"In the fortress--condemned to a life sentence," the diplomat answered.

"He was caught while running away from the scene--a raw peasant from Valjevo, hired evidently to hurl the bomb. He was subjected to a searching examination, but would never reveal by whom he was employed.

He was tried and condemned to solitary confinement, which he now is undergoing. You know the horrors of the fortress here, on the Danube, with its subterranean cells--eh?"

"I've heard of them," responded the younger man. "But even that fate is too humane for a man who would deliberately kill an innocent child!"

"A life sentence in the fortress is scarcely humane," the British Minister remarked grimly. "No one has ever entered some of those underground dungeons built by the Turks centuries ago. Their horrors can only be surmised. To all outsiders, who have wished to inspect the place, the Minister of Justice has refused admission."

"Then the a.s.sa.s.sin has only received his deserts."

"The person who formed the plot and used the ignorant peasant as his cat's-paw should be there too--or even instead of him," declared Sir Charles angrily. "The peasant suffers, while the real culprit gets off scot-free and unknown."

"Then he is still unknown?" exclaimed Rolfe in surprise.

"Save to perhaps three persons, of whom I am one."

"And also the man who threw the bomb!"

"I have heard that the solitary confinement in a dark cell already worked its effect upon him. He is hopelessly insane."

Rolfe drew a long breath, and glanced around the cosy room with its long row of well-filled book-cases, its big writing-table, and its smaller tables filled with j.a.panese bric-a-brac, of which Sir Charles was an ardent collector.

In the silence that fell the footman tapped at the door and presented a card. Then Rolfe, declaring that he must go, rose, gripped the grey-haired Minister's hand, and extracting from him a promise to tell the truth as soon as he had established it, followed the smart English footman down the stairs.

That night, as he sat amid the clatter and music of the brilliantly lit Grand Cafe, he reflected deeply on all that had been told him, wondering who was the friend who had been responsible for the outrage, which had induced the Doctor to forsake his native land never to return. Servia was a country of intrigue and unrest, as is every young country. He looked around the tables at the gay crowd of smart officers with their ribbons and crosses upon their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and their well-dressed womenkind, and wondered whether any fresh conspiracy was in progress.

The rule of King Peter--maligned though that monarch had been--had brought beneficent reforms to Servia. And yet there was an opposition who never ceased to hurl hard epithets against him, and to charge him with taking part in a plot, of the true meaning of which he certainly had had no knowledge.

Belgrade is a city in which plots against the monarchy are hinted at and whispered in the corners of drawing-rooms, where diplomacy is a ma.s.s of intrigue, a city of spies and sycophants, of concession-hunters and political cliques. Gay, pleasant, and easy-going, with its fine boulevard, its pretty Kalamegdan Garden, and its spick-and-span new streets, it is different to any other capital of Europe; more full of tragedy, more full of plot and counter-plot.

Austria is there ever seeking by her swarm of secret agents to stir up strife and to organise demonstrations against the reigning dynasty.

Germany is there seeking influence and making promises, while Bulgaria is ever watchful; Turkey is silent and spectral, and Great Britain looks on neutral, but noting every move of the deep diplomatic juggling of the Powers.

At night amid the clatter, the laughter, and the gipsy music of the Grand Cafe, with its billiard tables in the centre and its restaurant adjoining, the stranger would never dream of its close proximity to the tragedy of a throne. Just as the bright lights and calm, moonlit sea throw a glamour over that plague spot Monte Carlo, until the visitor believes that no evil can lurk in that terrestrial paradise, so in Belgrade is everything so pleasant, so happy, so careless that the stranger would never dream that the whole city sits ever upon the edge of a volcano, and that the red flag of revolt is ready at any, moment to be hoisted.

Charlie Rolfe knew Belgrade, and knew the tragedy that underlay its brightness. What greater tragedy could there be than the death of the innocent child blown to atoms by the bomb?

Who could be the culprit whom Sir Charles had told him was his "friend."

He had known the Doctor well, but not intimately as Max Barclay had done. Curious that Max had told him nothing concerning that tragic incident which had caused the Servian statesman and patriot to turn his back upon his beloved country and live in studious seclusion in England.

Max had told him many things, but had never mentioned that subject.

Was Max Barclay the "friend" to whom Sir Charles had referred. Was it really possible? He held his breath, contemplating the end of his half-smoked cigar and wondering.

It was a strange suspicion. Of late, ever since Max had charged him with having been present at Cromwell Road on the night of the disappearance, he had somehow held aloof from the man to whom Marion was so devoted.

And now? Even she had disappeared! What could it mean?

Did Max Barclay really know how and why Marion had disappeared, and for motives of his own was making a mystery?

