The Rider Read online

  “O, Hemmy,” she whispered, “what will they do:to you? It is awful!”

  “I don’t care what they do to me,” he replied miserably. “They’ll probably hang me eventually; but it’s worth it to have saved you from such a fate,” and he motioned toward the man upon the floor, a grimace of disgust accompanying the gesture.

  Mrs. Bass turned toward them. “He lives,” she said; “it may not be a fatal wound, after all. Heaven grant that it is not.”

  As she spoke two men entered the neglected doorway of the royal hunting lodge, saw the group in the breakfast room, and entered. One was a low browed, evil looking fellow; the other a red faced, well fed priest. The former was the first to speak and announce their presence to the tense, preoccupied actors in the little tragedy upon which they had burst.

  “Wot’s here?” he demanded, crossing to the side of the wounded bandit.

  “Prince Boris has been shot,” said Mrs. Bass. It was accidental. Some one must go for a physician at once.

  The man looked quickly about at the others in the room as he heard The Rider described as Prince Boris. No one contradicted or corrected Mrs. Bass. Then one of the servants spoke up.

  ‘The priest who was here has, I think, gone for help,” he said. “He mounted and rode away in the direction of Sovgrad immediately after the-ah-accident. Doubtless he will inform the palace officials,” and he looked meaningly at the low browed new comer.

  “How bad is he hurt?” asked the fellow.

  Mrs. Bass shook her head. “I do not know-he is still unconscious.”

  The man thought for a moment; then he turned to the priest who had accompanied him. “We’ve got to get him away from here,” he said.

  The priest nodded. The servants seemed relieved. The Americans could not but wonder at the heartless apathy of the royal retainers. No word of regret at the shooting of their prince had passed the lips of any of them, nor a single menace for the man who had shot him.

  At the command of the priest’s companion two of the servants lifted the unconscious man and carried him from the lodge where they placed him in the arms of the low browed one, who had preceded them and mounted his horse in readiness to receive the ‘prince.’ The priest meanwhile clambered laboriously into his own saddle, and presently the trio were lost to sight in the darkness.

  The Americans, who had come to the verandah to watch the departure of the silent, mysterious company, now returned to the interior of the building, the royal servants following them. Mrs. Bass turned toward Hennnington Main.

  “Hemmington,” she said; “we are in a frighiful predicament At any moment they come from Sovgrad. What are we to do? You have blasted what was, a few moments ago, my dearest ambition. I should feel resentment and anger; but I do not Something, perhaps the shock of this unexpected tragedy, seems to have awakened me to a realization of the foolishness, yes, and the wickedness of the thing I was attempting to force Gwendolyn into. It has taught me how great your love for my daughter must be, that you would willingly face the consequences of an attack upon a prince in his own country to protect her from him and from me and save her from an unholy union in which it is impossible that there could have been love upon either side.

  “I realize that the fault is all mine, Hemmington; but the thing is done now and cannot be undone. All we can do is to work together to save you from the consequences of my foolishness. There is a motor car outside, and the Margothian border lies but a few miles to the east.”

  Henunington Main could not have been more surprised if the king of Karlova had ridden up and decorated him for shooting the crown prince. But though he felt his astonishment there was no time now to waste in useless expressions of surprise or thankfulness. He turned toward the servants-would they attempt to detain him? Unquestionably they would. As far as he could discover none of them was armed Hemmington Main placed himself between the women and the servants; then he drew his revolver and covered the latter.

  “Go out to the car,” he said to Mrs. Bass and her daughter, and then to the servants: “If you give an alarm or attempt to prevent our escape you’ll get precisely what your royal master got.”

  The oldest of the servants, a. venerable looking butler with the mein and dignity of a Roman emperor, permitted his face to relax into as near the semblance of a smile as his atrophied muscles would permit

  “You need have no fear, monsieur,” he said, “that we shall attempt to detain you. Nothing would suit us better than to have you safely across the border into Margoth should it happen that the crazy priest has really gone to the palace with the story of what transpired here tonight. Then, surely, we shall have enough to explain without having to explain you and these two ladies.”

  The American evidently revealed his incredulity of the man’s sincerity in the expression of his face following the butler’s words, for the latter hastened to reassure him.

  “There is much in this matter which you do not understand, and which I may not divulge; but I give you my word, monsieur, that His Royal Highness, Prince Boris of Karlova, will reward me well if I succeed in getting you out of Karlova before you fall into the hands of the officers of the king, his father.”

  “No,” said Hennnington Main, “I don’t understand; but I’m willing to take your word for it so long as you’ll all remain indoors until we are well upon our way.

  “Certainly, monsieur,” replied the servant. “Good night, monsieur, and good luck!”

  “Good night,” said Hemmington Main, and waving the two women toward the doorway he backed out of the room and passed forever from the royal hunting lodge of the crown prince of Karlova.

  The limousine stood in the driveway, the royal chauffeur was at the wheel. Main helped Mrs. Bass and her daughter into the tonneau, and then took the seat beside the driver.

