CHAPTER IX

ELEVEN O'CLOCK

"In multitude of counselors there is safety," says the Book of

Proverbs. Usually, the philosophy attributed to Solomon exhibits a

soundness of judgment which is unrivaled, so it is reasonable to assume

that in Hebrew gnomic thought four do not constitute a multitude,

because four people agreed with Curtis that there was not the slightest

need to mention Jean de Courtois to Hermione that evening, and five

people were wrong, though in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they

might have been right. Hermione herself admitted afterwards that she

would have believed Curtis implicitly had he explained the

circumstances which accounted for his undoubted conviction that de

Courtois was dead; indeed, she went so far as to say that, as a matter

of choice, she infinitely preferred the American to the Frenchman in

the role of a husband _pro tem_. She had never regarded de Courtois

from any other point of view than as her paid ally, and she was

beginning to share Curtis's belief that the man was a double-dealer, a

fact which helped to modify her natural regret at the report of his

death in her behalf.

In a calmer mood, too, Curtis would have been quick to realize that a

girl who had reposed such supreme confidence in his probity was

entitled to share his fullest knowledge of the extraordinary bond which

united them, but for one half-hour he was swayed by expediency, and

expediency often exercises a disrupting influence on a friendship

founded on faith. He only meant to spare her the dismay which could

hardly fail to manifest itself when she heard that de Courtois was

alive, and that additional complications must now arise with reference

to the wrongful use of the marriage license; in reality, he was doing

himself a bitter injustice.

But, having elected for a definite course, he was not a man who would

deviate from it by a hair's breadth. When the junta in the vestibule

of the Plaza Hotel had promised to remain mute on the topic of de

Courtois, he dismissed the matter from his mind as having no further

influence on the night's doings.

"Is there any means of recovering my overcoat?" he asked Steingall,

remembering the change of garments when a waiter asked if the gentlemen

cared to deposit their hats and coats in the cloak-room.

"Yes," said the detective. "Just empty the pockets of the coat you are

wearing, and I'll send a messenger to the police station-house with a

note. You won't mind if I retain your documents till after the

inquest? One never knows what questions will be asked, and you must

remember that an attempt may be made to fasten the crime upon you."

Curtis laughed at the absurdity of any such notion, but, for the first

time, he examined the contents of the dead man's coat pockets

methodically. The pocket in which the license had reposed was empty.

Its fellow contained a notebook and pencil. There were also some

newspaper cuttings--items of current interest in New York, but devoid

of bearing on the crime or its cognate developments.

An elastic band caused the book to open at a definite page, and

Steingall, who knew a little of everything, and a great deal of all

matters appertaining to his profession, deciphered some shorthand

characters which promised enlightenment. He passed no comment,

however, but pocketed the book, scribbled a few lines on a sheet of

paper bearing the name of the hotel, and intrusted coat and letter to

an attendant.

Uncle Horace, after a momentary qualm, gave instructions to the

head-waiter in the approved manner of a trust magnate.

"We're up against it now, Louisa," he whispered confidentially to his

wife, "so let's have one wonderful night if we never have another."

Mrs. Curtis nodded her complete agreement. She would have sanctioned a

mortgage on her home rather than forego any material part of an

experience which would command the breathless attention of many a

future gathering of matrons and maids in faraway Bloomington.

Lady Hermione received her visitors with a shy cordiality which won

their prompt approval. Aunt Louisa had been perplexed by indecision as

to what she was to say or how she was to act when she met the bride,

but one glance of her keen, motherly eyes at the blushing and timid

girl resolved any doubts on both scores.

"God bless you, my dear!" she said, throwing her arms around Hermione's

neck and kissing her heartily. "Perhaps everything is for the best,

and, anyway, you've married into a family of honest men and true women."

"Ma'am," said Uncle Horace, when his turn came to be introduced,

"strange as it may sound, I know less about my nephew than you

yourself, but if he resembles his father in character as he does in

appearance, you've chosen well, and let me add, ma'am, that _he_ seems

to have made a first-rate selection at sight."

Of course, such congratulations were woefully misplaced, but Hermione

was too well-bred to reveal any cause for disquietude other than the

normal embarrassment any young woman would display in like conditions.

Curtis, too, put in a quiet word which threw light on the situation.

