CHAPTER IV
THE PRISONER OF THE WHITE ONE
AS Drexel realized that she was gone, a pang of dizzy agony shot him through. What his uncle had said about his liking for Alice was perfectly true; it had been but a boy-and-girl affair at its best, never warmed by the least fervour; and it had been weakly, sentimentally cherished by him only because no true love had ever come to show him what thin moonshine stuff it was. But this was different—a thousand times different! The danger he had stood in, mortal danger perhaps, had been nothing to him in his anticipation of days of companionship with her. That he had seen her for the first time but three hours before, that she was an unknown personage to him, that she was hunted by the police, that the report said she had tried to shoot his cousin-to-be, Prince Berloff—these things counted also as nothing.
Shrewd, cool-headed, imperturbable, with such an eye for the main chance as insured his getting it—thus was Drexel already widely known in Chicago. His uncle had more than once remarked to him in his blunt fashion, “Henry, you’ll never let your heart boss your brain cells!”
And yet this was exactly what his heart was doing. He was wildly, recklessly in love!
From the first he realised she must have gone wholly of her own accord—slipped out by the second staircase—and slipped out, to face alone what dangers? And why had she gone? This puzzled him for several moments, for she had seemed glad of the refuge offered by the plan of travelling as his wife. Then suddenly he bethought him of the instant-long change in her manner when he had told her his name, and the truth flashed home. She was afraid of Henry Drexel, and her sending him down to inquire about the train was but a ruse to give her a chance to escape him.
Why she should hold him in equal fear with the police and throw away the aid he was so eager to give, was a mystery his excited mind did not even try to solve. It was plain she did not want to see him, yet his sudden, overmastering love, made reckless by his loss of her, roused in him one resistless impulse—to try to find her again. What he should do when she was found he did not pause to consider.
Putting on his big overcoat and fur cap, and assuming his best air of composure, he sallied forth into the hall and descended the minor stairway that led to the side entrance. That he knows he is on a wild-goose chase, is no check to the search of a frantic man. Every bit of sense told Drexel he would not find her he sought, yet he cautiously glanced into such side-street shops as were still open; he scrutinised each woman who hurried through the bitter cold on foot and the robe-buried occupants of the tiny whizzing sleighs; he watched each prowling group of gendarmes to see if they held her in their midst; he peered in at the doors of cafes—into poor ones where only tea was drunk—into rich ones, dazzlingly bright, where jewelled gowns and brilliant uniforms were feasting on Europe’s richest foods and wines. But it was as his sense had foretold. No sight of her was anywhere.
Toward midnight the thought came to him that it was barely possible she had left the hotel for but a moment, and that she had returned and was perhaps in distress because of his desertion. He turned back toward the Metropole. But as he drew near it, his steps slowed. He remembered the dinner he had ordered, the police official he had sent for; both had doubtless arrived long since and found him gone. The danger ahead cleared his mind, and, going hesitatingly forward, he was pondering whether he should risk himself anew on so slight a chance of giving aid, when the matter was decided in a wholly unexpected manner.
As he was passing a street lamp, a young fellow with a few papers under his arm stepped before him. “Buy a paper, Your Excellency,” he snuffled, shooting a keen upward glance at Drexel.
“Don’t want any,” Drexel curtly returned, and pushed by him.