  “To Demia,” he said, “and let her out.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As Hemmington Main entered the dining room of the hotel at Demia the following morning he opened a morning paper which he had just purchased in the lobby. Vying with one another for importance were two news items upon the first page. One reported the abduction of Princess Mary of Margoth by the notorious Rider, and her subsequent rescue by the royal troops. Main whistled as he read of the capture of the famous bandit and the probable fate which was in store for him.

  “Such a prize tempted him from fulfilling his little promise to me,” thought Main; “though how in sin the thing got so balled up I can’t imagine. His note to Peter certainly resulted in my being led to Gwendolyn-I can’t understand it.”

  Further along in the account of the occurrence was another item which brought a second whistle to the lips of the American.

  “Princess Mary,” it read, “insists that The Rider did not know her true identity until after the royal troops had rescued her and captured the brigand. He appeared to believe that she was the daughter of Abner I. Bass, the American millionaire, and that the lady in waiting who accompanied her was Mrs. Bass. An element of mystery surrounds the entire adventure, and is still further augmented by the connection which is seen between the abduction of Princess Mary and the reported assassination of Prince Boris of Karlova, the details of which appear in another column of this paper, for in the latter tragedy the names of Mrs. Bass and her daughter also appear, as well as that of Hemmington Main, an American newspaper man.

  There was an excellent reproduction of Klopkoi’s famous portrait of Mary of Margoth, beneath which was a tribute of love and devotion to “Our Little Princess, the last of the Banatoffs.”

  The account of the reported assassination of the crown prince of Karlova was most carefully worded, and showed the hand of the censor in every line. The account closed with these words: “It is not yet definitely known if the prince be really dead, for following the tragedy he was spirited away by unknown accomplices of the conspirators. The servants at the royal hunting lodge deny that Prince Boris was there last night, or that he was shot; but the priest who reported the affair
swears that he saw him

  128 THE RIDER

  with his own eyes and that he saw the shot fired which killed him. The authorities, it is reported, found blood upon a large Persian rug in the breakfast room, at the very spot where the priest says the prince fell, mortally wounded. The prefect of police at Demia has been asked to detain and question all strangers, especially Americans, now in the capitol. Margoth is anxious to demonstrate her friendship and sympathy for Karlova by cooperating with her in every way in the apprehension and arrest of the conspirators.”

  Mr. Main’s whistle became a long and heartfelt thing as he assimilated the full purport of that last paragraph. He was still staring intently at the article when Gwendolyn Bass entered the dining room, and seeing him, crossed the room to his table.

  “Good morning Hemmy,” she said. “Isn’t it good to be safe and sound in Demia after all the horrid adventures of yesterday?”

  “Yes,” he replied mornfully, “we’re so awfully ‘safe and sound’- look at this,” and he passed the paper over to her, holding a forefinger on the paragraph which had caused his perturbation.

  Miss Bass read the article through. Then her eyes wandered to the portrait of the Princess Mary and opened in astonished wonderment

  “‘Princess Mary,”’ she quoted, and “‘the last of the Banatoifs’-why Hemmington Main this is little Mary Banatoff who roomed with me at college. She called on me here last evening, and I never knew she was a princess.”

  Main rose excitedly and leaned across the table to look once more at the picture of the princess as though the evidence of his own eyes would substantiate that of his companion’s, though he had never seen either Mary Banatoff or the Princess Mary of Margoth.

  “Why, Gwen!” he cried. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I am that I know your face, Hemmy,” she replied.

  A shadow fell across the table where the two bent over the likeness of the Margothian princess. Thinking that the waiter had come for their orders, Main looked up to behold a large, scowling gentleman gorgeous in gold lace and braid. Behind him stood a file of gendarmes.

  “Monsieur Main?” asked the officer.

  The American nodded.

  “And Mademoiselle Bass?”

  Again Main assented.

  “Come with me,” said the officer; “you are under arrest.”

  “Eh?” ejaculated Main.

  “It is quite true, monsieur,” replied the other; “and it would be well to come without a scene.

  The American plead with the officer to permit Miss Bass to remain at the hotel; but the man was politely firm, explaining that he but acted upon the orders of a superior.

  “But at least you will let her communicate with her mother?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, she will have an opportunity to communicate with her mother,” replied the officer, and when the party reached the lobby of the hotel Main discovered the explanation of the man’s generosity-Mrs. Bass was there awaiting them-she, too, was under arrest.

  It was a melancholy party that drove to the gloomy portals of Demia’s gaol, likewise a silent party for their guardians would permit no conversation between the prisoners. Main still clutched the morning paper in his hand, and as he gazed vacantly at it the features of Margoth’s girlish princess smiled up at him from the blur of type. An inspiration seized him. The Princess Mary was a friend of Gwen’s. If Gwen could only see her and explain, surely everything would be set right so far as Gwen and her mother were concerned. He of course would have to pay the penalty for the shooting of Prince Boris-the pig! He asked permission to say half a dozen words to his fellow prisoner, but the guard silenced him with a curt word and a menacing shake of a baton.

