slept the night before. A girl never does, I suppose."

He looked askance. "Yes?" he queried.

She was blushing, he was sure of it. "I mean a girl is always nervous and distrait after—after she has promised, don't you see."

"No, I don't see."

"I had promised Count Vos Engo the night before that I—Oh, but it really has nothing to do with the story. I—"

Truxton was actually glaring at her. "You mean that you had promised to marry Count Vos Engo!" he stammered.

"We will not discuss—"

"But did you promise to be his wife? Is he the man you love?" he insisted. She stared at him in surprise and no little resentment.

"I beg of you, Mr. King—" she began, but he interrupted her.

"Forgive me. I'm a fool. Don't mind me." He sank back against the wall, the picture of dejection. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I've got to die in a day or two, so what's the odds?"

"How very strangely you talk. Are you sure—I mean, do you think it is fever? One suffers so—"

He sighed deeply. "Well, that's over! Whew! It was a dream, by Jove!"

"I don't understand."

"Please go on."

She waited a moment and then, looking down, said very gently: "I'm so sorry for you." He laughed, for he thought she pitied him because he had awakened from the dream.

Then she resumed her story, not to be interrupted again. He seemed to have lost all interest.

She had gone six or eight miles down the Ganlook road when she came up with five troopers of the Royal Guard. It was a lonely spot at the junction of the King's Highway and the road to the mines. One of the troopers came forward and respectfully requested her to turn off into the mine road until a detachment passed, in charge of a gang of desperadoes taken at the Inn of the Hawk and Raven the night before. Unsuspecting, she rode off into the forest lane for several hundred yards.

It was a trap. The men were not troopers, but brigands gotten up in the uniform of the guard. Once away from the main highway, they made prisoners of her and the two grooms. Then followed a long ride through roads new to her. At noon they came to a halt while the rascals changed their clothing, appearing in their true garb, that of the mountaineer. Half dead with dread, she heard them discussing their plans; they spoke quite freely in the presence of the well-beaten grooms, who were led to expect death before many hours. It was the design of the bandits to make their way to the almost impregnable fastnesses in the hills of Dawsbergen, the wild principality to the south. There they could hold her against all hope of rescue, until an immense sum of money was paid over in ransom by her dispairing friends.

When night came they were high in the mountains back of the Monastery, many hours ahead of any pursuit. They became stupidly careless, and the two grooms made a dash for freedom. One of them was killed, but the other escaped. She was afterward to recall that no effort was made to recapture him; they deliberately allowed him to escape, their cunning purpose becoming only too apparent later on.

Instead of hurrying on to Dawsbergen, they dropped swiftly down into the valley above the city. No secret was made of the ruse they had employed to mislead the prospective pursuers. The rescue party, they swore joyously, would naturally be led by John Tullis; he would go with all haste to the Dawsbergen hills. The word of the trusty groom would be taken as positive proof that the captive was in that country. She shuddered as she listened to their exultant chuckles. It had been a most cunningly conceived plan and it promised to result profitably for them in the end.

Some time during the slow, torturing ride through the forest she swooned. When she came to her senses she was in a dimly lighted room, surrounded by men. The gag had been removed from her mouth. She would have shrieked out in her terror, had not her gaze rested upon the figure of a man who sat opposite, his elbows on the back of the chair which he straddled, his chin on his arms. He was staring at her steadily, his black eyes catching her gaze and holding it as a snake holds the bird it has charmed.

She recognised the hard, hawk-like face. There could be no mistake. She was looking into the face that made the portrait of the Iron Count so abhorrent to her: the leathery head of a cadaver with eyes that lived. A portrait of Voltaire, the likeness of a satyr, a suggestion of Satan—all rushed up from memory's storehouse to hold her attention rapt in contemplation of this sinister figure.

He smiled. It was like the crumpling of soft leather. Then, with a word to one of the men, he abruptly left the room. After that she broke down and cried herself into the sleep of exhaustion.

All the next day she sat limp and helpless in the chair they had brought to her. She could neither eat nor drink. Late in the afternoon Marlanx came again. She knew not from whence he came: he stood before her suddenly, as if produced by the magic of some fabled genie, smiling blandly, his hands clasped behind his back, his attitude one of lecherous calculation.

Truxton King ground his teeth with rage and despair while she was breathlessly repeating the suave compliments that oozed from the lips of the tormentor.

"He laughed when I demanded that he should restore me to my friends. He chided me when I pleaded and begged for mercy. My questions were never answered. He only said that no harm was to come to me; I was merely touching purgatory that I might better appreciate paradise when I came to it. Oh, it was horrible! I thought I would go mad. Finally I called him a beast; I don't know what else I said. He merely smiled. Presently he called one of the men into the room. He said something about a sewer and a hole in the ground. Then the man went out and I heard the clicking of a telegraph instrument. I heard certain instructions. I was to be taken to a certain place in the city at nightfall and kept there until to-morrow night, when I am again to be removed by way of the river. That is all I know. Where am I, Mr. King? Oh, this dreadful place! Why are we here—you and I?"

King's heart throbbed fiercely one more. He was looking straight into the piteous, wondering eyes; his gaze fell to the parted, tremulous lips. A vast hunger possessed his soul. In that moment he could have laid down his life for her, with a smile of rejoicing.

Then he told her why she was there, why he was there—and of the 26th. The dreadful 26th!

Her eyes grew wide with horror and understanding; her bosom rose and fell rapidly with the sobs of suppressed terror. At last he had finished his stupefying tale; they sat side by side staring into each other's eyes, helpless, stricken.