THE steamer had no sooner reached Calais than a new cause for alarm presented itself. During the channel crossing Hindwood had been keyed up to the last point of tension. Every moment he had expected to be tapped on the shoulder and informed that his secretary's identity had been discovered. He had spent most of his time surreptitiously mounting guard in the neighborhood of Santa's cabin. If the same man chanced to pass him twice, he had at once jumped to the conclusion that he was being shadowed.

The hesitancy at Dover over O.K.'ing Santa's passport had robbed him of whatever sense of security he had possessed. It had compelled him to acknowledge the ruin that faced him, should he be exposed while engineering the flight of so notorious a criminal. As the Major had warned him, she was being sought by the police of every country.

If the worst should happen, he would find no apologists. It would be useless for him to plead a chivalrous motive. She had been the lodestar of masculine passions too often. Though he managed to escape a prison sentence, he would emerge from the catastrophe broken in character—a paltry creature, half knave, half fool, who had gambled away his integrity and made himself a laughing stock. Already in imagination he was reading the scare headlines which would advertise his shame to the world. He would be regarded as a malefactor—hustled behind bars and herded for trial with blackmailers and pickpockets.

Dogged by these persistent dreads, when the ship was inside Calais harbor he rapped on her door and having heard her bid him enter, slipped across the threshold, announcing tersely:

“We're there.”

Since she joined him, he had held no conversation with her. She made no attempt to break through his silence. Rising obediently, while she adjusted her hat, she watched him in the mirror with the eyes of a reproachful dog. Without sign or sound, as he turned away impatiently, she followed. No sooner did they appear on deck than the new cause for alarm started.

A handsome and distinguished-looking foreigner began taking immediate notice of her. He was so quick to pick her out in the throng that it seemed he must have been watching for her. Whoever and whatever he was, he was manifestly a man of breeding—the kind of man who might have been her companion in the old, wild days of her triumphant folly. He was about thirty-five, tall, dark, finely-built, and of military bearing. He had a closely-trimmed mustache, bold, black eyes, and a Latin type of countenance. That was all that Hindwood permitted himself to observe; changing his position promptly, he shut Santa out from the stranger's line of vision. But the man was not to be balked. With an air of complete unconcern, he fell into line immediately behind them, treading closely on their heels as they passed up the gangplank. On the way to the Customs he managed to get ahead, so that he could glance back several times at Santa.

After their baggage had been inspected it was necessary for them to file through a stuffy room where passports were examined. It was here that Hindwood was fully prepared to be caught. The officials at Dover had probably cabled a warning; the inquisitive stranger might prove to be their emissary. Quite the contrary occurred. The French official, catching sight of the magic words Diplomatic and Special, scrutinized no further and returned the papers with a courteous apology. Making the most of his luck, Hindwood hurried Santa out onto the platform, down the long train labeled Stuttgart, Warsaw, etc., and into the wagons-lits which went express to Vienna.

Before leaving London he had reserved two separate compartments in the name of “Philip Hindwood and party.” Now that he claimed them, he found to his annoyance that they were adjoining and connected by a private door. It was an indiscretion that he had not intended. Having seen Santa safely settled, he set off to superintend the placing on board of their bags.

He was gone perhaps five minutes. As he reentered the corridor of his section, the first sight that met his eyes was the handsome stranger engaged in earnest talk with the wagon-lits conductor. Some money passed. Next thing the stranger's belongings were being transferred from lower down the train to the compartment on the further side from Santa's. Hindwood entered his own compartment, shaded the windows that looked out on the corridor and made fast his door.

What was the game? Was this a fresh example of Santa's irresistible charm? And if it was, was he to be subjected to this kind of impertinence throughout the entire journey? Or was the man a secret service agent in the employ of some foreign Government, who, believing he had recognized her, was keeping her in sight till she should have crossed the frontier into his own country, where he would have power to arrest her?

In his anger he tried to blame Santa; she must have unconsciously exercised her talent for attraction. Strangers didn't follow women unless——

But he had to own himself unjust. She was dressed with the utmost plainness, in a tailored costume, minus furs or any lavishness. There was nothing to complain of in her deportment. It was as modest as could have been expected had she really been “Edith Jones, aged thirty, American-born citizen, confidential secretary.” The fault lay in something beyond her control—her beauty. It refused to be subdued. It shone out the more conspicuously in the absence of adornment. It constituted itself an unforeseen embarrassment, if not a menace. The further he traveled into continental countries, the less he would be believed when he stated that she was Miss Jones and no more than his secretary. Already more people than the obtrusive stranger had stared at her. She had only to appear to make herself the focus of attention. Sooner or later, to-day, to-morrow, a month hence, some one would catch sight of her who had known her in the past. She had been feted in too many cities, her portrait had been too widely published, for her features not to be remembered. These distressing reflections were cut short by the shrill tootings of tin horns which announce the departure of a train in France. When Calais had been left behind and they were rushing past stripped orchards and harvested fields, he unlatched the dividing door. She was sitting lost in thought, staring out of the window with a wistful expression.

“Come into my compartment. I'd like to talk.”

The jerk with which she turned betrayed the strain under which she was laboring. He watched the undulating grace with which she rose, the calculated delicacy of her every movement. Though she had dressed in rags, nothing could have disguised her.

When he had closed the door, she remained standing.

“Please sit down,” he said with cold politeness. “We're safe for the moment. As you see, I've lowered the blinds. No one can spy on us. You've noticed him?”

Drawing off her gloves, she smoothed them out mechanically, maintaining her silence.

“Tell me,” he urged, “what do you make of him?”

“Nothing.” Her voice was flat and toneless. “Wherever I go, it's always the same. You ought to know—on the Ryndam you were like it.”

He passed over the implied accusation. “Then you don't think he's a——?”

“I've not troubled to think.” She glanced drearily aside. “Men are brutes. If you'd left me alone on the cliff—I wish you had. It would have been all ended.”

She said it without spite—almost without reproach. In the presence of her melancholy, he recovered something of his compassion.

“But I didn't leave you, and nothing's gained by recrimination. The point is this fellow next door. What's his purpose? How are we going to manage him?”

“Easily. Fling me to him as you'd toss a dog a bone. You'll be rid of your share of the danger.”

“I don't want to be rid of you.” He passed his hand across his forehead, mastering his impatience.

“I don't pretend I shan't be glad——”

“To be quit of me,” she prompted.

“To be relieved of the risk of you,” he corrected. “But not until I've fulfilled my promise.”

She smiled. “You promised you'd save me. I can't be saved. Varensky's talk about redeeming me was visionary. I was born to be what I am.”

He relaxed and sat forward, exerting himself to make the conversation less unfriendly. “Of course I know why you speak this way: it's because of my recent treatment of you. We were nearly found out at Dover; the anxiety of it's getting on my nerves. I promised to give you your chance; my promise stands. The least I can ask of you as a sportswoman is to play up to me.”

