He caressed her hair with tender hand. “You shall go. We will leave at once—to-day. But there’s much to be seen to—packing, tickets, passports, returning these presents.”
He looked at Drexel, and his face became grim, but not so grim as it had been a half-hour back. “Henry, it’s still going to be war all right,” said he. “But under the circumstances, till we get out of this country, what do you say to a truce?”
“With all my heart!” said Drexel.
The hours that followed were feverishly busy ones. Drexel furtively studied Alice. She could but be appalled by the revelations concerning the prince and by his death, but in her manner was none of that excruciating grief and horror that a loving heart would feel over such a double loss of a loved one. It was plain, what he had all along suspected, that she had never loved Berloff, but that her pretty young head had merely been turned by his title. Drexel knew who had most of her heart, and it needed no superhuman prescience to see her a year hence, her wounds healed, her head a little wiser, yielding a blushing “yes” to her old Chicago lover, Jack Hammond.
But all this while Drexel’s first thoughts were all of Sonya. Twelve o’clock came—one—two—three—and not a word of news. Did this silence mean that she had escaped, but could not without great risk send him word of her security? Or did the silence mean that she had been secretly rearrested and was being secretly held in some voiceless dungeon?
Every minute repeated these hopes and fears. He acquiesced in the plan for the general hegira of that night, let his passport be countersigned, his baggage be packed, his ticket be bought, for he well knew the masked advice of General Valenko was good advice. Yet even as he suffered these preparations, he knew he would not, could not, leave St. Petersburg till he had word with Sonya, or knew her fate.
At a little after three Sabatoff called. But he had not heard a word; and he soon left, to be ready for a message should one come, with the promise to return at six.
The early darkness closed down upon the city. Another hour dragged on. Drexel could stand the suspense no longer, so, despite the risk, he slipped down into the tea-room and again set his ears wide open. They were still discussing the daring of the unknown Captain Laroque, the escape, the three tragic deaths. But no word about the prisoners. He returned above and wore away another awful hour, and yet another. Then Sabatoff came again—still with nothing.
Sabatoff had barely gone when a note was handed Drexel. It read:
“I am requested to inform you that the condition of Princess Valenko has shown rapid and great improvement. Her doctor has given her permission to receive a few friends, and in case you are at liberty she will be glad to see you.