The message from Barclay worried him. Marion was missing. Why had she left Cunnington's? She must have left of her own accord, he felt confident. She would never be discharged. Sam Statham would never, for a moment, allow that.

A tall man with a fair, pointed beard approached him, raised his hat, and gripped his hand. It was Drukovitch, the director of the National Theatre, and a friend of his. The new-comer seated himself at the table, and the waiter brought a tiny gla.s.s of "slivovitza," or plum gin, that liqueur so dear to the Servian palate. Drukovitch was one of the best-known and most popular men in Belgrade; a thorough-going cosmopolitan, and a man of the world. Sometimes he went to London, and whenever there Charlie entertained him at his club, or they went to the theatre and supped at the Savoy.

As they chatted, Rolfe explaining that he was in Servia upon financial matters as usual, Drukovitch nodded to the officers and civilians whom he knew, many of them famous for the part they had played in the recent _coup d'etat_. Some of them, indeed, wore the white-enamelled cross, which decoration marked them as partisans of the dynasty of the Karageorge. And meanwhile the orchestra were playing the popular waltz from "The Merry Widow," the air haunting everybody and everyone.

That night there was a court hall at the Palace, and the forthcoming event was upon everyone's lips. There was seldom any entertainment at the New Konak, for his Majesty led a very quiet life, the almost ascetic life of a soldier--riding out at dawn, attending to duties of state during the day, and retiring early.

Perhaps the most maligned man in all Europe, King Peter of Servia was, nevertheless, known to those intimate around the throne to be a most conscientious ruler, fully aware of all his responsibilities, and striving ever to pacify the various political factions, sustaining the prestige of Servia abroad, and ameliorating the condition of his people at home.

The truth regarding King Peter had never been written. Of libels and vile calumnies there had been volumes, but no journalist had ever dared to put into print the real facts of King Peter's innocence of any connivance at the dastardly murder of Alexander and Draga.

Those who knew the real facts admired King Peter as a man and fearless patriot, but those who gathered their information from sensational newspapers and scurrilous books emanating from Austria believed every lie that the back-stairs scribes chose to write.

Drukovitch was one of the men who knew the truth, and many a time he had explained them to his friend, who, in turn, had told old Sam Statham, the hard-headed misanthrope whose prejudices were so strong, and yet the chords of whose heart-strings were so readily touched.

Sam had lent money to Servia--huge sums. And why? Because he knew his Majesty personally, and had heard from his own lips the story of his tragic difficulties and his high aspirations.

Once, indeed, in that silent study in Park Lane he had been reading a confidential report from Belgrade, predicting a black outlook, when he turned to his secretary and said:

"Rolfe. There will be trouble in Servia. But even though I may lose the million sterling I have loaned it will not trouble me. I have tried to a.s.sist an honest man who is at the same time a philanthropist and a king."

Charlie Rolfe recollected these words at that moment as he sat amid the noise and chatter of the cafe, where, above every other sound, rose the sweet, tuneful strains of the waltz that had within the past few weeks gripped all Europe.

There was something bizarre, something incongruous with it all.

He was thinking of his lost love--his sweet-faced Maud with the unruly wisp of hair straying across her white brow.

Where was she? Ay, where was she?

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

ADVANCES A THEORY.

Next day, and the next, Charlie called upon the British Minister, but could obtain no further information.

Sir Charles had failed to establish his suspicion, and therefore declined to say anything further.

Rolfe, on his part, had learned from Drukovitch the full details of the dastardly attempt upon the Doctor's life at Topschieder, and how the little child had been blown to atoms. The escape of Petrovitch had been little short of miraculous, and it was now whispered that the conspiracy had no political significance, but was an act of private vengeance.

Whatever its motive might have been, it had had the desired effect of preventing the Doctor from returning to Servia.

In various quarters Rolfe made diligent inquiry, and established without a doubt that Maud Petrovitch had within the past ten days or so been in Belgrade.

A young officer of the King's guard, a Lieutenant Yankovitch, had seen her in the Zar Duschanowa Uliza. He described her as wearing a white serge gown and a big black hat. She was walking with a short, elderly, grey-haired woman, undoubtedly a foreigner--English or American. He was marching with his company, or would have stopped and spoken to her.

Another person discovered by Drukovitch was a domestic who had once been in the Doctor's service. She declared that early one morning when going from her home to the house in the Krunska where she was now employed, she met her young mistress Maud with the same elderly woman--a woman rather shabbily-dressed. The pair were pa.s.sing the Russian Legation, and she stopped and spoke.

The young lady had told her that she was only on a flying visit to Belgrade, and that she was leaving again on the morrow. To the servant's inquiries regarding the Doctor his daughter was silent, as though she did not wish to mention her father.