A puzzled expression crossed the prince’s face. “I thought,” he said musingly, “that Posadowski died.”
“I did not die,” cried the other. “I left Rexania and came to this city. Time presses. Here is a letter to me from your father. It will prove to you that I have always been, as I am to-night, loyal to you and to your house.”
The prince seized the letter that Posadowski had read to Posnovitch in the elevated train.
“It is enough,” he exclaimed, smiling cordially as he returned the epistle to Posadowski. “I believe that you are my friends. If you play me false, great will be your punishment. If you are true—and I think you are—your reward shall be worthy of my father. Come! Let us go.”
With a countenance that showed intense relief and a light heart that beat with pleasure at the sight in that distant land of his father’s signature, the prince entered the carriage. He was followed by Posnovitch and Posadowski, who took the seat opposite to the crown prince. Rukacs mounted the box beside Svolak. The latter, turning his horses around, hit them a clip with the whip, and the vehicle bounded at a rapid rate up the avenue.
There was silence inside for a time. Finally the prince, taking out his cigar-case, offered it to the men in front of him. Posadowski refused to smoke, but Posnovitch and the prince at once began to fill the vehicle with the fumes of tobacco. The latter felt the need of something to quiet his overwrought nerves. He found himself in a curious state of mind. Fully did he realize that it was incumbent upon him to keep his attention fixed upon his companions and his surroundings, for the position in which he was placed had revived the suspicions that had beset him before he had read his father’s note. But, try as he might, his will refused to direct the current of his thoughts. He found himself dwelling with strange pleasure on the events of the evening. The face of Kate Strong, with its clear-cut features, brilliant eyes, and a golden glory of waving hair, smiled at him in the darkness and made him impatient of the night. He had come to America to study politics; he found his whole heart and mind engrossed with a girl he had seen but once, and whom the conditions of his birth placed as far out of his reach as if he had been born an African slave. The prerogatives of royalty seemed to him at that moment to be worthless. That he must wed for policy, not for love, he well knew, and a spirit of rebellion against the hard fate that had made him a crown prince arose in his soul. He puffed his cigar nervously as the thought forced itself upon him that, while a duke might marry an American girl, a king could not. His romantic face grew melancholy as his revery became more sombre. The air was oppressive, and distant thunder added to the dismal influences surrounding him.
Suddenly the prince aroused himself. Pulling out his watch, he saw that the hour was late. The carriage at that moment was crossing a long bridge, and the youth caught the gleam of lightning as it was reflected from the water beneath them. His forebodings instantly reawakened. The carriage had left the bridge behind it, as the prince placed his hand on the knob of the door and said sternly to the silent conspirators before him:
“Stop the carriage. I wish to talk to you before we go farther.”
A revolver in the firm grasp of Posadowski gleamed, as the lightning flashed again, and the prince heard a harsh voice say to him: