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"Wait," said Carter, and Josef paused.

"You say you found these papers – in the courtyard of the inn," said Carter endeavoring to connect the man with the mishap to the auto, "any place near the carriage shed?"

The Servitor smiled and assumed a non-committal aloofness.

"Why," he asked as, turning, he left the room.

Following a short talk with the Minister of Private Intelligence, Carter took his departure, and, as he rode thoughtfully back to the inn, he was startled to see a distraught Carrick arise from a stone by the highway.

"Why, Carrick," he cried with a premonitive feeling of some new evil, "what brings you here?"

"Been huntin' for you for nearly three hours, sir. I could not bide there, sir, till I 'ad seen you."

Carter, dismounting, took the bridle rein over his arm and walked alongside the Cockney, who in detail recited the story of a meeting of Josef and Johann in the wood, which, unseen by them, he had watched, and which in every detail corroborated the recital of Johann and the surmises of Sobieska.

"What do you think of it, sir?" he concluded.

Carter shook his head gravely.

"I can't say, Carrick. Keep your eyes and ears open, but do not say a word to any one but me of this or anything else you happen to notice about Josef. There's some game going on that I have not fathomed yet.

"Tod Carrick," he continued in a burst of affectionate consideration, "you're a good faithful soul. Here's my hand. I do not believe you have had a mouthful to eat to-day. Now, have you?"

The Cockney smiled.

"I forgot, sir," he answered almost shyly, elated with the words of approval he had won.

XV
THE DREAM KISS

The next day in solemn conclave the Counselors decided that the time had come to bring the King to Krovitch.

"All is ready," said the grizzled Sutphen, "to inaugurate his reign with the fall of Schallberg."

"You must come too," said Trusia to Carter, "as a member of my household." The question of expedients was debated. Suspicion might be awakened should such a large party travel together. It was decided that Carter and Sobieska should proceed to Vienna; Muhlen-Sarkey and Trusia with their two attendants were to cross into Germany at the nearest point, thence travel by rail, while Josef and the rest should embark boldly from Schallberg.

Carrick was much depressed at learning he was to be left behind, but extracted some consolation from the fact that he was to be detailed to attend Count Zulka for whom he had always shown a preference.

"The rendezvous is Paris, – Boulevard St. Michel, second house on the left from St. Germain. The time, two days hence, at six o'clock in the evening. That will allow the necessary time for unforeseen hitches," said Sobieska, to which all quietly assented.

Speeded by the entire court coterie, Sobieska and Carter mounted and clattered out of the courtyard, and by ways through the forest, which the Minister of Private Intelligence had learned in a score of hunting trips, the pair, evading the vigilance of Russian sentries, reached the Vistula. They were ferried across by a loyal peasant and landed on Austrian soil without hostile interruption.

While the journey from Vienna to Paris was destined to be without particular incident, it furnished the opportunity for a fuller acquaintance and understanding between Carter and Sobieska.

"I have wanted to have a fuller talk with you anent Josef," said Sobieska when their conversation had reached the confidential stage. "It was manifestly impossible at the castle. I was afraid of eavesdroppers. It may be one of those unreasonable prejudices, but, aside from the fellow's social inferiority, I cannot help feeling that his is a sinister influence in Krovitch."

"I thought his allegiance held him to the side of his exiled master. Has he been in Krovitch all his life?"

"Although familiar to the older nobles during the lifetime of King Marc, the grandfather of his present Majesty, Josef reappeared last autumn after an absence of several years. He immediately requested the hand of Lady Trusia in marriage for His Majesty." Here Sobieska glanced covertly at Carter to see the effect of this disclosure. The American's face, however, was as stoical as an Indian's. "He produced the historic documents of Stovik's right to the crown – the traditional proof of embassy. He preached a war on Russia and the rehabilitation of Krovitch. Our people were aroused. For our country's sake, our lady yielded. Messages were sent to all parts of the world to the patriots, who, in large numbers, have been returning to their fatherland. Russia, asleep, or lulled into a false sense of security, has made no move to indicate that she is aware of a plot, yet you heard rumors a year ago that at least matters were in a ferment here. It is strange, strange," he said musingly.