"As I told you a few minutes since, I was not aware that my uncle and

aunt were in New York," he said. "I cannot even guess how they came to

find me so opportunely, and we have hardly been able to say a word to

each other yet, because they were in the thick of the police inquiry

when I met them in my hotel."

"Why, that's the easiest thing," declared Aunt Louisa, rejoicing in a

long-looked-for opportunity to hear her own voice in full volume.

"This young gentleman here," and she nodded at the dismayed Devar,

"told us that he cottoned to your husband, my dear, something

remarkable on board the steamer, so he sent a message by wireless to

the editor of a New York paper, asking him to let America know that one

of her citizens who had won distinction in China was homeward bound,

and the editor circulated a real nice paragraph about it. It quite

took my breath away when Mrs. Harvey, our mayor's wife--such a charming

woman, my dear, and I do hope I may have the pleasure of bringing you

to one of her delightful tea-and-bridge afternoons--said to me on

Monday: 'Surely, Mrs. Curtis, this John Delancy Curtis who is on board

the _Lusitania_ must be a son of that brother of your husband who died

in China some years ago?' and I said: 'What in the world are you

talking about, Mrs. Harvey?' so she showed me the newspaper, and I was

that taken aback that I revoked in the next hand, and the only mean

player we have in the club claimed three tricks 'without,' and went

game, being a woman herself who hasn't chick nor child, but devotes far

too much time and money to toy dogs; anyhow, I couldn't give my mind to

cards any more that day, so off I rushed home and 'phoned Horace, and

here we are, after such a flurry as you never would imagine, what

between packing in a hurry for the trip east, and missing the steamer's

arrival by nearly an hour, and turning up in the Central Hotel just in

time to hear----" Then Aunt Louisa, assuredly at no loss for words,

but remembering in a hazy way the compact made in the vestibule, found

it incumbent on her to break away from the main trend of the narrative,

so she concluded: "Just in time to hear things being said about our

nephew which we felt bound to deny, both for his sake and our own."

Curtis had favored Devar with a questioning scowl when he learnt how

his advent had been heralded in the press, but Devar merely vouchsafed

a brazen wink, and in the next breath Hermione herself became his

unconscious and most persuasive advocate.

"I have been bothering my brains to discover when or where I had seen

Mr. Curtis's name before--before we met to-night," she said, smiling at

the ridiculous vagueness of her own phrase. "Now I remember. I used

to read the newspaper reports about every ship that arrived, and I

noticed that identical paragraph."

"Thank you, Lady Hermione," cried Devar, crowing inwardly over his

friend's discomfiture. "John D. will begin to believe soon what I have

been telling him during the last half-hour--that I am the real _Deus ex

machina_ of the whole business. Why, if it hadn't been for me you two

would never have got married, and this merry party couldn't have

happened!"

A knock at the door caused Hermione to turn with a startled look. Try

as she might, she dreaded every such incident as the preliminary to a

stormy interview with her father.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken, ma'am," interposed Uncle Horace blandly,

"this will be a waiter coming to tell us that supper is ready."

As usual, he said the correct thing, and Steingall drew Hermione aside

while the table was being spread for the feast. He lost no time in

coming to the point. His first demand showed that he took nothing for

granted.

"I am bound to speak plainly, your ladyship," he said. "Is the

remarkable story told by Mr. John D. Curtis true?"

"Regarding the marriage?" said Hermione promptly.

"Yes."

"Well, as I do not know what he may have said, you can decide that

matter for yourself after you have heard my version. I am a fugitive

from Paris, where my father was endeavoring to force me into a

detestable union: I am practically a complete stranger in New York: I

had arranged with Monsieur de Courtois to become my husband, under a

clear agreement for money paid that the marriage should serve only as a

shield against my pursuers; he was prevented by some dreadful men from

keeping to-night's appointment, and Mr. Curtis came to me, intending to

break the news somewhat more gently than one might look for otherwise.

He heard my sad little explanation, and was sorry for me. As it

happened, he appreciated the real nature of my predicament, and, having

no ties to prevent such a daring step, offered me the protection of his

name until such time as I become my own mistress and am free to secure

a dissolution of the marriage."

"Will you tell me exactly what you mean?" said the detective. His

voice was kindly, and his expression gravely sympathetic, and Hermione

could not read the amused tolerance lurking behind the mask of those

keen eyes.

