‘Good,’ said Aribert. ‘I hope they will hurry.’ Then he sat down and wrote a card. ‘Take this yourself to Miss Racksole. If she is out of the hotel, ascertain where she is and follow her. Understand, it is of the first importance.’
Hans bowed, and departed for the second time, and Aribert was alone again.
He gazed at Eugen, and made another frantic attempt to rouse him from the deadly stupor, but it was useless. He walked away to the window: through the opened casement he could hear the tinkle of passing hansoms on the Embankment below, whistles of door-keepers, and the hoot of steam tugs on the river. The world went on as usual, it appeared. It was an absurd world.
He desired nothing better than to abandon his princely title, and live as a plain man, the husband of the finest woman on earth.... But now!...
Pah! How selfish he was, to be thinking of himself when Eugen lay dying. Yet—Nella!
The door opened, and a man entered, who was obviously the doctor. A few curt questions, and he had grasped the essentials of the case. ‘Oblige me by ringing the bell, Prince. I shall want some hot water, and an able-bodied man and a nurse.’
‘Who wants a nurse?’ said a voice, and Nella came quietly in. ‘I am a nurse,’ she added to the doctor, ‘and at your orders.’
The next two hours were a struggle between life and death. The first doctor, a specialist who followed him, Nella, Prince Aribert, and old Hans formed, as it were, a league to save the dying man. None else in the hotel knew the real seriousness of the case. When a Prince falls ill, and especially by his own act, the precise truth is not issued broadcast to the universe.
According to official intelligence, a Prince is never seriously ill until he is dead. Such is statecraft.
The worst feature of Prince Eugen’s case was that emetics proved futile.