“No, I don’t—you overlook the fact that no one has ever seen that decree, and that Lotzen is entitled to assume it was not executed—that the whole story is fabricated, and that you have made away with the Book in order to throw the election into the House of Nobles; and so to have a chance for the Crown, when, in reality, you are entitled to none.”
“Lotzen understands perfectly that Dehra told the truth,” said Armand; “and that I’ve not got the Book—for my part, I’m almost ready to accept her notion that he has it.”
Courtney leaned back in his chair, and studied the smoke rings he sent whirling upwards.
“I can’t agree with you,” he said; “indeed, since his visit to the library, I’m more convinced than ever that he hasn’t the Book. He pretends to have it, so as to mislead you in your search.”
“More likely, in your view of him,” said Armand, “it is to decoy me into a trap where he can make an end of me.”
“I believe you’ve guessed it,” said Courtney, after a moment’s thought; “and what is more, it’s the key to Lotzen’s plan of campaign, and it proves conclusively his murderous purpose. I’d be very shy of information that points Book-ward, unless you know the informant; above everything, don’t be fooled by the device of a rendezvous, or a tattling servant.”
“True enough; and yet I must not let slip any chance that might lead to the recovery of the Book; my equivocal position demands that it be found, both to vindicate Dehra’s story and to justify my own claim to the Succession. Indeed, to my mind, I have no chance whatever unless Frederick’s decree is produced. However, Lotzen won’t use such hoary artifices; he will have some simple little plot that will enmesh me by its very innocence. As a schemer against him I’m not even an ‘also ran.’”
“And, therefore, my dear Armand,” said Courtney quickly, “you must be prepared to cut the meshes when they close; an escort—a sword—a pistol—a steel vest—there’s where you get your chance at him. Between the schemer and the ready fighter, I’ll gamble on the fighter every time.... It’s a pity you’ve lost Moore—you and he would make a famous pair. Bernheim is a good sort, but Moore is worth twenty of him in this business.”
The Archduke’s eyes brightened—the Irishman and he together could make a merry fight—an altogether worth-while sort of fight—a fight that the Great Henry himself, in his younger days, would have sought with eager blade and joyful heart—a quick, sharp fight that gave the enemy no rest nor quarter—a thrust—a fall—a careless laugh—a dripping point wiped on a handkerchief. He saw it all, and his fingers tingled and his eyes went brighter still.
And across the table Courtney blew ring upon ring of smoke, and watched him curiously, until the intent look waned and passed.