Her whole demeanor changed. The golden face flashed. “I will.”

“Then if this man is only an impudent admirer, how are we to shake him? It's my business for the present to protect you. If this is the sort of thing that always happens, it's possible that it'll occur again. I daren't resent his conduct. Ordinarily I should know what to do with him. How is the repetition of the annoyance to be avoided?”

A slow flush mounted from her throat to her cheeks. “You won't take my suggestion, so I don't think I'll make it.”

“Let's have it.”

Not looking at him, she muttered: “He'll try to scrape acquaintance. When he does, introduce me to him as your wife.”

“But to do that——”

He fell silent. He was thinking of Anna. For the first time he was conscious of his aloneness with this woman.

Not wishing to wound her, he procrastinated.

“To do that might only add to our complications.”

“It might.” Her gray eyes struggled to meet his gaze. “It isn't likely. He won't believe you.”

“Then what would be gained?”

“You'd have told him, without insult, that he wasn't wanted.”

He glanced out of the window at the rushing landscape. At last he spoke. “If there's no other way——”

She rested her thin, fine hand on his gently. “You're generous. If the day ever comes when you despise yourself as I despise myself to-day, remember that once you were able to make a wicked woman believe in goodness—to make her long with all her heart to be like you.” Her eyes became misty. “At this moment I'm not far from redemption.”

Lunch was announced. He gave orders to have it served in his compartment. While they ate, he outlined to her his plans. He had asked her how long she expected to be with him.

Her reply was discomfortingly vague. “As long as you can endure me.”

“Inside of two months,” he told her, “I think I can promise you immunity. At present, according to information, Central Europe's starving. With winter comes the crisis. I've forseen that. For some time I've been shipping food to Holland. It's lying there in warehouses in immense quantities. I have an entire fleet secretly at work, plying back and forth across the Atlantic. When the famine becomes too acute, I'm prepared to strike my bargain. I'll take railroads and concessions in exchange for bread. Other upstarts have carved out kingdoms with armies; I intend to conquer mine with food. There never was a war or any social uprising that wasn't caused by an empty stomach. Within three hours of my terms having been accepted, my trains will be streaming out of Holland. Where they halt, the flames of revolution will be quenched. If I haven't miscalculated, I shall be unofficial President of the United States of Europe.” He paused to watch his effect. “I've nominated myself,” he smiled.

His smile was unreturned. She was regarding him with an expression of horror. Their rÔles seemed reversed. It was evident that to her way of thinking it was he who had become the criminal and she who was looking down on him from a higher moral level.

“But they're starving.” Her voice shook passionately. “If you have these stores, why don't you feed them? They're dying. So many of them are children!”

“You don't understand.” He tried to make his tones reasonable. “I've invested all my fortune in the venture. I'm a business man. In business one man's calamity is another's opportunity. The same is true of nations.”

Seeing that she still looked grieved, he patted her shoulder. “Don't worry. We'll rustle through. Your life will be spared.”

“I wasn't thinking of my life.” She spoke contemptuously.

“Then of what?”

“Of the women dead of hunger in the ditches about Kiev.”

As she rose to leave, she glanced back from the doorway. “There was a message I had to deliver to you. Varensky's setting out on his last journey. He hopes to see you in Budapest. He told me to say, 'Soon you can have her.'”

II

Thrusting its war-scarred head into the clouds, Amiens had been left behind: they were skirting the old battle-line. Though seasons had come and vanished, memories of tragedy were still apparent. Shell-torn walls had been patched, but the patches served to emphasize the ruin. One could trace in the landscape crumbling trench-systems and the rusty red of entangled wire. Here and there, in gleaming plots, white crosses grew in humble clusters. In fancy he pictured the hosts who had died. The unprofitable patience of their sacrifice! Had they known what was to be the result, would they have gone to their death so gladly? The result of their idealism was hunger. He recalled his awkward phrase—the world's hunger had proved to be his opportunity. Santa's horror disturbed his memory. He was inclined to go to her and explain. Everything had to be purchased by labor. Anything one possessed was the wage of labor. To give things away did harm. It wasn't business. It set a premium on laziness. Even to give food to a starving nation did harm; it made that nation a pauper. The most primitive of all laws was that bread should be earned by the sweat of the brow—that if a man did not toil, neither should he eat. The only righteous way to feed starving people was to set them to work. So his thoughts ran on, building up the argument.

But he did not go to her. It was Varensky's message that deterred him: “He told me to say, 'Soon you can have her.'” Did Santa know what was meant—that the message referred to Anna? She must know. What difference would this make to her? She also loved, and she was a panther-woman.

The countryside grew blurred with dusk. The stiff, white crosses faded out of sight. Forgetting his danger, he fell asleep, wondering whether Anna would be with her husband at Budapest.

III

When he awoke, he was in total darkness. Glancing through the window, he discovered that the world outside was weakly lit with straggling rows of street-lamps. They seemed to be marching in the same direction as the train; in the far distance they rushed together, making night hollow with their flare. His first thought was of Santa; a thousand things might have happened.

As he groped at the handle of the dividing door, he caught the sound of laughter.

“May I enter?”

The Santa whom his eyes encountered was no longer the fugitive from justice. She was mysteriously changed. There was animation in her countenance and seduction in her voice. She was again the enchantress of men, reckless and tender, who had all but captured his heart on the Atlantic voyage. He looked to see what had caused this transformation. Lolling in the entrance was the handsome stranger.

Before Hindwood could speak, she was addressing him gaily. “So you've wakened! I didn't like to disturb you. You've almost made me miss my dinner. If you're ready now——”

The stranger interrupted. “I've not dined. But I have my place reserved. If there should prove to be no room, perhaps you would flatter me by occupying my place instead.”

Santa shook her head graciously. “It's good of you, but my husband and I will take our chance.”

She was the only one whom her claim that Hind-wood was her husband left undisturbed. The two men glared at each other in astonishment. It was the stranger who recovered first.

“If I had known that this lady was your wife, I should have asked your permission before I made my offer. I shall be very happy if you will permit me to do you both this service. I ought to introduce myself.”

He fumbled in his pocketbook and produced a card on which was engraved, “Captain Serge Lajos, Hungarian Royal Hussars.”

“My name is Hindwood—Philip Hindwood.” Hindwood returned the compliment surlily. “I agree with my wife; we both prefer that you retain your place and that we be allowed to take our chance.”

Santa rose eagerly to prevent the giving of further offense. Her smile was for the Captain. “We waste time talking. You'll join us, Captain? We'll take our chance together.”

Without risking a reply, she led the way, Hindwood following and the Captain coming last. There was no opportunity for speech in the swaying corridor. When the dining-car was reached, they were shown immediately to a vacant table.