Then, marveling at his own irrelevance, Carter told Sobieska for the first time of Carrick's confirmation of their suspicions that Josef was party to the plot of the substituted letter in the forest. "He knew the name and address of Russia's chief spy in Warsaw. How could he, a retainer – a loyal servant of an exiled monarch, know these things? Pitch defiles."

With a laugh which dismissed the subject, Sobieska turned to Carter. "It seems to me," he said, "we're allowing an absent servant to monopolize considerable of our conversation. Let's talk of something else."

"Have you any conception of His Majesty's, the King's, personality?" asked Carter.

"We were shown a photograph by Josef. Certainly a handsome fellow. An artist." This with the faintest shade of contempt that the man of action always holds for the artist, the poet or the dreamer. "I may be deceived in him, God grant I am, but the face is the face of a sensualist, not of a leader of men. What we need now for the throne is an inveterate hater of Russia. We have good leaders, now. We don't want a king who cannot understand and, consequently, may spoil our best plans."

"Wouldn't he be controlled?"

"You mean by his wife, by Trusia? He may, if she takes his fancy. If not, he may lose interest, and fall under other control."

"You mean Josef's?"

"Yes."

"It seems complications are likely to arise."

"It is not too late for you to draw out," replied Sobieska coldly.

"I am no quitter." Carter's jaws set grim and hard. Then catching an elusive humor in the fact that, even as one who might become unfriendly to him, he should have to accompany this man to Paris, he smiled. So did Sobieska and a cordial understanding was reëstablished.

Paris was reached. Familiar as New York to Carter, he had no difficulty in guiding his companion directly to the rendezvous near the Quai D'Orsay.

Although their friends were not yet arrived, they found a corps of servants had already arranged the house for their reception. As Sobieska was known to the majestic butler, the travelers had no difficulty in immediately establishing themselves in the quarters intended for them.

As night drew on, the others came trooping in, ready to do justice to anything eatable the chef could purvey.

"We had an unexpected rencontre just as we alighted from the train," said Trusia. She leaned forward from her place at the table to speak to Count Sobieska. In doing so, her eyes met Carter's. They were filled with a gentle regard – a more than friendliness.

"With whom?" asked her Minister of Private Intelligence anxiously, for this city was the centre of international intrigue and espionage.

"You remember General Vladimar, the former Russian commandant at Schallberg? It was he. He was very cordial; as cordial as a dangerous Russian always is."

Sobieska, in assenting, drew in his breath with a sibilant sound through pursed lips.

"I have every reason to believe he has been transferred to the White Police," he commented gravely, as he turned his listless glance toward the girl. "Any one with him – did he give any inkling that he suspected anything?"

"He must suspect something," said Trusia, "he was so very, very pleasant. It is impossible for him to know anything, though." She turned her fine eyes again to her Minister. "There was a man with him. He presented him as Herr Casper Haupt, who the General said was connected with the Russian Consulate here. He did not say in what capacity."

Sobieska aimlessly turned and returned a fork lying before him.

"No?" he inquired listlessly; then he repeated the question more indifferently, "No?" He permitted a distant shadow of a smile to cross his face as he looked up. "He didn't tell you, for instance, that Herr Casper Haupt is the Chief of Imperial Secret Police for the district embracing Poland, Krovitch, Austria and France; a very important personage? What did Vladimar have to say?"

"When I told him I was on a shopping tour, he looked the usual masculine horror and gave the usual masculine prayer for deliverance. He jokingly suggested that I was going to purchase a trousseau." Her cheeks took a faint color from her remark. "When he saw my suite – though he didn't think I noticed it – his face stiffened a trifle and his tone was a trifle less cordial. He remarked dryly we must be shopping for an army. He became very anxious to learn my stopping-place that he might call, as an old neighbor. I told him that I had determined, as yet, neither where I would stay permanently, nor how long I would be in Paris, and he had to be content with that."

