Truxton King: A Story of Graustark Part 31

"You won't leave me to my fate because you think I'm going to marry--some one else?"

He grew very sober. "Miss Tullis, you and I have one chance in a thousand. You may as well know the truth."

"Oh, I can't bear the thought of that dreadful old man," she cried, abject distress in her eyes.

He gritted his teeth and turned away. She went back to the corner, dully rearranging the coat he had given her for comfort. She handled it with a tenderness that would have astonished the garment had it been capable of understanding. For a long time she watched him in silence as he paced to and fro like a caged lion. Twice she heard him mutter: "An American girl--good Lord," and she found herself smiling to herself--the strange, vagrant smile that comes of wonder and self-gratification.

Late in the afternoon--long hours in which they had spoken to each other with curious infrequency, each a prey to sombre thoughts--their door was unlocked and Anna Cromer appeared before them, accompanied by two of the men. Crisply she commanded the girl to come forth; she wanted to talk with her.

She was in the outer room for the better part of an hour, listening to Anna Cromer and Madame Drovnask, who dinned the praises of the great Count Marlanx into her ears until she was ready to scream. They bathed the girl's face and brushed her hair and freshened her garments. It occurred to her that she was being prepared for a visit of the redoubtable Marlanx himself, and put the question plainly.

"No," said Anna Cromer. "He's not coming here. You are going to him. He will not be Count Marlanx after to-morrow, but Citizen Marlanx--one of the people, one of us. Ah, he is a big man to do this."

Little did they know Marlanx!

"Julius and Peter will come for you to-night," said Madame Drovnask, with an evil, suggestive smile. "We will not be here to say farewell, but, my dear, you will be one of us before--well, before many days have pa.s.sed."

Truxton was beginning to tremble with the fear that she would not be returned to their room, when the door was opened and she came in--most gladly, he could see. The two women bade him a cool, unmistakable _Good-bye_, and left him in charge of the men who had just come down from the shop above.

For half an hour Peter Brutus taunted him. It was all he could do to keep his hands wrapped in the rope behind his back; he was thankful when they returned him to his cell. The time was not ripe for the dash he was now determined to make.

"Get a little nap, if you can," he said to Loraine, when the door was locked behind him. "It won't be long before something happens. I've got a plan. You'll have your part to play. G.o.d grant that it may work out well for us. You--you might pray if--if--"

"Yes, I _can_ pray," she said simply. "I'll do my part, Mr. King."

He waited a moment. "We've been neighbours in New York for years," he said. "Would you mind calling me Truxton,--and for Adele's sake, too?"

"It isn't hard to do, Truxton."

"Good!" he exclaimed.

She rebelled at the mere thought of sleep, but, unfastening her collar and removing the jabot, she made herself a comfortable cus.h.i.+on of his coat and sat back in her corner, strangely confident that this strong, eager American would deliver her from the Philistines--this fighting American with the ten days' growth of beard on his erstwhile merry face.

Sometime in the tense, suffocating hours of the night they heard the sounds of many footsteps shuffling about the outer room; there were hoa.r.s.e, guttural, subdued good-byes and well-wishes, the creaking of heavy doors and the dropping of bolts. Eventually King, who had been listening alertly, realised that but two of the men remained in the room--Peter Brutus and Julius Spantz.

An hour crept by, and another, seemingly interminable King was fairly groaning under the suspense. The time was slowly, too slowly approaching when he was to attempt the most desperate act in all this sanguinary tragedy--the last act for him, no doubt, but the one in which he was to see himself glorified.

There remained the chance--the slim chance that only Providence considers. He had prayed for strength and cunning; she had prayed for divine intervention. But, after all, Luck was to be the referee.

He had told her of his plan; she knew the part she was to play. And if all went well--ah, then! He took a strange lesson in the language of Graustark: one sentence, that was all. She had whispered the translation to him and he had grimly repeated it, over and over again. "She has fainted, d.a.m.n her!" It was to be their "Open Sesame"--if all went well!

Suddenly he started to his feet, his jaws set, his eyes gleaming. The telegraph instrument was clicking in the outer room!

