The Lady in the Car Part 27

That same afternoon, before four o'clock, he had received a draft for twenty thousand pounds, with which he had opened an account in Charles's name at a branch bank in Tottenham Court Road.

At nine o'clock that same evening he left for Paris, putting up at a small obscure hotel near the Gare du Nord where he waited in patience for nearly a week.

Once or twice he telegraphed, and received replies.

Late one night the Parson arrived unexpectedly and entered the shabby bedroom where his Lordship was lounging in an armchair reading a French novel.

He sprung up at the entrance of the round-faced cleric, saying:

"Well, Tommy? How has it gone? Tell me quick."

"You were quite right," exclaimed the clergyman. "The crowd in London were going behind your back. They sent two clever men to Rome, and those fellows tried to deal with Boncini direct. They arrived the day after I did, and they offered him an extra twenty thousand if he would rescind your concession, and grant them a new one. Boncini was too avaricious and refused, so they then treated with you."

"I got twenty thousand," remarked his Lordship, "got it in cash safe in the bank."

"Yes. I got your wire."

"And what did you do?" asked his friend.

"I acted just as you ordered. As soon as I was convinced that the people in London were working behind our backs, I laid my plans. Then when your wire came that you'd netted the twenty thousand, I acted."

"How?"

"I took all the signed proof you gave me of old Boncini's acceptance of the bribe, and of Madame's banking account at the Credit Lyonnais, to that scoundrel Ricci, the red-hot Socialist deputy in the Chamber."

"And what did he say?" asked his Lordship breathlessly.

"Say!" echoed the other. "He was delighted. I spent the whole evening with him. Next day, he and his colleagues held a meeting, and that afternoon he asked in the Chamber whether his Excellency, the Minister of the Interior, had not been bribed by an English syndicate and put a number of similarly awkward questions. The Government had a difficulty in evading the truth, but imagine the sensation when he waved proofs of the corruptness of the Cabinet in the face of the House. A terrible scene of disorder ensued, and the greatest sensation has been caused.

Look here,"--and he handed his friend a copy of _Le Soir_.

At the head of a column on the front page were the words in French, "Cabinet Crisis in Italy," and beneath, a telegram from Rome announcing that in consequence of the exposure of grave scandals by the Socialists, the Italian Cabinet had placed their resignations in the hands of his Majesty.

"Serve that old thief Boncini right," declared his Lordship. "He was ready to sell me for an extra few thousands, but I fortunately got in before him. I wonder if the pretty Velia has still any aspirations to enter the British peerage?"

And both men laughed merrily at thought of the nice little nest-egg they had managed to filch so cleverly from the hands of five of the smartest financiers in the City of London.

CHAPTER TEN.

LOVE AND THE OUTLAW.

"By Jove!" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "Who's the girl, Prince?"

"That's Zorka. Pretty, isn't she, Diprose?"

"Pretty!" I echoed. "Why, she's the most beautiful woman I've seen in the whole of Servia!"

We were driving slowly together in the big "sixty" up the main street of the city of Belgrade, and were at that moment pa.s.sing the iron railings of the palace of his Majesty King Peter. It was a bright dry afternoon, and the boulevard was thronged by a smart crowd, ladies in Paris-made gowns, and officers in brilliant uniforms and white crosses with red and white ribbons on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Belgrade, though constantly in a ferment of political storm and stress, and where rumours of plots against the throne are whispered nightly in the corners of drawing-rooms, is, nevertheless, a quiet and pleasant place. Its picturesque situation, high up upon its rocks at the confluence of the Save with the Danube, its pretty Kalemegdan gardens, its wide boulevard and its pleasant suburbs, combine to offer considerable attraction to the foreigner. It is the gateway to eastern Europe. At quiet old Semlin--or Zimony--on the opposite bank of the Danube is Hungary, the fringe of western Europe: in Belgrade the Orient commences.

I happened to be at the Grand at Belgrade, and had there found the Prince, or Reggie Martin, as he always called himself in the Balkans.

He was idling, with no apparent object. Only the faithful Garrett was with him. Both Charles and the Parson he had left behind in London.

Therefore, I concluded that the reason of his presence in Servia was to learn some diplomatic secret or other, for he only went to the Balkans with that one object.

Of his business, the Prince seldom, if ever, spoke. Even from his most intimate a.s.sociate, the Rev Thomas Clayton, he usually concealed his ulterior object until it was attained. The Parson, Garrett, and Charles acted in blind obedience. They were paid to obey, not to reason, he often told them.

And so it was that although we had been together a week in King Peter's capital, I was in entire ignorance of the reason of his presence there.

As we had brought the big car slowly along the boulevard, a dark-eyed peasant-girl, with a face full of wondrous beauty, had nodded saucily to him, and this had caused me to notice and admire her. Belgrade is full of pretty women, but not one was half so handsome. She was about twenty, I judged, and the manner in which her hair was dressed with the gay-coloured handkerchief upon it was in the style of unmarried women.

