The Secret of the Silver Car - Wyndham Martyn (red white royal blue txt) 📗

automobile from Count Michael Temesvar—the man who is at the bottom of the plot—would you feel bound to deliver him up to justice? I ask because I think some sort of police are on the way here now.”

“My dear man,” said Lieutenant Maitland, “you have the good fortune to be aboard the fastest destroyer on God’s wide waters. Also steam is up and we shall have started before the harbour authorities can get aboard. If they can overhaul my old dear you may ask me that question again.”

When it was certain that Trent had made good his escape the black rage that took hold of Count Michael plunged his household into a distress that showed itself on every troubled face except that of Pauline.

She was not easily able to conceal her joy in Anthony Trent’s good fortune. The prophecy of the gipsy that he would escape was fulfilled.

She knew that rage must be eating at the count’s heart, a rage compared with which all his other frenzied outbursts were as nothing. As a rule he made Pauline his confidante, desiring only that she approve of his behaviour. Twice she had tried to get Hentzi aside and learn what news, if any, had come of the masquerader. Hentzi sullenly turned away from her. She supposed he had been so upset over his master’s temper that he was nursing a grievance himself.

She was in her room that night, about to take a gorgeous necklace from her firm white throat, when there was a knock upon the door.

“It is Mr. Hentzi,” said her maid.

“Tell him I will not see him,” Pauline yawned.

“He has an important message from Count Michael,” said the girl.

“Which will wait until tomorrow,” Pauline said lazily.

Hentzi’s voice made itself heard through the partly opened door.

“I must beg you madame, to come at once. It is imperative. The count must have your advice on matters of importance.”

Pauline decided to go. After the silence of the day the count would tell her everything, and she was anxious to be reassured of Anthony Trent’s safety.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded as Hentzi guided her past the big room where Trent had been arraigned, the room from which he had made his escape.

“His Excellency cannot remain in a room with an entire window torn out. It would but be to invite a flock of bats to enter.”

Pauline climbed two little flights of steps which led to the topmost floor of the castle.

“I have never been here before,” she commented.

“Few strangers have,” he said, locking it behind her.

“Strangers!” she repeated, “since when have I been a stranger?”

She found nothing strange in his silence. Hentzi was constantly a prey to the fear he might by some over zealous action provoke the wrath of the man he served. Probably he had not heard her question.

She found Count Michael in a big bare room, octagonal in shape and knew it must be the tower which stood out boldly on the western corner of the castle.

“Why bring me here?” she said petulantly.

She had no fear of the man who ruled his people as an autocrat. It is not in the nature of such women as Pauline to eliminate a certain feeling of contempt for the power of men whom they can sway by whim and artifice. Michael, Count Temesvar, was terrible to such as he hated, and a political force of sinister strength, but to the green eyed woman who looked at him mockingly he was one of the weak and pliable pawns on life’s board.

“Sit down,” he said suavely. There was no sudden look of affection as he gazed at her. He spoke, she reflected, very much as he had done to Anthony Trent. But the ex-chauffeur had been a prisoner. She looked about her and saw that this was almost a prison.

“About this Alfred Anthony,” he began. “I am told, although I do not believe it, that you were much concerned for his safety.”

“Who told you that?” she demanded.

“What matters that? It is untrue?”

“Naturally,” she answered, trying to fathom what lay behind his smiling face.

“Tell me this Pauline,” he said leaning forward, “when the Sissek woman informed us that he had escaped I thought I heard you say ‘Thank God.’ Why did you thank God when my enemy escaped?”

Pauline was not so easily to be trapped. She remembered breathing her prayer almost at his ear but she hoped in the excitement he had not heard.

“You are dreaming Michael,” she exclaimed. “Why should I say that?”

“Another thing,” the count went on. “This man would hardly have escaped if the electric lights had not gone out.” Abruptly the count turned to Hentzi. “Tell me, did you see the engineer about this?”

“Yes, Excellency,” Hentzi assured him, “He tells me in technical terms which I do not comprehend that sometimes the light goes off for a few moments. It was the thunder storm or some atmospherical condition. I do not remember.”

“Heaven seems to fight for him,” Count Michael commented. “First the lights extinguished and then someone in this house of mine who gives him keys and aids his escape. The garage door opens itself to him and lo, he disappears.”

“He has an accomplice you think, Excellency?” Hentzi stammered. He was fearful that his master had learned of his carrying the book to the prisoner. Out of this slender fact the wrathful count might be weaving plot enough to engulf his faithful secretary. “I assure your Excellency,” Hentzi cried, “that I am entirely loyal.”