He had wrapped his handkerchief about his big right hand, producing a sort of cus.h.i.+on to deaden the sound of a blow with the fist and to protect his knuckles; for all his strength was to go into that one mighty blow. If both men came into the room, his chance was smaller; but, in either event, the first blow was to be a mighty one.

Taking his position near the girl, who was crouching in real dismay, he leaned against the wall, his hands behind him, every muscle strained and taut.

The door opened and Julius Spantz, bewhiskered and awkward, entered. He wore a raincoat and storm hat, and carried a rope in one of his hands.

He stopped just inside the door to survey the picture.

"Time you were asleep," he said stupidly, addressing King.

"I'd put you to sleep, Julius, if Miss Tullis could have managed to untie these infernal bonds," said Truxton, with pleasant daring.

"I don't tie lovers' knots," grinned Julius, pleased with his own wit.

"Come, madam, I must ask you to stand up. Will you put your own handkerchief in your mouth, or must I use force--ah, that's good! I'm sorry, but I must wrap this cloth about--"

He did not complete the sentence, for he had come within range. The whole weight of Truxton King's body was behind the terrific blow that landed on the man's jaw. Loraine suppressed the scream that rose to her white lips. Julius Spantz's knees crumpled; he lunged against the wall and was sliding down when King caught him in his arms. The man was stunned beyond all power of immediate action. It was the work of an instant to s.n.a.t.c.h the revolver from his coat pocket.

"Guard the door!" whispered King to the girl, pressing the revolver into her hand. "And shoot if you have to!"

A handkerchief was stuffed into the unconscious man's mouth; the long coat and boots were jerked from his limp body before his hands and feet were bound with the rope he carried; the bushy whiskers and wig were removed from his head and transferred in a flash to that of the American. Then the boots, coat and hat found a new wearer.

Peter Brutus was standing in the stairway, leading to the sewer, listening eagerly for sounds from either side.

"Hurry up, Julius," he called imperatively. "They are below with the boat. They have given the signal."

The new Julius uttered a single sentence; that was all. If Peter heard the noise attending the disposal of his comrade, he was justified in believing that the girl had offered some resistance. When a tall, grunting man emerged from the inner room, bearing the limp figure of a girl in a frayed raincoat, he did not wait to ask questions, but rushed over and locked the cell-door. Then he led the way down the narrow stairway, lighting the pa.s.sage with a candle. His only reply to King's guttural remark in the Graustark language was:

"Don't speak, you fool! Not a word until we reach the river."

Down the steps they went to the opening in the wall of the sewer. There, before the bolts were drawn by Brutus, a series of raps were exchanged by men outside and the one who held the keys within.

A moment later, the girl was being lowered through the hole into rough, eager arms. Brutus and his companion dropped through, the secret block of masonry was closed, and off through the shallow waters of the sewer glided the party riverward in the noiseless boat that had come up to ferry them.

There were three men in the boat, not counting Truxton King.

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE RIVER

No word was spoken during this cautious, extraordinary voyage underground. The boat drifted slowly through the narrow channel, unlighted and practically unguided. Two of the men sat at the rowlocks, but the oars rested idly in the boat. With their hands they kept the craft from sc.r.a.ping against the walls.

The pseudo-Julius supported his charge in the stern of the boat; Peter Brutus sat in the bow, a revolver in his hand, his gaze bent upon the opaqueness ahead. A whispered word of encouragement now and then pa.s.sed from the lips of the hopeful American into the ear of the almost pulseless girl, who lay up against his knee.

"We'll do it--sure!" he whispered once, ever so softly.

"Yes," she scarcely, breathed, but he heard and was thrilled. The rope had dropped from her arms; she had taken the handkerchief from her mouth at his whispered command.

At last the boat crept out into the rainy, starless night. He drew the skirts of his own mackintosh over her shoulders and head. A subdued command came from the man in the bow; the oars slipped into the deep, black waters of the river; without a splash or a perceptible sound the little craft scudded toward midstream. The night was so inky black that one could not see his hand before his face.

At least two of the occupants opened up their throats and lungs and gulped in the wet, fresh air. Never had anything been so glorious to Truxton King as these first tremendous inhalations of pure, free air.

She felt his muscles expand; his whole body grew stronger and more vital. Her heart was pounding violently against his leg; he could feel its throbs, he could hear the quick, eager panting of her breath.