At first they sat in silence, watching how the lights flashing by the panes were strengthening into a golden blur.

“Where are we?”

It was Hindwood who had decided to be amiable.

“Entering Paris.”

“So late as that!” He consulted his watch. “We go through without changing, they told us.”

“There's no change till Vienna.”

The Captain's answers were mechanical. He seemed to be brushing aside a presence that annoyed him. His puzzled eyes were fixed on Santa.

Suppressing his irritation, Hindwood made another effort at friendliness. “I didn't notice you till we were getting into Calais. I guess we must have traveled together from London.”

Captain Lajos, if that really was his name, seemed to be thinking of something else. He let some seconds elapse. When he spoke, it was without looking up. “I noticed you from the first. I can prove it. Your wife didn't join you till Dover.” Then he seemed to repent of his intrusive rudeness and changed the subject. “I was glad to see the last of London. I'd been sent to meet some one who failed to arrive. It was all in the papers. You probably know as much about the circumstances as I do. The person was Prince Rogovich.”

Santa's face went white. Her lips became set in an artificial smile. Beneath the table her hand clutched Hindwood's. For all that, it was she who took up the challenge.

“We've not been reading the papers lately.” Above the clatter of the wheels, her trembling voice was scarcely audible. “My husband and I have been very busy and—— But your friend, why was he so unkind as to disappoint you?”

The Captain had turned to her as though greedy for her sympathy. His dark, bold eyes drank up her face.

“He wasn't unkind. He was——” He shrugged his shoulders and spread abroad his hands. “Until something is proved, I suppose the best way to express it would be to say that he was unavoidably delayed. He left New York on a liner and disappeared on the evening that he should have landed.”

Hindwood bent forward, attempting to divert attention from Santa. He tapped the Captain's hand.

“Excuse me for intruding on a conversation which you evidently intend to include only my wife, but there are no points of call on an Atlantic voyage. If your friend started from New York and the ship was not lost, how could he have been delayed?”

“How? That's the question.”

The Captain's hostility was unmistakable, and yet the odd thing was that it exempted Santa.

While the first course was being served, Hindwood racked his brains to discover the motive which lay behind the Captain's attitude. Was he a police-agent, amusing himself and biding his time? Was he doubtful of Santa's identity and cultivating her acquaintance as a means of making certain? Was he merely a disappointed male, infuriated at finding a husband in possession?

Santa was speaking again. She had made good use of the respite to compose herself. “It must have been terribly anxious for you waiting. I suppose you were there to meet him at the port where he ought to have arrived?”

Hindwood held his breath. She was practically asking the man whether he had been one of the welcoming group of officials on that night when the Ryndam had reached Plymouth. If he had been, he must have seen them. He must remember them. He might even know their biographical details, their business, and that they were not married. At all events, if that were the case, it would explain the keenness of his interest.

“No, I wasn't at Plymouth.”

They both shot upright in their chairs and sat rigid. For a moment they had no doubt that the Captain had declared his hand.

Then he postponed the crisis by adding, “You see, my friend, as you call him, was traveling by the Holland-American Line, so Plymouth was where he should have landed. We had a special train arranged to hurry him to London. The first warning I received of the disaster was at Paddington, when I was informed that the special train had been canceled.”

“Then it was a disaster?”

Santa asked the question in an awed tone which, under the circumstances, was not altogether feigned. Getting a grip on herself, she leaned across the table, making her eyes large and tender. “We're fellow-travelers, chance-met. My husband and I are Americans; when we part from you, it's almost certain we shall never meet again. I'm not seeking your confidence, but you're worried. If it would help you to tell——”

The Captain shook his head gravely. He appeared to be worshiping her in everything save words, though it was possible that his adoration was mockery. “There's nothing to tell. Not yet. I wish there were. There may be something at Paris. The English police are working. They promised to keep in touch with me by telegram.”

With amazing daring Santa persisted, “But what do you suppose happened?”

Before answering the Captain arranged his knife and fork neatly on his plate. He looked up sharply like a bird of prey. “Murder. To your dainty ears that must sound shocking. I have reasons for this belief which, for the present, I'm not at liberty to share.”

During the pause that followed Hindwood was on tenterhooks lest, with her next question, she should betray herself. To prevent her, he flung himself into the gap.

“I agree with you,” he said with weighty dullness. “I agree with you that some sort of accident strikes one as extremely likely. You mentioned that a special had been chartered to bring your friend to London. That would indicate that he was a person of consequence.”

“He was.”

The words sounded like an epitaph. They were spoken with the impatience of a door being banged.

Turning to Santa, the Captain was on the point of saying something further, when the waiter approached with the information that at the next stop the dining-car would be cut off. They became aware that they were the only diners left. The train was slowing down. The noise of its progress had changed to a hollow rumbling, which told them that a bridge was being crossed. Shifting their gaze, they discovered Paris, sparkling like a pile of jewels strewn in the lap of night. Below them in slow coils, mysterious with luminous reflections, wound the Seine. Hindwood's instant thought was that somewhere out there beneath the darkness, the woods of Vincennes were hiding.

Having paid their bill, they commenced the return journey through corridors dense with eager passengers. Before their section had been reached, the train was in the station. At the first open door, the Captain sprang to the platform and was lost.

“Where's he gone?” Santa whispered.

Hindwood glanced at her palely. “To get his telegram. To get——”

Seizing her arm, he hurried her back to his compartment, where behind locked doors they could spend in private whatever of freedom remained.

IV

The jig's up.”

Hoping that he was creating an impression of calmness, he lit a cigarette. She raised her face to his with a softness in her eyes that he had never noticed.

“If it is,” she pleaded, clutching at his hands, “swear you hadn't the least idea who I really am. Disown me. Act as though my arrest had come to you as an utter shock.”

He seated himself beside her. “But, my dear Santa, that wouldn't help you.”

“Help me! Of course not,” she agreed with rapid vehemence. “If I'm caught, I'm beyond helping. It's of you I'm thinking—you, with your generosity and your splendid plans. If I dragged you down, as I dragged down all the others, my heart would break. I never meant you any harm. You do believe me?”

“I do now.”

“Say you know that I've loved you,” she urged. And, when he hesitated, “Quickly. Time's running short. Let me hear you say just once, 'Santa, I know that you've loved me.'”

“Santa, I know——”

“You wouldn't kiss me?” She asked the question scarcely above her breath. “There've been so many who paid to kiss me. You wouldn't give me the best, that would be the last?”

When his lips touched hers, she smiled.

“They may come now.”

Minutes dragged by like hours. Every sound was magnified into something monstrous. A dozen times they imagined they heard police clearing the corridor, preparatory to bursting in the door. What they heard was only newly-arrived passengers and porters disposing of their baggage. At last suspense became its own anesthetic.

“Did he tell you his destination?” Hindwood whispered.