"I mean that I am yet what lawyers call an infant. In six months I

shall be twenty-one, and the coercion which has been used to force me

into marrying Count Ladislas Vassilan will be no longer possible."

"Do you forfeit an inheritance by refusing to obey Lord Valletort's

wishes?"

"No, unless with respect to my father's estate. My mother was wealthy,

and her money is settled on me most securely."

"In trust?"

"Yes, I have trustees, an English banker and a clergyman."

"But, if they are men of good standing, they ought to have protected

you from undue interference."

"An earl is of good standing, too, in my country, and Count Vassilan

claims royal rank in Hungary. I loathe the man, yet every one of my

friends and relatives urged me to accept him."

"Why?"

"Because he has a chance of obtaining a throne when the

Austro-Hungarian Empire breaks up, and my wealth will help his cause

materially."

Steingall allowed himself to appear surprised.

"Is your income so large, then?" he said.

"Yes, I suppose so. My trustees tell me that I am worth nearly a

hundred thousand a year."

"Dollars?"

"No--pounds sterling."

They were conversing in subdued tones, yet the detective behaved like a

commonplace mortal in giving a rabbit-peep sideways to ascertain if the

girl's astounding statement had been overheard by the others. But the

members of the Curtis family of honest men and true women had withdrawn

purposely to the far side of the room, and Devar was laboring to

convince his friend that he had acted wisely in placarding his name and

fame throughout the United States.

"To your knowledge, Lady Hermione, is any other person in New York

aware that you are several times a millionaire?"

"I think not. Poor Jean de Courtois may have had some notion of the

fact, but I lived so unostentatiously in Paris that he would

necessarily be inclined to minimize the amount of my fortune. Tell me,

Mr. Steingall, do you really think he----"

The detective shook his head, and laughed with official dryness.

"Forgive me, Lady Hermione," he said, "but I must not advance any

theories, at present. Now, as to Count Vassilan--how long have you

known him?"

"About a year."

"Has he been your suitor practically all that time?"

"Yes. The first day we met I was told by my father that I ought to be

proud if he chose me as his wife. So I hated him from the very

beginning."

"You took a dislike to him, I suppose?"

"Yes, an instant and violent dislike. But that is not all. There are

things I cannot mention, though they are the common property of anyone

who has mixed in Parisian society during the past twelve months.

Surely you will be able to find men and women in this great city who

can supply enough of Paris gossip to show you clearly what manner of

man this Hungarian prince really is!"

Hermione's face showed the distress she felt, and Steingall's

disposition was far too generous to permit of any further probing in

this direction when the inquiry gave pain to a young and

innocent-minded girl.

"To-morrow," he said grimly, "I may read several chapters of Count

Vassilan's life. But so much depends on this night's work. At any

minute--certainly within an hour--I shall have news which may be

affected most markedly by some chance hint supplied by you. I want you

to understand, Lady Hermione, that Mr. Curtis's share in the queer

tangle of the past few hours is not so simple or unimportant as you

seem to imagine. I believe he has been actuated by the best of

motives----"

"Oh, yes, I am sure of it," she broke in eagerly. "If I am fated never

to see him again after to-night I shall always remember him as a true

friend and gallant gentleman."

Steingall bit back the words which rose unbidden to his lips. He had

certainly been wallowing in romance since the telephone called him to

the Central Hotel, but even in the pages of fiction he had never found

a more wildly improbable theory than the likelihood of John Delancy

Curtis allowing any consideration short of death to separate him from

such a bride as Lady Hermione within the short space of time she

apparently regarded as the possible span of her married life.

"Ah," he murmured, "if he is wise he will call you to give evidence in

his behalf. Judges exercise a good deal of latitude in these matters."

"But will he be arrested for marrying me? If any wrong has been done

with respect to the marriage license, I am equally to blame," she said

loyally.

Steingall frowned judicially. Their conversation was approaching

perilously near the forbidden topic of de Courtois.

"In law, as in most affairs of life, it does no good to meet trouble

half way, your ladyship," he said. "Now, reverting to the Hungarian

prince--do you remember the names of any persons, of either sex, whom

he associated with in Paris? Of course, such a man would be widely

known in what is called society, but I want you to try and recall some

of his intimate friends."

"I believe you would find his boon companions in certain cafes on the

Grand Boulevard and in the vaudeville theaters on Montmartre; but would

it not help you a little if I told you of his enemies?"

"Most certainly."

"Well, I do happen to know that he is hated most cordially by the

Countess Marie Zapolya, who lives in the Hotel Ritz."

"In Paris?"

"Yes. She advised me to shun him as I would the plague."

"Did she give any reason?"

"It may sound strange, but I really believe she wants him to marry her

daughter."

"Ah, that is interesting. Pray go on."

"I never understood the thing rightly, but I heard once, through a

servant, that Count Vassilan was expected to wed Elizabetta

Zapolya--the succession to the Hungarian monarchy, if ever it were

revived, was involved--but Count Vassilan spurned the lady. The

Countess is furious because her daughter was slighted, yet wishes to

compel him to fulfill his obligations."

"In that event, she would be anxious to see you safely married to some

other person?"

"Oh, she was. She visited me, several times, and advised me not to

risk a life-long unhappiness by becoming mixed up in the maze of

Mid-Europe politics. And--there is something else. Poor Elizabetta

Zapolya, who is somewhat older than me, is in love with an attache at

the Austro-Hungarian Embassy in Paris."

"Have you his name?"

"Yes. Captain Eugene de Karely."

"How does he stand with regard to Count Vassilan?"

"I am told that he has challenged him repeatedly to a duel, but Count

Vassilan cannot meet him because they are not equals in the grades of

Hungarian aristocracy. I am glad that Mr. Curtis did not wait to

consult the Almanach de Gotha when _he_ encountered the wretch. Has he

told you that he hit him?"

"I have seen the Count," said Steingall.

"Where?"

The detective was not deaf to the note of alarm in her voice, but the

matter must be broached some time, and why not now?

"At the Central Hotel, about an hour ago," he said.

"Was my father with him?"

"Yes. The Earl has also had the pleasure of a few minutes' talk with

Mr. Curtis."

Hermione was open-eyed with surprise.

"Mr. Curtis has not said a word of this to me," she cried, and her

louder tone traveled across the room.

"Said a word about what?" inquired Curtis, being not unwilling to break

in on the conversation, which he thought had lasted quite long enough.

"That my father and Count Vassilan had met you at your hotel."

"No, not Count Vassilan," explained the detective. "He had gone before

Mr. Curtis came, but Lord Valletort returned."

"Did he ask you where I was?" demanded the girl breathlessly,

addressing Curtis.

"No. He tried to have me arrested, and failed. I think he looked on

me as an unlikely subject to yield unnecessary information."

"Supper is served, sir," said a maitre d'hotel to Uncle Horace, and

further discussion of Count Vassilan's tangled matrimonial schemes

became difficult for the moment.

Steingall was pressed to join the party--without prejudice to any

official duties he might be called on to perform next day, as Curtis

put it pleasantly--and consented. Once again had his instinct been

justified, for he was sure that Lady Hermione's Parisian reminiscences

would prove important in some way not yet determinable. Moreover, his

colleagues knew he was at the Plaza Hotel, and he was content to remain

there while his trusted aide, Clancy, was acting as chauffeur during

Count Vassilan's belated excursion.

The police captain was keeping an eye on the Waldorf-Astoria, a

detective was searching the apartment rented by the murdered

journalist, and other men of the Bureau were hunting the record of the

automobile, though Steingall was convinced that this branch of the

inquiry would end in a blind alley, because the car had undoubtedly

been stolen, and its lawful owner would only be able to identify it,

and declare that, to the best of his belief, it was locked in a garage

at the time it was being used for the commission of a crime. Steingall

assumed that the unfortunate Hunter--or it might have been de

Courtois--was led to hire this particular vehicle by adroit

misrepresentation on the part of some unknown scoundrels who were aware

of the contemplated marriage. The shorthand notes in Hunter's book

bore out this theory, because they were obviously data supplied by de

Courtois which would have enabled the journalist to write a thoroughly

sensational story next day. He was convinced, when the truth was

known, it would be discovered that Hunter made the Frenchman's

acquaintance owing to his habit of mixing with the strange underworld

from the Continent of Europe which has its lost legion in New York. De

Courtois was just the sort of vainglorious little man who would welcome

the notoriety of such an adventure as the prevented marriage ceremony,

wherein his name would figure with those of distinguished people, and

the last thing he counted on was the murder of the scribe who had

promised him columns of descriptive matter in the press. The pert

musician was not the first, nor would he be the last, to find that the

role of cat's-paw is apt to prove more exacting than was anticipated.

