"Hide that, Professor," he said. "In a few minutes you will speak several new languages."

Popova sipped conservatively.

"Don't be afraid," urged Mr. Pike, encouragingly. "If the boy watched me carefully, possibly he can duplicate the order."

The youth was more than willing, for he seldom received instruction.

With now and then a word of counsel or warning from the wise man of the west in the corner, he cautiously a.s.sembled two other fizzes, while Mr.

Pike, in a most nonchalant and roundabout manner, sought information concerning affairs of state, local politics, the Governor-General's household and Princess Kalora. Popova told more than he had meant to tell and more than he knew that he was telling.

It may have been that the fizzes were insidious or that Mr. Pike was unduly persuasive, or that a combination of these two powerful influences moved the elderly tutor to impulses of unusual generosity. At any rate, he found himself possessed of an affection for the young man from Bessemer, Pennsylvania. It was an affection both fatherly and brotherly. When Mr. Pike asked him to perform just a small service for him, he promised and then promised again and was still promising when his host went with him to the carriage and said that he had not lived in vain and that in years to come he would gather his grandchildren around him and tell of the circ.u.mstances of his meeting with the greatest scholar in southeastern Europe.

VIII

BY MESSENGER

On the morning after the strange happenings in the garden, Kalora sat by one of the cross-barred windows overlooking a side street, and envied the humble citizens and unimportant woman drifting happily across her field of vision.

Never in all her life had she walked out alone. The sweet privilege of courting adventure had been denied her. And yet she felt, on this morning, an almost intimate acquaintance with the outside world, for had she not talked with a valorous young man who could leap over high walls and subdue giants and pay compliments? He had thrown a sudden glare of romance across her lonesome pathway. The few minutes with him seemed to encompa.s.s everything in life that was worth remembering. She told herself that already she liked him better than any other young man she had met, which was not surprising, for he had been the first to sit beside her and look into her eyes and tell her that she was beautiful.

She knew that whatever of wretchedness the years might hold in store for her, no local edict could rob her of one precious memory. She had locked it up and put it away, beyond the reach of courts and relatives.

During many wakeful hours she had recalled each minute detail of that amazing interview in the garden, and had tried to estimate and foreshadow the young man's plan of escape from the secret police.

Perhaps he had been taken during the night. The greatest good fortune that she could picture for him was a quick flight across the frontier, which meant that he would never return--that she had seen him once and could not hope to see him again.

In her contemplation of the luminous figure of the Only Young Man, she had ceased to speculate concerning her own misfortunes. The fact of her disgrace remained in the background, eclipsed--not in evidence except as a dim shadow over the day.

While she sat immovable, gazing into the street, feeling within herself a tumult which was not of pain, nor yet of pleasure, but a satisfactory commingling of both, she heard her name spoken. Popova was standing in the doorway. He greeted her with a smile and bow, both of which struck her as being singularly affected, for he was not given to polite observances. As he squatted near her, she noticed that he was tremulous and seemed almost frightened about something.

"I have come to tell you that I regret exceedingly the--the distressing incident of yesterday, and that I sympathize with you deeply--deeply,"

he began.

"It is your fault," she said, turning from him and again gazing into the street. "You taught me everything I do not need in Morovenia. You neglected the one essential. I am not blind. It was never your desire that I should be like my sister."

She spoke in a low monotone and with no tinge of resentment, but her words had an immediate and perturbing effect on Popova, who stared at her wide-eyed and seemed unable to find his voice.

"You must know that I have been governed by your father's wishes," he said awkwardly. "Why do you--"

"Do not misunderstand me. I thank you for what you have done. I would not be other than what I am. Tell me--the stranger--you know, the one in the garden--has he been taken?" inquired the Princess.

"Taken! Taken! Not even a clue--not a trace! Either the earth opened to swallow him or else Koldo is a dunce. The description was most accurate.

By the way, I--I had a most interesting conversation regarding the case, with a young man at the Hotel de l'Europe last evening. He is a person of great importance in his own country, also a student of world-politics--I--he--never have I encountered such discrimination in one so young. It was because of my admiration for his talents and my confidence in his integrity that I consented to deliver a message for him."

Kalora squirmed in her pillows, and turned eagerly to face Popova.