Not daring to speak, she shook her head.

“Why did you get into conversation with him?” Her lips scarcely moved. He had to listen acutely.

“I didn't. He pretended to have mistaken his compartment. I was crying. He saw.”

“Why were you crying?”

“Because of you.”

“And you told him?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say? I heard you laughing when I entered. How did he commence?”

“He said I was too beautiful to be unhappy—it's the way every man starts. Then he said that he'd recognized me, just as though he'd been looking for me always. And then he tortured me by wondering whether our paths had ever crossed.”

“And you answered?”

“Never—unless he'd seen me in America.” Hindwood fell silent. Without warning he leaped to his feet. Before he could escape, she was clinging to him.

“Don't leave me to face them.”

“I'm not.” He freed himself from her grasp. “If I've guessed right, you won't have to face them.” With that he was gone.

A quarter of an hour elapsed: he had not returned. Nothing that she dreaded had happened. With a lurch the train jerked forward. Farewells were being shouted. Station-lamps streamed past, the scarcer lights of freight-yards, then at last the glow-worm warmth of a city under darkness.

The door opened. She rose trembling, steadying herself against the wall. When she saw who it was, she sank back. “Tell me.”

“We were on the wrong track.” He spoke leisurely. “Captain Lajos wasn't lying. I followed him. He met his man with the telegram. He suspects us so little that he showed it to me. It read, 'No further developments.'”

“Thank God.” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. And then, “Why should he have shown it to you? It was to put us off our guard.”

He sat down in the seat opposite. “I think not. He's changed his tactics. He's made up his mind to be friendly. It's you he's after, but in a different fashion. He thinks he's in love with you.”

“But he threatened——”

“No. It was our own guilty conscience. Here's how I figure it out. He probably has seen you before. He can't remember where. It may have been in the days when you were dancing. It was the vague recollection of you that piqued his curiosity and got him staring. When he found you alone and crying, he thought he'd stumbled on an adventure. My entering upset his calculations. I became for him the cruel husband; he hated me on the spot. My dear Santa, our meeting with him is the luckiest thing that could have happened.”

Dabbing her eyes, she tried to laugh. “I don't see it.”

“It's as plain as a pike-staff.” He bent forward, lowering his voice. “He was mixed up with Prince Rogovich. He's one of the people who's hunting for you. In his company you won't be suspected. He'll get you across all the frontiers.”

She was still reluctantly incredulous. “But the things he said at dinner. He played with us like a cat.”

“He wasn't playing with us.” Hindwood became eager in his determination to convince her. “He was playing into our hands. He knows all the things that we want to know. Every move the police make is telegraphed to him. It was the frankness with which he let us into his secrets that was so alarming.”

“Then how must we act?”

“The way we have been acting. Until it's safe to be rid of him, we must keep him believing that we're married, and none too happily. I'm afraid it's up to you to keep him lulled by pretending——”

“Don't;” she closed her eyes. “It's like going back to the ugly past.”

“It's beastly, I know.” He spoke seriously. “But what else——? Any moment he may recall where last he saw you. Sleep over it. We can decide in the morning.”

V

All night he had been haunted by the oppressive sense that, if he did not watch, something terrible would, happen. It was shortly after dawn when he rose. Stepping into the corridor he found that he had the train to himself. It seemed as depopulated as an early morning house and, despite the clamor of its going, as silent. He placed himself near Santa's door and stood staring out at the misty landscape streaking past like a trail of smoke. It was here that Santa found him when she slipped from her compartment.

He turned quickly. “He's not up yet.” Then, noticing her pallor and the shadows under her eyes, “You haven't slept?”

“Not much.”

“Making your decision, I suppose?”

She bit her lip nervously. “I shall have to pretend—— It'll only be pretending. You'll understand?”

“It won't last long,” he comforted her. “If we've been running on time, we must be in Alsace-Lorraine already. Within the next few hours we'll be out of France and into Germany. You'll feel safer there, won't you?”

What he was really asking was whether it wasn't true that during the war she'd been a German spy.

“Shall I?” was all she answered.

They fell silent. Without mentioning it, each guessed the motive which had occasioned the other's early rising. They dared not let the Captain out of their sight. While they could not see him, they had no peace of mind. Whereas yesterday his companionship had seemed to spell death, to-day it spelt protection. Yesterday they had done everything to elude him; to-day it would probably be he who would do the avoiding. It was essential that they should have won his confidence before they arrived on German soil. There was little time to lose. He had not appeared when the first sitting for breakfast was announced.

In the restaurant car they dawdled over their meal and sat on long after it was ended. They had even begun to discuss the possibility of his having left the train during the night, when with an eagerness kindred to their own he entered. Hindwood waved to him.

“I'm afraid we've finished. But won't you seat yourself at our table? I've no doubt my wife will join you in a cup of coffee. While you breakfast, if it's not objectionable, I'll smoke a cigarette.”

Captain Lajos beamed like a pleased boy. If one wasn't prejudiced in his disfavor, it was possible to find him likable. “I shall be delighted,” he said in an embarrassed tone. “Journeys are tedious nowadays. Once every one who counted was gay and prosperous; one was never at a loss to find a friend. To-day, in this bankrupt world, the only travelers are money-lenders and pawn-brokers.” He laughed. “I may as well confess: I didn't think you were up yet—that's what made me late. I was so tired of my own society that I was waiting for you.”

As he said, “I was waiting for you,” his eyes flashed on Santa.

It was she who spoke. “I fancy we've been just as bored with ourselves and even more eager to meet you. What you told us last night sounded so mysterious and romantic. I could hardly sleep for thinking about it. To have a Prince for one's friend and to travel so far to welcome him, only to find——” She clasped her hands childishly. “Life can be so drab—how drab, a man of your kind can never know. American husbands, no matter what they possess, take a pride in always working.”

He disappointed her curiosity with a crooked smile. “Whether you're a Prince or a millionaire, there's nothing romantic about being murdered.” Then her allurement kindled the longing in his eyes. “You're wanting me to confide the secrets that I warned you I couldn't share. Surely you must know something of Prince Rogovich?”

“No. Truly.” She returned his searching gaze with apparent frankness.

Hindwood jogged her elbow. “My dear, I've remembered. When we sailed there was a Prince Rogovich in the States, doing his best to raise a loan—I think it was for Poland. It was rumored that the money was to be squandered on military adventures. I guess he didn't find many takers. You're in the Hungarian Hussars, Captain, but you must excuse me for stating that on our side of the Atlantic we've seen all we want of armies.”

Santa clicked her tongue impatiently. “That's all very well, but it doesn't explain why the Prince——”

“It might,” Hindwood insisted mildly. “Discouraged men often commit suicide. He was coming home. He'd failed in his object——”

“He hadn't.” The Captain glanced quickly behind him to see whether any one could have heard him. He continued in a voice that was little above a whisper, “Only a few of us knew. He was coming home in triumph.”

