CHAPTER XIII.
“Frankly, your royal highness,” said Herr Bennett to the princess fifteen minutes later, “there are symptoms in the case that worry me. At first, I thought his majesty was attacked by a simple fainting fit, caused by his sudden rising at the table. His breathing, however, and other indications lead me to believe that he is in a very precarious condition.”
They stood together apart, while Fraulein Müller and Carl Eingen, conversing in low whispers, watched beside the prostrated king.
Count von Reibach and Baron Wollenstein, not unnoticed by Cousin Fritz, had left the apartment together.
“We must have a talk at once, Count,” Wollenstein had said to his fellow-conspirator. “Come into the cellars with me. We won’t be missed at this moment.” Unknown to them, the dwarf had stolen into the dark vaults by their side so close to them that he could hear every word they said.
“Is he hard hit, Baron?” asked Count von Reibach. “It looks to me like apoplexy.”
“I think it is,” answered Wollenstein, taking his companion by the arm and groping toward a better lighted portion of the cellar that lay beyond them. “He’s been a sick man for some time back, Count. I’m inclined to think that the suddenness of his overthrow has precipitated an attack that could not have been long delayed.”
“And what, to your mind, is our best play at this juncture, Baron?” asked von Reibach impressively. The serious nature of the crisis that confronted them had suddenly broken upon his not very active mind. His companion made no answer, but stood still, his head turned to one side.
“The very thing,” whispered Wollenstein hoarsely. “Read that, Count! How it got here I can’t imagine, but it’s a wonderful stroke of luck at this juncture.”
Count von Reibach followed his companion’s gaze and saw before them a type-written placard, the contents of which the reader has already learned.
The count indulged in a weak whistle to relieve his astonishment. “Dead or alive!” he exclaimed. “It ought to be easy, Baron. I could put the dwarf in my pocket—if I could get my hands on him.”
Wollenstein grunted deprecatingly, “We cannot afford to take any chances, Count,” he said emphatically. “We are in a desperate position. Our heads are forfeit to the state unless we can take our fatted calf with us when we go above as returning prodigals. It’s all very well to talk about capturing the dwarf alive, but you can’t catch rats in this infernal cellar by chasing them. Our only chance lies in seizing Cousin Fritz and rendering all opportunity of escape impossible at one stroke. It’s easily done. Let me get hold of the little imp once and Wilhelm shall have a court jester, dead or alive, as the case may be.” There was a cruel menace in the baron’s voice that was carefully noted by a dwarfish eavesdropper.
“What was that?” asked the count, starting nervously and gazing into the shadows with straining eyes.
“Ach Gott! Are you scared by rats?” muttered the baron sarcastically. “Now come to the point, Count! Do you understand me? We must act, and act immediately. Our only hope lies in the capture of the dwarf. We must set about it at once, and take him—dead or alive.”
“Yes, dead or alive,” repeated Count von Reibach mechanically, seizing his companion’s arm and turning to retrace his steps.
There came a snapping sound, as though a trap had been sprung somewhere in the darkness. The floor slipped away in creaking grooves and at the edge of the abyss stood Cousin Fritz, smiling maliciously as he gazed down into the blackness. A dull sound, as if huge rubber balls had struck the centre of the earth, came up through the grewsome hole.
“Two of a kind!” cried the madman, in a shrill, penetrating voice. “Two of a kind—and I’ve discarded them!”
He whistled gayly as he scurried back toward his apartments. Now and then he would break into song and his keen voice would startle the bats from slumber in the furthermost recesses of the great vaults.
“Two of a kind! Two of a kind! Two of a kind!” he cried with hysterical energy now and again. “Two of a kind, but a very small pair! Ha, ha! I had no use for two of a kind, two of a kind, two of a kind!”
Suddenly he stood still and listened intently. “The King is dead, long live the King!” he shouted, and the cellar re-echoed the weird cry. “The King is dead! Live the King!”
At that moment Bennett had placed a detaining hand upon the Princess Hilda’s arm. The cumulative force of the adventures through which they had passed together had rendered ceremoniousness out of place at this juncture.
“The need of aid from above has passed, your highness,” said Bennett gently. “I beg you to remain here. The King is——”
“Is dead,” added the princess sadly.
At that instant far down the cellar they heard the dwarf’s voice crying shrilly: “The King is dead! Live the King!”
Bennett gazed at the princess in amazement.
“’Tis Cousin Fritz’s voice. But how did he know? How did he know?”