"A message? For me?" she cried, eagerly.

"I will admit that the whole proceeding is most irregular, to put it mildly. The young man was so deeply interested in your perilous adventure of yesterday, and so desirous of felicitating you upon your escape, that I yielded to his importunities and promised to deliver to you this letter."

He brought it out cautiously, as if it were loaded with an explosive, and Kalora pounced upon it.

"I rely upon you to maintain absolute secrecy in regard to my part in this unusual--"

But Kalora, unheeding him, had torn open the letter and was reading, as follows:

MY DEAR PRINCESS:

I hope that's the way to begin. Something tells me that you would not stand for "Your Majesty" or any of these "Royal Highness" tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs.

Believe me, you are the best ever. I have just had a talk with the eminent plain-clothes man who is looking for the burglar that broke into the garden this afternoon and tried to steal you. He read to me the description. Say, if I tried to write at this minute all of my present emotions concerning you, I would burn holes in the paper. When it comes to turning out fiction, Marie Corelli is not in the running. Honestly, when Mr. Detective walked into the hotel this evening, I figured it a toss-up whether I should ever see home and mother again.

I am only an humble steel-maker, but I am for you and I want to see you again and tell you right to your face what I think of you. If you will sort of happen to be in the garden at 4 p.m. to-morrow (Thursday), I will come over the wall at the very spot I picked out to-day. I know that this method of becoming acquainted with young women is not indorsed by the _Ladies_' _Home Journal_ or Beatrice Fairfax, but, as nearly as I can find out, there is no other way in which I can get into society over here.

So far as the bloodhounds of the law are concerned, don't give them a thought. I have met, the great Koldo, and he won't know until about next Sunday that yesterday was Tuesday. The professor has promised to bring a reply to the hotel. He is not on.

Sincerely, YOUR GERMAN FRIEND.

She read it all and found herself gasping--surprised, frightened, and moved to a fluttering delight. She had thought of him as skulking in byways, of concealing his name and attempting to disguise himself so that he might dodge through the meshes woven by the invincible Koldo, and here he was, still flaunting himself at the hotel and calmly preparing to repeat his hazardous experiment.

"He is a fool!" she exclaimed, forgetting that Popova was present.

"I trust the message has not offended you," said the tutor, decidedly alarmed at her agitation and not understanding what it meant.

"I tell you he is a fool--a fool!" she repeated. And while Popova wondered, she sprang to her feet and ran to him and gave him a muscular embrace around the tender portion of his neck, for he still squatted after the oriental manner, even though he wore a long black coat of German make.

"I consented to bring it because he was most urgent, and seemed a proper sort of person," began Popova, "and not knowing the contents--"

"Bless you, I am not offended," interrupted Kalora, and then, looking at the letter again, she burst into happy laughter.

The young stranger was unquestionably a fool. She had not dreamed that any one could be so reckless and heedless, so contemptuous of the dread machinery of the law, so willing to risk his very life for the sake of--of seeing her again!

"If he has been impertinent, possibly you will take no notice of his communication," suggested Popova.

"Oh, I _must_--I must at least acknowledge the receipt of it. Common courtesy demands that. I shall write just a few lines and you must take them to him at once. He seems to be a very forward person unacquainted with our local customs, and so I shall formally thank him and suggest to him that any further correspondence would be inadvisable. That's the really proper thing to do, don't you think?"

"Possibly."

"Then wait here until I have written it, and unless you wish me to go to my father and tell him something that would put an end to your ill.u.s.trious career, deliver this message within a hour--deliver it yourself. Give it to him and to no one else."

Never was a go-between more nonplussed, but he promised with a readiness and a sincerity which indicated that he was keenly aware of the fact that Kalora held him in her power. The minx had read his secret without an effort!

Mr. Pike was waiting in the avenue of potted palms when the greatest scholar of southeastern Europe, now reduced to the humble role of messenger boy, came to him, somewhat flurried and breathless, and slipped a small envelope into his hand.

Popova rather curtly refused to renew his acquaintance with occidental fizzes, and waited only until he had announced to Mr. Pike that the Princess wished to emphasize the advice contained in the letter and to a.s.sure the presumptuous stranger that it was meant for his welfare.