Leaning across the table with suppressed excitement, Santa made the appeal of pretty women throughout the ages. “I wish you'd trust me.”

Hindwood pushed back his chair. “It's time for a cigar. Perhaps you'll join me later. If you'll excuse me——”

They paid him scant attention. The last he saw of them they were gazing enraptured into each other's eyes.

VI

It was well over an hour since he had returned to his compartment. He had left his door wide, so that he could inspect every one who passed along the corridor. They couldn't have slipped by without his noticing. He was becoming almost as distrustful of Santa as he was of the stranger. Already the rÔle of unwanted husband was growing irksome. The thing that baffled him most was her morbid curiosity. It was revolting to think of her, with her disarming air of refinement, encouraging her admirer to conjecture the details of a crime which she herself had committed. But how had she committed it? He himself did not know. He had just begun to contrive the scene in his mind when they entered. Her face was lit with a new intensity. At a glance he was aware that whatever she had learned had quickened her emotions. The Captain followed grudgingly, like a dog hanging back on a chain.

“Captain Lajos has been telling me,” she commenced. “But we'd better have the door closed. He's been telling me things that you ought to know. He's so concerned for my sake that he's offered to repeat them.”

The Captain seated himself opposite to Hind-wood and regarded him gravely. “The things that I've been telling your wife are not my secrets. I must ask you to give me your solemn promise.”

“You may take that for granted.”

“And there's one other point. I didn't offer to repeat them; it was Mrs. Hindwood who urged me. I'm making this plain because I don't want you to think I'm offering you my advice uninvited.”

Hindwood lit a fresh cigar, fortifying himself against whatever shock was pending. “I give you full credit for your motives.”

“Then let me ask you a question. Have you noticed that there are scarcely any women on this train?”

“I believe you're right. But until you mentioned it I hadn't noticed.”

“Well, if you'll watch, you'll see that I'm correct. There are women and children in plenty on trains moving westward. But on trains moving eastward, where we're going—no.”

Hindwood watched the man intently, wondering at what he was driving.

“Would you be surprised,” he continued, “if I were to tell you that one of the chief reasons for the women's absence is this affair of Prince Rogo-vich?”

“You rather harp on Prince Rogovich, don't you?” Hindwood flicked his ash. “After a time one ceases to be surprised at anything. But aren't you presuming too much in insisting on his having been murdered? All that's known by your own account is that he's vanished. In any case, what can he possibly have to do with the scarcity of women on trains running eastward?”

“Everything.” The Captain's face darkened with earnestness. “What I'm trying to tell you is that you're taking your wife into danger. Every man who can afford it, in the countries to which you're going, is hurrying his women-folk to France, England, Spain, America—anywhere westward for safety. They can feel the storm rising, the deluge of catastrophe that can't be held back much longer. When it bursts, it'll tear everything established from its moorings and sweep across Europe in a wave of savagery.”

“And this deluge that you speak of—what had Prince Rogovich to do with it?”

“He was keeping it from bursting.”

Hindwood smiled. “Alone?”

“No man's single strength could accomplish that. He was one of the most powerful of the resisting forces. When society's tottering, it's the little added strain that upsets the equilibrium. Remember how the last war started, with an obscure assassination.”

Hindwood crossed his knees and dug himself back into the cushions. “Your information, to say the least of it, is strangely melodramatic. If I understand you aright, you're urging me to discontinue my journey. Can't you be more explicit?”

“I can.” The Captain betrayed a hint of temper. “I suppose I shall have to if I'm to convince you. The stability of the whole of Central and Eastern Europe has been upset by the repartitioning of the Peace Treaty. The situation as it exists to-day is intolerable. The ruin which the war commenced has been completed by the pacification. The old social order has been overthrown; in its place we have a dozen rash experiments. In Russia, instead of the Czar, we have Bolshevism. In what was once the Austro-Hungarian Empire we have a series of Republics, which are nothing more than old racial hatreds entrenched behind newly created frontiers. In Poland, which was prisoner to three nations for two centuries, we have a released convict, vengeful with a sense of past injustice. Instead of reconstruction, we have disorganization. Trade is at a standstill. Money is valueless. Confidence is gone. Poverty has made a clean sweep of class distinctions. Mob-rule has usurped the rights of authority. Like a lean wolf, famine gallops through the desolation in ever widening circles.”

“But Prince Rogovich?” Hindwood recalled him. “What had he to do with it?”

“He was the leader of the monarchist party in Europe—the organizer of a secret movement to set up again the thrones which war has toppled. Incidentally he was to have established a new throne for himself in Poland. Behind him he had the landowning classes and the old aristocracy, which the new regime of haphazard democracy has beggared. He was biding his time till the crisis should become sufficiently acute for him to strike his blow. He had his armies ready. All he lacked was munitions. The floating of the loan in America completed his program.”

“But you said that the fact that he was returning in triumph was known only to a few. If only a few knew it, why should his death have caused this sudden exodus of women on trains running westward?”

“For two reasons: because he was the recognized strong man of the buffer states which lie between Russian anarchy and civilization; and because the crisis of starvation, for which he had been waiting, is now in sight. While Bolshevism was making its drives against Poland, Central Europe was compelled to hold together. Now that Bolshevism is crumbling, that compulsion is relaxed. All the way from Siberia to the frontiers of Germany millions are perishing from lack of food. Presently the Russian millions will commence to march westward to the lands of plenty. They'll march like Death, swinging his scythe. They'll sweep on like a pestilence. They'll lope like gaunt wolves, savage and relentless. The starving peoples of Central Europe, who would once have resisted them, will join them. Prince Rogovich, had he lived, could have prevented them.”

“How?” It was Santa.

“He would have declared a new war, with the return to monarchy as his battle-cry. He had his nucleus armies in readiness; they would have sprung from their hiding-places overnight. There would have been a tremendous rally to him as the only man unscrupulous enough to handle the situation. He would have made his bargain with the Allies.”

“And then?”

“He would have trained his guns on the lean hordes of Russia and would have blown them back across their borders.”

Again Santa spoke. Her voice came low and haltingly. “He would have made the world pass through the fires of Moloch for a second time. The person who murdered him must have known it.”

Hindwood turned to her. There was a startled expression in his eyes. He was quite certain she had known it. He was seeing the real Santa for the first time. She was a Charlotte Corday, who had dipped her hands in blood that she might prevent a more colossal crime.

“I begin to see,” he muttered.

The Captain took the words as addressed to himself. “I'm glad you do. It must be obvious to you now that where you're going is no place for a woman. If you'll accept my advice, you'll turn back at the next stopping-place.”

“Impossible.” Hindwood recalled himself to the part he was playing. “You're a soldier; you'd be ashamed to run away at the first hint of danger. In a sense I also am a soldier, a soldier of business. I, too, have my marching orders and my duty.”