Sobieska nodded his approval and laid down his fork.

"Such neighbors become more dangerous the older they grow. We will have to keep a lookout for General Alexis Vladimar. He suspects something."

"He made no attempt to follow us," replied Trusia. "I watched. He appeared to have forgotten our existence."

"He is a clever man, that Vladimar," said Sobieska grudgingly. "He has not forgotten. Perhaps he is so sure of finding you when he wants to that he is not giving himself any trouble. Fortunately we leave to-morrow morning and will give him the slip, for all his cleverness."

Trusia now turned to Carter, and with fine free friendliness asked him of his journey and if it had seemed long.

"Yes, it did," he admitted, but he did not say it was because it took him from her.

"Now, isn't that odd," she laughed, "a journey home seems always the longest to me; no train can get me there quickly enough," she added with an extra note of tender patriotism.

When dinner was spread, Trusia seemed pale and depressed as though the anticipated meeting with her unknown fiancé was not fraught with joy. Rallying herself, however, she was soon as much a centre of attraction as a sparkling fountain in a park is to feathered citizens on a sultry summer day.

The wine of Krovitch, unfamiliar to Carter, was quite heady. He felt it coursing through his arteries while his heart beat stronger. In its convivial influence he turned to the jovial Muhlen-Sarkey and touched glasses.

"A short life and a merry one," he said.

"A strong blade and a noble one," replied the elderly noble with unexpected martial ardor. The incident had not escaped the notice of Trusia. She arose, glass held high above her head.

"Gentlemen," she cried, "the King of Krovitch!"

"The King! The King!" came the ready response. Each toaster crashed his glass in token that no less worthy sentiments should ever be drunk from it. When the loyal cries had faded into a ghostly silence, the tall, pale girl spoke again.

"This night, my lords and gentlemen, you go, after two centuries, to call him back unto his own. As you kneel before him, you will hold your sword hilts to his hand in token that at his call, alone, they'll be drawn. Remember, this man is your king, whatever the state in which you find him. Reverence must be shown as though upon his ancestral throne. In full regalia, then, you must present yourselves.

"He may be in rags, but purple never made a king. He may be alone, but royal birth gave him dominion over millions. He may be poor in purse, but is rich in your – in Krovitch's devotion. You must bring him here to-night, guarded with your naked breasts if need be. God save His Majesty!"

When, resplendent in their uniforms, glittering with noble orders, the party reappeared before Her Grace, her face was still pale and her eyes shone from startled depths. Each man kissed her hand and, leaving, received her whispered – "Godspeed." Carter was last.

With his hand upon the knob, he felt that the closing of that door was like sealing the death warrant of his hopes. He was going to find a husband among strangers for the girl he loved. Obeying an irresistible impulse he looked back.

Trusia was standing by the table in the middle of the room. Her left hand leaned on its edge, supporting a weariness shown in the relaxed lines of her figure. Her lips were parted as if in pain, while her eyes seemed searching for Carter as he met her gaze. The others had already passed from the hall. With a bound he was before her, kneeling, his face, turned upward to hers, pleading the love he dared not speak.

Whether he imagined what he wished the most, or whether she, bending, actually touched her lips to his, he could not have said, but satisfied that she loved him, he arose and staggered blindly from the room.

XVI
YOU ARE THE KING OF KROVITCH

At about the same time the Krovitzers were leaving the house on the Boulevard S. Michel, one of those little comedies from real life was being enacted in the attic studio of Eugene Delmotte. Its finale was to be influenced considerably by their actions. The artist was to be transported by them from Hadean depths of despair to Olympian heights of rejoicing.

His disordered locks, beret upon the floor, red tie askew, if not his tragic, rolling eyes and clenched fists, would have apprised Mlle. Marie that all was not as it should be with M. Delmotte. With full appreciation of the effectiveness of the gesture, the artist threw himself into a large chair before an unfinished canvas of heroic dimensions. He buried his face in his hands. He groaned. This was too much for Marie. She approached. Laying a hesitating hand upon his shoulder, she looked down with real concern at the bowed, curly head.

"And Pere Caros will not wait for the rent?" she queried.

"No, curse him," came from between the locked fingers.

"But 'Gene," persisted the girl as though puzzled, "I thought that Harjes, the banker, always paid you an income."

"So he did until to-day. I went there, to be told that, to their regret, my unknown benefactor had not sent them the usual monthly remittance. They regretted also that their foolish rules prevented them advancing me as much as a sou. No reasons given, no names disclosed. I haven't a centime. Not a canvas can I sell. I've fasted since yesterday morning."

"Why, 'Gene?" she inquired innocently. Her mind was occupied with the puzzle of the income which, womanlike, engrossed her entire curiosity.

"Huh," he sniffed bitterly, "because I had to. I haven't even paints with which to complete my masterpiece."

He turned, the personification of despair, to regard the painting against the wall.

"Have you no clues as to the source of the income?" she asked, her mind clinging tenaciously to that unsettled question. "Have you no relatives? No one you could ask to assist you?"

"Only slight memories dating back to early childhood – the remembrance of a servant's face. Here is the tale, Marie. A thousand times I have gone over it to myself, only to be disappointed at its meagreness. My parents must have died when I was too young to have remembered them, judging from what this attendant seems to have told me. I have that impression resisting all arguments. My recollections all centre about a gray-haired man of the confidential-servant class. He was my companion and humored my every whim. By and by, though, he left me. I was taken charge of by a charwoman, and only once visited by my infancy's mentor. My new guardian was authority for the statement that, though not appearing wealthy, this M. Petros, as she called him, was always able to obtain money as needed from M. Harjes. There is nothing more to add."

"Clearly, M. Petros then knew something about the source of your income," said Marie.

"Agreed, sweet creature, but since I do not have the slightest idea where he is, I can't see how that will help me. I don't even know his full name."

"Cheer up, 'Gene, you will yet see that picture hang."

"More likely to hang myself," he said with a return of awful gloom.

"But the great M. Lourney praised the conception, the breadth, of this, your last picture," the girl said, as her hand pushed lightly through the shock of curls on the man's head.

"Yes, it is good," he said responsively, both to the hope she inspired and the caress she bestowed. That girl understood men. "Krovitch the Bulwark," he continued. "They were a great people, Marie. Their history, unfamiliar to most, has always interested me strangely." His eyes were illumined with enthusiasm as he raised an index arm toward the canvas. "See those vigorous fellows, each a hero. A single nation flinging back from Europe the invasion of the infidel. A heroic subject for a painting, eh, girlie?" He smiled up in her face, his troubles for the nonce forgotten. Get a man talking about his abilities to achieve and you can dispel the darkest gloom from his brow. It was high time to bring him back to earth again, but she knew how. He had had just sufficient gratulation to take the edge off pretended or real misery.

"It is, 'Gene, but it will not pay the rent. Listen." The timid flush mounted to her cheek as she made the suggestion, "Go to the pawnbroker's. Take these trinkets of mine. Beg him to loan you sufficient for your rent. Now, don't refuse. You may redeem them when you can. Besides, you gave them to me." She looked down with affectionate regret at the bracelets, the bangles, the rings, which use and the donor had made dear to her.

Being weak, he hesitated. His need was great. Then kissing the girl lightly, he took them and strode from the room.

"Come right back, 'Gene," she called, happy as only a woman can be in a sacrifice.

During his absence, from her own scanty store of edibles across the hall, she prepared a meal for him. Absorbed in this occupation she gave little heed to the steady tramp of feet ascending the staircase. A peremptory knock recalled her from her world of happy thoughts.

"Entrez," she added, thinking it was one of 'Gene's jokes.

The door opened. Into the room trooped a throng of men, resplendent in black and gold, silver and gray. Her eyes opened in astonishment; so did theirs. Her lips, parted to speak, could only gasp; so could theirs. The surprise was apparently mutual. With true Parisian humor she laughed heartily at the paralysis, and speech was thawed. Colonel Sutphen stood forward and bowed courteously.

"Your pardon, mademoiselle. We were informed that a young man, Eugene Delmotte, resided here. Pardon our mistake, accept our most humble apology and permit us to depart." He moved toward the door as a signal for a general exodus.

"But 'Gene – but M. Delmotte does live here," she cried, in apprehension of the departure of these lordly and apparently affluent strangers who might aid poor 'Gene. The elderly gentleman stopped on hearing this. He regarded her with more chilling politeness.

"And you," he asked, "are Mme. Delmotte?"

"Oh, no, monsieur," she replied simply.

"His – his companion?" The Colonel flushed at his own audacity. The girl smiled forgivingly, though a little wanly.

"Oh, no, monsieur. I am only his friend and occasional model. He is in trouble, messieurs. I came to cheer him up. I live across the hall."

Colonel Sutphen, scanning the far end of the room, failed to find the object of his inquiry. The girl came forward with an explanation as the elderly noble turned a questioning face toward hers.

"He has gone out, monsieur," she said. "He will soon return. He is in debt." She hung her head in distress. Colonel Sutphen turned to Josef in surprise. The latter whispered something in his ear, which apparently satisfied him. The girl closely watched this little by-play.

"Oh, then you know about him, messieurs?" she said. "You will help him? You are his friends?" She was happy for her neighbor.

"Only a few of a great many thousands," replied Sutphen ponderously. "Tell me, mademoiselle, have you any – er – er claims upon M. Delmotte? Are you betrothed? Any claims of er – er sentiment?"

The girl's eyelids dropped as she answered,

"Not that he is aware of, monsieur." Then her eyes blazed at the sudden realization of the indignity put upon her. "Who are you, though, and by what right do you question me? He is an artist and I – I am a friend. That is all, monsieur."

She had little spirit, after all, for a contest; but a door in her heart had been opened, a door that a girl generally keeps closed to mankind, and she naturally resented the intrusion. Look, too, where she would she could not escape the eyes of encircling masculinity.

Carter, appreciating her embarrassment and feeling an American gentleman's compassion for her predicament, undertook a divertisement.

"Fine picture, that," he said, loud enough to be heard by the others. "Those chaps are wearing the Krovitch Lion, too. Coincidence, isn't it?" Involuntary curiosity called all eyes toward the painting. The effect was magical. Astonishment showed in every Krovitch face. They, one and all, uncovered their heads as they recognized in the subject the unconscious expression of their sovereign's patriotism.

"Is that the work of M. Delmotte?" inquired the Colonel with voice softened by what he had just seen.

The girl nodded; she was proud of her friend's ability to move these strangers to reverence.

"Gentlemen – an omen," said the grizzled veteran, pointing to the picture. "History repeats itself."

"Mademoiselle," Carter said gently under cover of the general buzz of excited comment aroused by the picture, "mademoiselle, M. Delmotte is destined to a high place among the great men of the world. While to some is given the power to portray famous events, to a very few indeed it is given to create such epochs. Such men are necessarily set apart from their fellows. Despite the promptings of their hearts, they must forego many friendships which would otherwise be dear to them. M. Delmotte is both fortunate and unfortunate in this." As with careful solicitude for her feelings he strove to prepare her for the separation from the artist, the girl's color came and went fitfully as gradually the truth began to dawn upon her.

"I think I understand, monsieur," she said, grateful for his consideration. Then she continued slowly, deliberately, letting the acid truth of each word eat out the joy in her heart, "You mean that M. Delmotte must no longer know Marie, the model."

The Colonel, who had approached, had overheard this last thing spoken.

"It is possible," the latter hinted, "that he might desire to spare you the pain of leave taking, as he goes with us from Paris – from your world."

"Oh, monsieur," she turned appealingly to Carter, her eyes wide in their efforts to restrain their tears, "is this true?"

Carter nodded his head gravely. Sutphen pressed a fat, black wallet upon her, which she declined gently.

"As a gift," he insisted.

"Oh, monsieur," she cried reproachfully, and with averted face fled from the room.

