“Altogether a very striking picture,” he remarked, with a wave of his hand around the room; “the candles—the masks—the swords—the guns—the attitudes;—it is a pity, Cousin Armand, you cannot see it as I do.”
“He thinks I am the Archduke,” Moore whispered to the Regent; “let him think it.”
“Your coming to-night was a surprise,” the Duke was saying, “I admit it—I had not expected you before to-morrow at the earliest—my compliments on your expeditiousness.” He drew out a cigarette and lighted it at one of the candles—then flung the box over on the desk; “help yourselves, messieurs, la dernière cigarette,” he laughed with sneering malevolence.
“Keep perfectly still,” Moore cautioned, very low. “If it come to the worst, I’ll try to kill him first.”
“Did you address me, cousin?” Lotzen asked; “a little louder, please—and keep your hand outside your coat; the first of you who tries for his revolver will precipitate a massacre—even poor marksmen can’t well miss at such a distance, and on the whole, these fellows are rather skilful.” He smoked a bit in silence, tapping the splintered glass on the floor with the point of his sword. “Behold, cousin, my preservers—a decanter and some slender Venetian goblets; queer things, surely, to decide the fate of a Kingdom. But for their fall, you would have won. Now——” he glanced significantly toward the ready rifles. “Yet, on the whole, I wish you had waited until another night—it could have been done elsewhere so much more neatly—before you got here—or saw that, the package in the black cloth. You came upon me so suddenly, I had time only to take you—and now that I have you, frankly, cousin, I’m at a loss how to dispose of you—and your good friends.... Come, I’ll be generous; choose your own way, make it as easy as you like—only, make it.”
A slight stir caused him to turn. Madeline Spencer, in a shimmering white negligée, was standing in the doorway.
“Ah, my dear, come here,” he said; “this is altogether the best point of view for the picture: ‘The End of the Game’ is its title—is it not, cousin?”
In this woman’s life there had been many scenes, strange, bizarre, fantastic, yet never one so fiercely fateful as was this. And for once she was frightened—the flickering candelabra held aloft—the leveled guns—the masked group around the desk—the lone man leaning nonchalantly on a chair, smiling, idly indifferent, as much the master of it all as a painter, brush poised before his canvas, able to smear it out at a single stroke.
He held out his hand to her. She shook her head, meaning to go away; yet lingering, fascinated and intense. Armand Dalberg was yonder—on the brink of the grave, she knew. Once she had loved him—still loved him, may be—but assuredly not as she loved herself, and the power of wealth and place. Nor could she save him even if she try; so much she knew beyond a question, so, why try.
The Duke faced his prisoners.