“Then if you won't turn back yourself, send Mrs. Hindwood back.” The man's voice shook. “You're taking her to almost certain death. She's too beautiful—I beg it of you.”

To his amazement Hindwood found himself liking the stranger. “My wife's beauty has no bearing on the problem. We're exceedingly grateful to you, Captain Lajos; but to act on your warning—it's out of the question.”

The Captain shot him a dark look, then let his gaze rest on Santa. When she kept her eyes averted, he pretended to lose interest in the subject. The train was slowing down. He cleared the pane with his glove.

“It's the frontier.”

Hindwood rose and hurriedly commenced to gather together his belongings. Sitting perfectly still with an air of quiet criticism, the Captain watched him. When the last bag had been strapped and made ready for removal, “Why are you doing that?” he inquired.

“The German Customs. I suppose we'll have to get out and go through the old jog-trot of being inspected.”

“You don't need to; you can have it done here. Excuse me, if I seem officious. I was immediately behind you at Calais and couldn't help noticing that your passports are the same as mine—diplomatic. The advantage of a diplomatic passport in crossing frontiers is that the officials have to come to you.”

“I didn't know. If that's the case—”

He resumed his seat with a sickening sensation. The Captain's presence was stifling him. He longed to escape, if it were only for five minutes. He felt choked with lies. It seemed impossible that the Captain should not be aware of the atmosphere of falsehood.

Passengers were already filing down the corridor and being herded by soldiers on the platform. As carriages were emptied, doors were locked and sealed. Evidently nothing was to be left to chance; while the passengers were held prisoners in the waiting-rooms, the train was to be searched from end to end. To a guilty conscience there was something exceedingly intimidating about this military display of thoroughness.

The wagon-lits conductor looked into the compartment. Seeing the three of them seated there, he burst into a frantic protest. Captain Lajos annihilated him with the ferocity of his explanation. When the conductor had retreated, the Captain turned to Hindwood.

“Like most of your compatriots, I see you're not strong on languages. If I can be of use to you, I'll act as your interpreter.”

“My wife is—” Then he remembered that he knew nothing of Santa's linguistic attainments. “You're very thoughtful of our comfort,” he substituted.

Guttural voices sounded. Two crop-headed ex-drill-sergeants presented themselves. Without waste of words they rasped out a peremptory order.

“They want to see your passports,” the Captain interpreted.

While the passports were being examined, there was silence. Again questions were asked and again the Captain interpreted.

“Are you carrying fire-arms?”

“Have you any contraband?”

“Do you intend to stay in Germany?”

There was a pause. The passports were folded and on the point of being returned when another unintelligible conversation started.

The Captain smiled. “They're punctilious. As a matter of form, they want to hear you assert that you're the Philip Hindwood to whom this passport was issued.”

“Most certainly. They can prove that by comparing my face with the attached photograph.”

The Captain turned to Santa with the utmost suavity. “And that you're the Edith Jones, Mr. Hindwood's secretary.”

Having exploded his bomb, he rose. For a moment he seemed to hesitate as to whether he should expose them. Then, making a stiff bow, he murmured, “That's all.”

Directly he had departed, Hindwood locked the door behind him. “He shall ferret out no more of our secrets.”

From then on, they traveled in a state of siege. Several times they thought they heard a tapping. Whether it was the Captain's, they did not allow themselves to discover. They opened to no one whom they had not summoned.

VII

Soon after the train restarted, Santa rested her hand on his arm. “You think better of me now. I'm so tired, I should cry if you spoke to me. Let me sleep on your couch. I'm afraid to be alone.”

He covered her with his rug and did his best to make her comfortable. She was utterly exhausted. In a few minutes her eyes closed and she was breathing gently.

Several hours elapsed. She was still sleeping. He was glad not to have to talk. His mind was filled with a tremendous picture: “There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day. And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate full of sores.”

He saw the world that he was leaving, self-satisfied, callous, well-nourished. He saw the world to which he was going, out of which he had planned to make a profit—a world picked clean by the crime of war and peopled by living skeletons. When its pain had passed beyond endurance, the outcast world would attack the world which was comfortable. It would come crawling like a beggar to a rich man's door. When it found the door barred, it would go mad. It had nothing to lose by violence. With its bare hands it would storm the dwelling.

How would the comfortable world defend itself? The Captain said with cannon. From a safe distance it would blow the empty bellies into nothingness. But bread was cheaper than high explosives. Why not fill the empty bellies instead of shattering them?

He recalled the fields round Amiens, starred with miniature forests of stiff, protesting crosses. Why had those crosses been planted if it had not been to teach the living world to share?

A barricade of bread could prevent further bloodshed. It always could have prevented it. The gray tide of wolf-men could be halted by a barricade of bread. Strange that no one had ever thought of it! There had never been a war that a barricade of bread could not have halted. Back and forth across the Atlantic his food-ships were plying. In Holland his warehouses were bulging—

He glanced at the sleeping face of Santa—sweet and sad as an avenging angel's. Her solution of injustice was simple: to slay the wrong-doer before he could do his wrong. It was her own suffering that had taught her this cruel mercy. If she, a half-caste, disinherited at birth, could so risk her soul's salvation for humanity—

He drew himself up sharply. He was turning visionary. At this rate he would end as a second Varensky. All his plans for capturing power would be thwarted. He had seen nothing as yet that would corroborate the Captain's disastrous prophecies.

At Stuttgart he watched the Captain receive another telegram. If the man had lied to him, what was his purpose? How much did he know? How much did he infer? Had his discovery that they were not married been an accident or had he led up to it by strategy? When Vienna was reached, it would be necessary to throw' him off their track.

They were winding through blue valleys of the Bavarian Tyrol, steeped in the contentment of autumnal sunshine. Like eagles' nests, built high above pine-forests, he caught glimpses of chalets perched on narrow ledges. Here and there they passed villages, mere clusters of dolls' houses, childish and make-believe as memories of fairyland. He began to smile at his mood of pessimism. Were Santa to waken, she would refute the Captain's bogey stories. He bent over her, tempted to rouse her. At last he shook her shoulder.

“Santa, don't be frightened. I want to ask you a question. What the Captain said wasn't true?”

She gazed up at him bewildered, dreams still in her eyes; then turned her face drowsily back to the pillow. “What wasn't true? I don't understand.”

“The part about Prince Rogovich and blowing those starving wretches back with cannon.”

She settled herself wearily. “I'm so terribly tired. I don't want to be reminded.” And then, “It was why I killed him; so that he shouldn't.”

VIII

Darkness had long since gathered when they crossed the starvation-line into Austria. Perhaps it was no more than imagination, but he immediately became conscious of a vague depression. Glancing through the misty panes, he espied no signs of life—only bare fields, pollarded trees like gallows, and the sullen profiles of shrouded houses. No trains flashed by, going in the opposite direction. Wayside stations were shuttered. Night was a stagnant tank. In the all-pervading silence the sound of their own going was the only clamor.