Pauline was still not to be frightened by this changed mood of the count and the agitation expressed on his secretary’s face. She had been victor over him in a hundred violent scenes and Pauline loved violence and the raising of voices.

“A curious thing,” said the count meditatively, “is that the lights went out only in my room. A well trained thunder storm Hentzi, eh?”

“Your excellence means that someone turned them off. I was on guard at the window as you remember.”

“I know that you were. Ferencz was at the north door, Peter at the other. The thief could not be suspected and I was a dozen feet distant sitting in my chair. And yet, Hentzi, when I pressed the button light again flooded the room.”

“I suppose you are hinting that I did it?” Pauline said calmly.

When the count smiled, it was another man looking at her, a man to whom she was a stranger. For the first time a thrill of uneasiness took hold of her.

“Is hinting the right word?” Count Michael retorted.

“I might have done it,” Pauline admitted, “I remember when I heard the crash of the broken glass jumping up. I probably put my hand out to steady myself and touched the knob without noticing it. How unfortunate!

“Again,” said the count, “I must question your right use of words. You said ‘unfortunate,’ did you not?”

“There is one other thing which has puzzled me,” Count Michael went on. Peter Sissek’s wife thinks she saw you come back to the garage two mornings back soon after sunrise. She was wrong?”

“She was right,” Pauline replied, “I could not sleep so I went out to try and find the missing coat.”

“What loyal helpers surround me,” the count murmured . “Before you retire to your well earned night’s rest one other question.”

“As many as you please,” said Pauline, some of her burden of anxiety lifted. “What is it?”

“This thief knew of the presence here of certain exalted personages. He had never been anywhere but in the kitchen quarters and his own room. No servant of mine would have told him anything. There were many hours when I was busy and you played golf that you could have told him. I want your word that the information did not come from you.”

“You have it,” she said lightly. “Now as that is all I shall go to my room. This hideous place chills

“Pauline,” Count Michael said sternly, “I have given you every chance to tell the truth. You have lied. It is in your nature to lie but I thought that one of your training would know when the time came to speak the truth. Such an hour is at hand. The man was your lover. You helped him to escape. That I am certain of. You have betrayed me and my cause—and your cause too—because you are a light of love, a thing who will accept a purchase price and then play false.”

“My poor Michael,” she said commiseratingly, “you drink too much of your own plum brandy. Tonight you are crazy. Tomorrow I shall have you begging for a smile from me. As it is I find you tedious. Hentzi, open the door.”

The secretary made no move to obey her.

She shrugged her shoulders. Neither of the men judged from her manner the fear that began to enwrap her.

“Yours will be a cold smile tomorrow,” Count Michael said, “and I, for one, shall not envy it. You have betrayed me but in the end I have triumphed. They have caught him Pauline. They are bringing him back to you. Do you think you will be there to aid him when he is my prisoner again?”

If Count Michael wished for tribute to his victory it was his now.

The confidence left her face. She was white and smileless. The courage and bold carriage of her splendid body seemed taken from her. She leaned heavily on the bare table. Hentzi, a prey always to emotion, could have wept for her forgetting she was his master’s enemy.

To Count Michael her attitude had the effect of whipping into white heat his repressed and savage rage. He had tried to believe that he still stood first in her affection. It was the vanity of the successful man whose desire has outlived his fascination.

No woman could be stricken to the earth by news of the capture of a man unless he were unutterably dear to her. It was clear confession of the victory of Lord Rosecarrel’s agent. What desire for mercy had been in the count’s heart died down. There came in its place the craving for instant and brutal revenge.

“So you did help him?” he said in a low harsh voice.

“Yes,” she answered. “I thought I had helped him to succeed.”

“And you admit you told him of the presence here of the prince?”

“If you like,” she said wearily, “If I denied it you would not believe me.”

“Take note of that, Hentzi,” the count commanded him. “It is important, this admission of guilt.” _

Pauline hardly heard him. The shock of learning that the man she adored had been recaptured overwhelmed her. She tried to shut out the thought of what punishment would be meted to him now.

“I will talk more tomorrow,” she said brokenly.

“Do you not understand that for you there will be no tomorrow?” She could see now that the count hated her. Jealousy had swept from him all memory of past affection. He could only think of himself as one betrayed by the man he hated. In vain she might look for mercy here.

“I am to be murdered?” she said looking from one to the other of the two.

“You are to be executed,” he said. “You took your oath to support this movement and you have betrayed it. I have given you your chance to confess and instead you perjured yourself.” He raised a service revolver from his table.

It was Hentzi who in this last black scene rose above his fears to plead for her. The count waved his protests aside. The woman did not move.

“Madame,” Hentzi cried almost hysterically. “You must not believe what his