"I want to speak to her, to ask her a question," the Prince said suddenly, after we had gone some distance. And driving the car down into the square we turned back in order to overtake her.

"An old friend of yours?" I inquired.

"Yes, my dear Diprose," he laughed as he touched the b.u.t.ton of the electric horn. "And a girl with a very remarkable past. Her story would make a good novel--by Jove it would."

Five minutes later we had overtaken her, and pulled up at the kerb. The girl blushed and appeared confused as my companion, stopping the car, got down and stood at her side with his motor-cap raised. He spoke to her in his best Servian, for he knew a smattering of that difficult language, and appeared to be inviting her to enter the car and come for a run.

At first she was disinclined to accept the invitation, because of the crowd of smart promenaders. She was probably shy at being seen in the company of two foreigners. At last her curiosity as to what conveyance by automobile might be got the better of her, and she reluctantly entered the door held open for her.

Then Reggie introduced us, and got back to his seat at the wheel, I mounting again to my place beside him.

In a few minutes we were out on the broad s.e.m.e.ndria road, a fine well-kept military highway, and on getting clear of the town, put on a "move" until the speedometer before me registered fifty miles an hour.

Zorka, now alone with us, clapped her hands with childish delight. She was an Eastern beauty of rare type, with full red lips, magnificent luminous eyes, and a pink and white complexion that any woman of Mayfair would envy.

Ten miles from Belgrade, we stopped at a small wine-shop and had some refreshment. She sat at the little table before us laughing at me because we could not understand each other. In lieu of paying the rustic beauty compliments, I raised my gla.s.s and bowed. She accepted my homage with queenly grace. Indeed, in her peasant costume of scarlet and black, with golden sequins on the bodice, she reminded me of a heroine of opera.

We sat in the little garden above the broad blue Danube until the sun grew golden with departing day, the Prince chatting with her and laughing merrily. He seemed to be asking many questions, while I, in my curiosity, kept pestering him to tell the story of our beautiful companion--the story which he had declared to be so remarkable and romantic.

He had offered her one of his "Petroffs" from his gold cigarette-case, and she was smoking with the air of one accustomed to the use of tobacco. Our eyes met suddenly, and blowing a cloud of smoke from her pretty lips she suddenly burst out laughing. Apparently she was enjoying that unconventional meeting to its full bent. She had never before ridden in a motor-car--indeed, there are but few in Servia--and the rush through the air had exhilarated her. I noted her well-formed hands, her splendid bust, and her slim, graceful figure, and I longed to hear her story. The Prince possessed, indeed, a wide circle of friends ranging from princes of the blood down to peasants.

At last he made some remarks, whereupon our delightful little companion grew suddenly silent, her great dark eyes fixed upon me.

"Zorka is not Servian, Diprose," the Prince began. "She's Turkish. And this meeting to-day has recalled to me memories, of a strange and very remarkable incident which occurred to me not so very long ago." And then he went on to relate the following chapter of his amazing life-story. I will here record it in his own words:

That silent night was glorious. I shall preserve its memory for ever.

High up to that mountain fastness I was the first stranger to ascend, for I was the guest of a wild tribe of Albanian brigands, those men of the Skreli who from time to time hold up travellers to ransom, and against whom the Turkish Government are powerless.

It was a weird, never-to-be-forgotten experience, living with those tall, handsome fellows in white skin-tight woollen trousers with big snake-like bands running up the legs, black furry boleros, and white fezes. Every man was armed to the teeth with great silver-hilted pistols and long knives in their belts, and n.o.body went a dozen yards without his rifle ready loaded.

Ever since the days before we were together at Cheltenham, Diprose, I had read stories of brigands, but here was the real thing--the free-booters of the mountains, who would never let me go about without a dozen men as guard, lest I should be mistaken for a stranger and "picked off" by one of the tribe lurking behind a rock. Life is, indeed, cheap in the Skreli country, that great range of inaccessible mountains east of gallant little Montenegro.

On that night in the early autumn I was seated upon a rock with a tall, thin, wiry, but handsome, young man, named Luk, known in his tribe as "The Open Eye," whom the great chieftain, Vatt Marashi, had given me as head of my body-guard, while beside was the dark-faced Albanian who, speaking Italian, acted as my guide and interpreter. Zorka was spinning her flax close by.

In the domain of his Imperial Majesty the Sultan, the moon seems to shine with far greater brilliancy than it does anywhere else in the world, and surely the panorama of high mountain and deep dark valley there spread before us was a veritable stage-picture, while the men at my side were as romantic looking a pair as could be found anywhere in real life.

Many times, as at night I lay down upon my humble bed of leaves, had I reflected how insecure was my position, and how easily my hosts could break their word, hold me to ransom, and worry the Foreign Office. Yet, let me here a.s.sert that all, from the chieftain, down to the humblest tribesman, treated me with a kindness, courtesy, and forethought, that, from the first, caused me to admire them. They might be brigands, and the blood-curdling stories of their cruelty might possibly be true, but they were, without doubt, a most gentlemanly gang of ruffians.