Sheepishly guilty in feeling as only men can be, the party in the studio awaited expected developments. In a few minutes they heard the approach of a man's footsteps upon the stairs. All eyes turned curiously toward the doorway. Nearer came the sounds, nearer, while with increasing volume their hearts beat responsively. The steps stopped. The waiting hearts seemed to stand still in sympathy. Then the door opened.

"It is he," whispered Josef. All heads uncovered and each man bowed low. Delmotte stood petrified with astonishment.

"Messieurs," he said at last, recovering his speech, "messieurs, I am honored." Then as his eyes lighted on Josef, they sparkled with unexpected recognition. "You are Petros," he said, puzzled by the brilliant throng surrounding him.

"Josef Petros Zolsky, Your Majesty. I am your childhood's retainer and hereditary servitor. Yes, I am he you call Petros," and the white head bowed low as a gratified light kindled in the crafty eyes.

"Majesty! What the devil – am I crazy? I am not drunk," he added regretfully.

"Sire," stammered Colonel Sutphen, "sire, you are the King of Krovitch."

"The devil I am," came the prompt response. Nevertheless the artist threw an affectionate glance at the painting as one might in saying, "You were my people." The piquancy of the situation caused him to smile. "Gentlemen," he said, "if this is some hoax, believe me it is in very poor taste. Taste? Yes, for I haven't eaten in two days. What's your game? I've just come from a pawnbroker's, where I had gone with the paltry jewels of a model, to try and secure enough to pay my rent. You offer me a crown. Corduroys and blouse," he pointed to his garb, "you tempt me with visions of ermine. A throne to replace my stool, and pages of history are given for my future canvases. I am starving, gentlemen," he said half turning away suffused in his own self-pity, "do not trifle with me." He appealed to Josef. "Is this true – what they say, Josef-Petros, or whatever your name is?"

"It is true, Your Majesty."

"A King! A King!" exclaimed the astonished artist. "But still a King without a kingdom – a table without meat. A mockery of greatness after all. Why do you come to tell me this?" he cried turning fiercely on them. "Was I too contented as I was? It is not good to taunt a hungry man. To tell me that I am a crownless King without six feet of land to call my realm, is but to mock me."

"The remedy is at hand, Your Majesty," Sutphen asserted confidently. "Eighty thousand men await your coming, all trained soldiers. We will raise the battle cry of Krovitch and at Schallberg crown you and your Queen."

"My Queen," almost shouted the astonished Delmotte, "have I a Queen, too? Are you all crazy, or am I? Pray heaven the Queen is none other than Marie, else I'll have no supper to-night. Who is my queen?" He asked as he saw the expression of disapproval which appeared on more than one face present.

"The noblest woman under heaven, sire," said Sutphen reverently. "One who well could have claimed the crown herself. She wished a man to lead her people in the bitter strife and waived her claims for you. It is therefore but meet that she who has wrought all this for you should share your throne."

"Why was I chosen?"

"You are descended from Stovik – she from Augustus, the last King of Krovitch, Stovik's rival." So step by step they disclosed their plans, their hopes and ambitions to the dazzled Parisian. Finally, his mind was surfeited with the tale of this country which was claiming him; he turned and, with sweeping gesture, indicated those present.

"And you?" he asked. "And these? I know your rightful name as little as I am sure of my own."

"Your Majesty's rightful name is Stovik Fourth." Then Sutphen presented each in turn. Carter came last. The eyes of these two, so near an age, instinctively sought out the other and recognized him as a possible rival. Probably the first there to do so, Carter admitted that this so-called heir to a throne was nothing but an ordinary habitué of café and boulevard; a jest-loving animal, with possibly talents, but no great genius.

The artist, with an assertion of his novel dominance, arose. "I am ready, gentlemen," he said. "My baggage is on my back. I understand that the rendezvous is on the Boulevard S. Michel. Proceed."

Without one backward glance or thought he passed from the attic home, his foot in fancy already mounting his throne. Marie was forgotten in the dream of a royal crown and visions of a distant kingdom.