It was not until they were nearing Vienna that any lights broke the monotony of the blackness—even these, like lanterns of lonely grave-diggers, were faint and rare. Shadowy apartment-houses and rotting factories looked less like habitations than monstrous sepulchers. It was difficult to believe that this pulseless carcass had once been the Bacchante among modern metropolises—that even at this moment memories of its rhythm were setting the feet of happier streets to music. He caught the vision of other cities after nightfall; New York, a tall white virgin, sheathed in jewels; London, a grimy smith, striking sparks from a giant anvil; Paris, a wanton goddess, smiling through the dusk, her face lit up by fire-fly constellations. How impossible it would be to approach any one of them without becoming aware of its presence! Yet a man might easily travel through Vienna without suspecting that it lay cowering behind the darkness.

It was after midnight when the train halted in the empty cathedral of the Bahnhof. Directly the doors were opened, lean men poured into the compartments, whining for the privilege of handling the baggage. Hindwood delayed until he had allowed the Captain sufficient time to make his exit, then he thought it safe to assist Santa to the platform. Once again, despite the lateness of the hour, it was necessary to go through tedious formalities. The question asked most pressingly, as at the German frontier, was whether they were possessed of fire-arms.

At last they were free to go in search of beds. As they stepped into the station-yard, they got their first glimpse of Austria's destitution. Huddled against the walls was a collection of human derelicts which seemed more in keeping with Dante's “Inferno” than the city which had set the world waltzing to The Merry Widow. They were of all conditions and ages, from grandparents to toddling children, from artisans to aristocrats. In the scant light they lifted up greenish faces which snarled, while their extended hands demanded charity. The police beat them back, like huntsmen separating hounds from their quarry. They retreated whimpering into the shadows.

From the line of worn-out vehicles which were waiting, Hindwood selected a creaking taxi. Having seen Santa seat herself, he ordered the man to drive to the Hotel Bristol.

“Pretty awful,” he groaned, as he sank back against the musty cushions.

She stifled a sob. “It was nothing. It's worse than that.”

He spoke again. “I didn't see the Captain. I think we're rid of him.”

“I wouldn't be optimistic.”

Down the long, deserted Mariahilfer Strasse they bumped and rattled. It was ungarnished and forbidding as an empty house. The few people whom they met scuffled out of sight at sound of intrusion, looking less like human beings than vermin. Over all there hung a sense of evil, as though a crime lay undiscovered behind the silence.

As they turned into the Ring, which circles the inner city, Santa woke into animation. Leaning from the window, she pointed. “Do you see that huge pile like a palace, with all the statues and the steps going up to it? That's the Opera House. I danced there once at the command of the Emperor.”

“Then you're known here?” He clutched her hand.

She shook her head sadly. “I was the toast of Europe then. Whereas to-day—— It makes a difference.”

In the KÂrtner-Ring they drew up before a blazing entrance. Laughing people were passing in and out, women muffled in costly wraps, accompanied by men in evening-attire.

“What's this?” The change was so sudden that it shook his sense of reality. “This doesn't look like—”

She placed her lips close to his ear as she alighted.

“It looks like asking for revolution. 'After me, the deluge'—you remember? The men aren't Austrians. They're foreign vultures here to snatch bargains—human bargains as well. But the women—”

Inside the doors of the hotel every reminder of famine had been blotted out. Its white marble halls and stairways were richly carpeted. Its furnishings in gilt and satin had been carried out with the utmost lavishness. The costal of its chandeliers glittered with a dazzling intensity. From the restaurant drifted the wild gayety of a gipsy orchestra, enfever-ing the atmosphere with the yearning of elusive romance. Whispering to the beat of the music came the glide of dancing footsteps. Flunkeys with powdered heads, tricked out in plush breeches like marionettes, hurried to and fro on all-absorbing errands.

After Santa had been shown to her ornate room, he stepped out into the gloomy street to assure himself. It was all true, in spite of the lie which he had witnessed. The pinched faces were still there, and the enfeebled bodies crawling through the shadows.

As he reentered the white glare which shone from the hotel, he glanced back with a sense of impending ruin. For a second time his mind was filled with a tremendous picture: “And there was a certain rich man and a beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, desiring to be fed. Moreover, the dogs came and licked his sores.”

He caught the vision of his food-ships piling up stores in Holland. At the thought, as he crept between the sheets in his comfortable bed, he sickened.

IX

He had returned from a disturbing interview with the Austrian ministers responsible for considering his proposals. He was passing the hotel desk, when it occurred to him that some one might have left a message. On inquiry two were handed out to him, one a telegram, the other a letter. Ripping open the telegram, a glance told him it was in German and had been dispatched from Budapest. He had slipped it into his pocket, thinking, “I'll have to get Santa to translate that,” when he unfolded it again to see by whom it had been sent. The sender's name was a single word, “Anna.”

His heart gave a bound. She was near to him! He could see her again within a handful of hours. For a moment nothing else seemed to matter—neither Santa's safety, nor the agony of hunger by which he was surrounded. His blood ran hot with yearning. How had she reached Budapest so quickly? What was her object? To have accomplished the journey she must have set out from England ahead of him or else have left on the same day, traveling by the alternative route via Belgium. While he had been journeying in the company of Santa, going through the mummery of pretending he was married, Anna had been paralleling his footsteps. Was Varensky with her? But if she were alone...

Mechanically, as he entered the elevator, he slit the flap of the letter. It had evidently been left personally, for it bore no postmark and was hastily scrawled on the stationery of the hotel. The hand was unknown to him. The note read:

“Yesterday you avoided me. I have told her everything. I am more sure than ever you ought to send her back. I must leave you now for a little while. When we meet again, I hope it will be as friends.

“Lajos.”

At last they had got rid of him! But what was it he had told her? And what made him so sure that they would meet again? The man wrote as if he were confident that he could lay his hands on them at any moment.

Stepping out of the elevator, Hindwood made directly for Santa's room. He recalled it vaguely as he had seen it the night before, with its Empire furniture, painted cupids, silken hangings, and tall mirrors—its knowing air of having been the illicit nest of innumerable short-lived love-affairs. Its gaudy luxury, so glaringly in contrast with the embittered need of the outside world, had stirred his anger. In reply to his knock, her hoarse voice bade him enter. Before he was across the threshold, he was aware of the intoxicating fragrance of roses.

Just inside the room, frowning with bewilderment, he halted. There were stacks of them—sheaves of them everywhere. They were scattered on the floor. They were arranged in vases. They lay strewn about in boxes. They were of all shades and varieties.

“What's the meaning?”

She beckoned to him to join her at the tall window against which she was standing.

