The effect of the despatch on the Rexanian astonished the reporter. The little man uttered a shout of triumph and then glanced anxiously around the room. Seizing his brandy-glass, he drained it to the bottom. Such glimmerings of common sense as had marked his conversation up to this point deserted him on the instant. His disordered mind fell back upon the idea that he had been wronged by a king, and that that king was holding high carnival up in Westchester County.
“Young man,” he said, impressively, a wild gleam in his restless eyes, “I don’t know who you are, but I’d trust you with my life. Listen!” He leaned forward across the table and placed a clammy hand on Benedict’s arm. “Listen! I’ve been drinking too much: haven’t I? Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your face. I’m drunk, and you show it. That’s queer, isn’t it? But I could tell you something that would make you drunk and me sober. I’ll try it. Bend nearer to me. They don’t know in Rexania where the crown prince is. The king is dying. Damn him! let him die. Look here, boy, I’d kill all kings! Wouldn’t you?”
The intoxicated Rexanian gazed suspiciously at Benedict.
“Of course I would,” answered the reporter, heartily. A conviction had come upon him that the little drunkard had something in his mind that was not altogether an alcoholic hallucination.
“I knew you would,” cried Ludovics, in delight. “You’re not made of dough, like—like—well, never mind their names. But look here, boy, I need your help. There’s a king up in Westchester—do you hear me—who tried to take my life.”
Benedict began to fear that he had been wasting time and money to no purpose on this madcap foreigner, when the latter noting, with drunken slyness, the change of expression on the youth’s face, felt that his pride had been hurt.
“You doubt my word, boy,” he cried, angrily. “I don’t know who you are, or what you mean by trying to find out what I mean. But I’m telling you the truth. We’ve got the Crown Prince of Rexania up in Westchester, and—and——” A look of horror crossed Ludovics’ face as he realized what he had done. He trembled violently, and the tears poured down his cheeks.
“Let me have some more brandy,” he implored, in a weak voice, but before the waiter could get it for him he had fallen forward on to the table and into a deep stupor.
Norman Benedict arose, and, giving the waiter a bill, directed him to see to it that the Rexanian was cared for until the next day, when he would look in upon him. Then he hastily left the restaurant and strode eagerly away. Whether he had received a newspaper “tip” of great value or only the dregs of a drunkard’s mind he was not sure. But there had been something in the words and manner of the brandy-soaked Rexanian that strongly impressed Benedict with the idea that he could not afford wholly to neglect the hint that had been thrown out. The despatch from Rexopolis said that the crown prince had not been seen for weeks. Benedict turned cold at the tremendous possibilities suggested by the thoughts that crowded through his brain.
“I’ll abandon the interviews and run my risk,” he finally decided. “My first step is to find out if there are any Rexanians living in Westchester County. That ought to be easy. I’ll try the office first.”