  They were slowing up now before the jail, and Main was at his wits ends to find a way to communicate with Gwendolyn Bass. She had risen to leave the car which had transported them from the hotel when Main seized upon the only plan that seemed at all feasible for communicating with her. Taking a pencil from his pocket he wrote across the picture of the princess: “See her,” and as Gwendolyn Bass passed him to leave the car he pushed the paper into her hands.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A FEW minutes later, after having been carefully searched, Main was conducted to a dark cell below the street level. The door clanged behind him, the turnkey shuffled away; and, so far as his eyes could penetrate the unaccustomed darkness, the American was alone.

  But he had taken but a single turn of his tiny cell when a pleasant voice broke the silence of the prison-a voice which came from close at hand through the grating which separated Main’s cell from that adjoining it upon the left.

  “Ah, my good friend the American joker!” exclaimed the voice. “But the joke seems also to be upon the joker, eh?”

  Main stepped to the grating and peered through.

  His eyes, becoming accustomed to the darkness, presently discovered a familiar figure reclining at ease upon the hard wooden bench.

  “Joker!” ejaculated Main. “You, my friend, are the prince of jokers; and this is the result of your pleasantry.”

  The other was silent for a moment. “What is beyond me,” he said presently, “is how in the world you obtained the connivance of the royal chauffeur and even of the princess herself and her companion-none of them denied that they were the Basses.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Main. “I obtained the connivance of no one. Mrs. Bass and her daughter left Demia as I told you they would; but instead of being waylaid by you as we had arranged, they fell in some way into the hands of Prince Boris of Karlova. The note you gave me to Peter the inn-keeper resulted in my being taken to the hunting lodge of the prince, where I found Miss Bass, her mother and prince Boris-the latter was about to wed Miss Bass. It was in the altercation over this that he was shot.”

  The man in the adjoining cell leaped to his feet.

  “Shot?” he cried.

  “Yes, I shot him in self defense-that is why I..am here. Miss Bass and her mother are prisoners, too. Haven’t you seen the papers? Didn’t you know that they report the assassination of the crown prince of Karlova and the secret removal of his body from the lodge?”

  “Well!” ejaculated M. Kargovitch; “you certainly have gotten into a devil of a muss-and you really didn’t have anything to do with my getting hold of Princess Mary instead of Miss Bass?”

  “Upon my word of honor,” replied Hemmington Main.

  “Then we are the victims of the strangest combination of circumstances it has been my ill fortune to experience,” said M. Kargovitch; “and I give you my word of honor, monsieur, that I honestly thought I was waylaying your American friends and helping you in your little affair of the heart. The note I gave you should have resulted in your being brought to where I awaited you. why, I even went so far as to demand from the lady in waiting who accompanied her highness that she give her consent to the marriage of Mary of Margoth to Mr. Hemmington Main of New York,” and M. Kargovitch leaned back against the steel bars of his cell and laughed heartily.

  “You take things rather easily for a man who will probably make the acquaintance of a gibbet in a few days,” said Main, laughingly. “Do you know, my friend, that you are a mighty good sport? I only wish that I might help you some way.”

  “You would laugh, too, Main, if you knew as much about certain matters as do I,” replied Kargovitch. “You think that I will be hanged as a brigand, but I won’t. You also think that you will be hanged for assassinating a prince of the blood-royal but you won’t.”

  “Well,” said Main,“I hope you know what you are talking about.”

  A door opened at the far end of the corridor as he spoke, and with the clanking of sabers a party of officers and soldiers approached the cells in which the two men were confined. They halted before that occupied by M. Kargovitch. An officer drew a formidable appearing document from the breast of his tunic, and as he unfolded it a soldier bearing a lighted lantern held it so that the rays of light fell upon the paper.
/>
  As he read in sonorous tones the solemn and formal words of a long preamble which recited the career of crime of one individual known only as The Rider the smile broadened upon the face of M. Kargovitch; but at the last paragraph it died, the man’s head went up haughtily, and though he paled his shoulders remained squared, nor did he give any outward sign of what might be passing in his breast.

  For the paper concluded: “And so, through the clemency of His Gracious Majesty, Alexis III, King of Margoth, it is decreed that said The Rider shall not expiate his sins upon the scaffold as custom and the laws decree, but shall, instead be granted the more honorable death before a firing squad of the king’s soldiers at dawn upon the morrow.”

  And having completed the reading the officer and soldiers turned and tramped away down the corridor, their footsteps resounding dismally through the gloomy prison vault.

  It was several minutes after they had departed before either of the prisoners spoke. The Karlovian stood as they had left him, his shoulders squared, his chin up, staring straight before him. Hemmington Main was dumfounded. The other’s assurance had been so great just prior to the coming of the soldiers that even now the American could scarce believe that he really had heard read the death warrant of his fellow prisoner. He raised his eyes to the man’s face to note the effect of the announcement upon him. M. Kargovitch seemed to feel the American’s gaze for he turned slowly toward Main, and as he did so a smile spread across his face.

  “If I recall correctly,” he said, “your last remark, before they came, was to the effect that you hoped I knew what I was talking about. You see now, don’t you, that I did know. I told you that I should not be hanged. Well, I shall not be hanged-they are going to shoot me.”