“We missed this last night.” She pointed.

Following her direction, he saw that the window looked down obliquely on the imposing architecture of the Opera House. The mellow October sunlight drifted softly across gray roofs and fell in an orange splash into the deep fissure of the street below. Along the pavements the tide of traffic wandered nervelessly. On a neighboring ledge, two plump pigeons were engaged in an ardent courtship.

“What did we miss? I see nothing.”

Then he noticed the panting of her bosom and that her expression was tender with tremulous emotion.

Drawing her fine fingers across her eyes, she shuddered. “Stupid of me! I forgot; they would bring back nothing to you—the scent of the roses and then the Opera House, looking the same as ever. I've been dreaming of other mornings, when I woke after nights of triumph. Perhaps it was this room that set me remembering. It's not the first time I've slept in it.” As she caught his eyes reading her memories, she flushed guiltily. “Yes, in those days I was never lonely.”

“But the roses!” he reminded her impatiently. “How did you get them? At the price things cost in Vienna, some one must have spent a fortune.”

She placed a hand on his arm appealingly. “Don't begrudge me. He must have known. I think he did it for my burial.”

Her words sent a chill through him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “We're in too tight a corner to waste energy on sentiment. If we're going to make a fight for it, we've got to keep our heads clear. Who gave them to you?”

She pressed her forehead against the warm pane. The gold of the world outside cast a sheen of gold on her profile. Her unwanted loveliness hurt him. It reproached him. It recalled to him the ache of his old desire in the days before he had known that he could have her. And now that he could have her for the asking....

“Captain Lajos gave them to me. They've been arriving ever since we parted. He waited till you'd gone; then he came to me. He came to tell me why he'd followed me. He was persuaded I was your mistress. This morning he did something noble—very noble for a man of his sort to a woman of mine; he begged me to become his wife.”

“Without knowing anything about you? He must be mad.”

“Don't say that.” She closed her eyes painfully. “I shan't trouble you or any one much longer. I shall soon be so still. When one's sure of that, it's good to be loved just once again, even though—” She turned slowly and faced him. “I don't need to tell you who it is that I love truly. This man—he's nothing. No man ever will—— You see I've lived for men and admiration—for things like—” She pointed to the roses. “It's new to me to be neglected. So it's comforting to know that a man can still desire me, even though I'd rather kill myself than go with him.”

He broke the silence that had settled between them. “You mustn't talk like this. You've years of life before you. I'll get you away safely.”

She smiled. “No.” Then she changed the subject. “What happened to you?”

“You mean at my conference?” He seated himself beside her dressing-table. “The worst that could have happened—nothing. Some change has taken place for which I can't account. When I sent my suggestions from America, they were hailed with enthusiasm. I was a saviour—everything that's splendid and extravagant. But now—— The Government's paralyzed. It isn't a Government; it's a passenger. 'You've let us starve too long. It doesn't matter now—' that's what I was told this morning. The ministers with whom I consulted spoke as if they were sitting on the edge of a volcano, waiting to be blown up. They're so sure that an eruption's inevitable that they don't consider it worth while to make an effort to save themselves. I couldn't rouse them. When I pressed them for the cause of their lethargy, they prophesied a new war, in very much the same words as Captain Lajos—a war in which the well-fed are to be pillaged by the starving.”

“But did you tell them that you could ship food into Austria at once?”

“I told them. I assured them that I could put Austria back on her feet in twelve months. I offered to provision her and to supply coal for her factories, if they'd give me control of the railroads and a per capita percentage on the total increase of national industry. 'Provision us with pleasure' was their attitude; 'we'll raise no official objection.' 'Very kind of you,' I replied; 'but where do I come in. I'm no philanthropist.'” He brought his fist down with a bang on the dressing-table. “There's a nigger in the wood-pile. Upon my soul, I believe those fellows are determined that I shan't prevent their nation from dying. If I shipped them the food as a gift, they'd burn it.”

She came over from the window and stood gazing down at him. “You're right. They would if they dared. Can't you guess?”

“I can't. Their currency's hardly worth the paper it's printed on. People are dropping dead in the streets—I saw them. Their gaols are packed with children turned criminals through hunger. There'll be no crops next year; the grain's consumed that should have been saved for the sowing. They've butchered all their live-stock. The brains of the country are in exile. The intellectual classes have been wiped out. And here I come with my offer to save them, and they reject it. Without the help of some outside force like myself, things can only go from bad to worse.”

“Precisely.”

He glanced up, irritated by the promptitude of her agreement. “Precisely! Why do you say that?”

“It's what they want—things to go from bad to worse. The worse things get, the more certain they are of revolution. They're afraid your food would postpone it.”

“Afraid! Why on earth?”

“Because they hope to snatch more out of the catastrophe of revolution than you can offer them. These ministers with whom you've been dealing are the tools of the exiled monarchists. They belong to the party in all countries which made the last war possible and all wars before it. What do they care for the people? They never have cared. Let the brutes starve,' they say, 'if it suits our purpose. We can always breed more.' They regard the people as their serfs, to be fooled with patriotism when danger threatens and to be kept in chains to toil for them when peace has been restored. If the people go hungry long enough, they'll reason that the loss of their kings is the cause. They'll rise up and recall them. They'll start to die for them afresh. It'll happen in all the outcast countries. In the wholesale scramble, it'll be every nation for itself. The strong will struggle to expand their frontiers, and the weak will go to the wall. The deluge of blood—” She sank to her knees, seizing his hands imploringly. “If you'll sacrifice your stores of food, you can stop it.”

“But if I do that, without guaranties, I'm bankrupt. I get nothing.”

“You'll get more than I got when, to accomplish the same purpose, I murdered Prince Rogovich. I'll get the scaffold. You'll earn the thanks of humanity. You'll go down to the ages....”

He could see only the wide greyness of her eyes, pleading, coercing, unbalancing his judgment.

He jumped to his feet, shaking off their spell. “I'm no dreamer—no Varensky,” he said gruffly. “I have to make a profit.” Then, defending himself from her unspoken accusation, “We're only guessing. We have no facts. There are other famished countries—Hungary and Poland. What Austria refuses, they may accept.” He dug his hand into his pocket. “That reminds me. Here's a telegram from Budapest. I can't understand it. It's in German.”

She was crouched on the floor. As he stooped to give it to her, she caught sight of the signature.

“From Anna. Varensky must be with her. Then the crisis is nearer than I thought.”

“Read it. Tell me what it says,” he urged.

She looked up palely, wilted with disappointment. “'Come at once. I need you.' That's all.”

“Does she give no address?”

“She wouldn't risk it. I know where to find her.”

“Then we'll start—”

“But what about—?”

He did not hear her. The blood was hammering in his temples. He left her forgotten, seated among her roses. The music of a wild exultation was maddening his heart.