To his chagrin, he saw himself changed suddenly from a trusted agent

into a dupe, and his utter collapse on hearing of the murder fitted in

exactly with the theory taking shape in the detective's mind--that

there were two implacable forces at war in New York that night, that

Lady Hermione's marriage to Count Vassilan or the Frenchman provided

the immediate bone of contention, and that the struggle had been

complicated by a too literal interpretation of instructions carried out

by bitter partisans.

In the midst of a lively conversation, the telephone jangled its

imperative message from a wall bracket in the room. Devar was nearest

the instrument, and he answered the call.

"It's for you, Mr. Steingall," he said.

The detective would have preferred greater privacy, but he rose at once

and answered.

"And who is Mr. Krantz?" he demanded. Then, after a pause: "Oh,

yes. . . . Is he? . . . You needn't trouble at all about that. The

police surgeon, at my request, has dosed him with sufficient bromide to

keep him quiet till to-morrow morning. . . . Yes, I understand. Tell

them it can't be done, and refer them to the Centre-street

Bureau. . . . What? . . . No, so far as I can guess, the engineer

won't be wanted again to-night."

He hung up the receiver, and returned to his seat, though he had just

been informed that the Earl of Valletort and another person, having

ascertained by some means that de Courtois still lived, were raising a

commotion at the Central Hotel and demanding access to the Frenchman's

room.

[Illustration: Scenes from the photo-drama.]

"Please, am I mixed up with Mr. Krantz?" inquired Hermione, smiling,

for it was a bizarre experience to find herself interested in all sorts

and conditions of people whom she had never heard of.

"Mr. Krantz is the reception clerk at the Central Hotel," was the

answer, which conveyed fuller information to other ears than the

girl's. Then Steingall glanced at his watch.

"I think some of you people must be tired after a strenuous day," he

said. "I expect to be called away soon, and it is possible that I may

want to disturb you, Mr. Curtis, before you retire for the night. Do

you intend to remain here?"

"Yes."

For an instant, an appreciable constraint manifested its presence, and

Uncle Horace did not display his wonted tact when he accentuated it by

a dry chuckle, _a propos_ of nothing in particular. Curtis relieved

the situation after a slight hesitation.

"Lady Hermione, I take it, will now go to bed," he said coolly, "and,

if she is wise, will refuse to unlock her door again till her maid

comes in the morning. I purpose changing my clothes, in case I may

have to accompany you on some midnight expedition. My uncle and aunt

will tell us where they are staying, and arrange to meet us here at

lunch to-morrow. You, Devar, being an approved night hawk, will join

me in a cigar. How is that for a reasonable disposal of the company,

Mr. Steingall?"

As though in reply, the telephone rang again, and the detective lifted

the receiver from its hook.

"Hello! That you, Clancy?" he said. "Right. I'll come along by the

subway from 59th Street--that will be quicker than a taxi . . .

yes . . . yes."

He turned, and the five people in the room saw that his face was

glowing with the fire of action.

"You can defer that change of suits, Mr. Curtis. We must be off at

once. . . . Mr. Devar, have you an automobile? Can you get hold of it

now? Well, 'phone your chauffeur to be at Centre-street headquarters

in as much under half-an-hour as he can manage. Taxi-drivers gossip

among themselves, so a private car is better. . . . Excuse the rush,

Lady Hermione, and you, too, Mrs. Curtis. I haven't another minute to

spare."

Luckily, Curtis found his overcoat awaiting him in the cloak room, or

he might have been in a difficulty, for New York in November is not a

city which encourages midnight journeys in evening dress.

Uncle Horace and Aunt Louisa were hurried into a taxi, and as they were

being whisked off to the quiet hotel to which their baggage had been

consigned, the stout man began polishing his domed forehead once more.

"Lou," he said, "I can't make head nor tail of this business. Can you?"

"Not yet, Horace," was the hopeful response.

"But--what sort of marriage is this, anyway?"

"Oh, that's all right. Those two haven't begun courting yet. But it

won't be long before they start. Did you notice----"

And details observed by Aunt Louisa endured till the taxi stopped.