The colloquy was evidently over, and Cyril, as he fell back to the rest of the suite, leaving the royal amateur to discuss with his secretary the merits of the view, and to make a few mysterious dots in his sketch-book, which were to be worked up afterwards into a finished picture by an artist who was attached to his household, was at no loss to understand its drift.
“They want me to get rid of Drakovics for them,” he said to himself. “They think that Thracia is not big enough for us both, but that they may make use of one of us to destroy the other. Of course what they would like best would be for us to wipe one another out—à la Kilkenny cats—but I prefer the method of the survival of the fittest. Well, as his artistic Highness would say, these things are on the knees of the gods.”
Little as Cyril appreciated the part allotted to him in the European concert, the Prince of Weldart was so well satisfied with the results of his essay in diplomacy that he could not resist alluding to them in the course of the next visit that he paid, which was to the Court of his niece, the Princess of Dardania, at Bashi Konak.
“I do not remember whether you know anything of the Englishman Mortimer,” he said to the Princess, forgetting the early episode of her engagement to Cyril’s brother. “I had a good deal of conversation with him at Bellaviste, and I must say that I am glad Ernestine has him at hand.”
“Indeed?” asked his niece listlessly. “You think that he is to be depended upon?”
“I should say so, certainly. Knows nothing of art, of course—like all Englishmen—but faithful in a rude kind of way, because he has not cunning enough to be otherwise. I think I never saw a man so dense in the way of understanding any allusion that was in the slightest degree veiled.”
“And you went out of your way to explain to him all your allusions, uncle? How truly kind of you! I don’t wonder that Count Mortimer showed you his best side. And you think him rudely faithful, do you?”
“I do.” The Prince was irritated by her questioning tone. “He has so proper a sense of his position that even when we trenched upon somewhat delicate ground he showed no self-consciousness whatever. Well, there is no harm in my telling you what it was. Drakovics had got it into his head—at least, so I gathered, for he would deal in nothing but vague hints—that Ernestine wanted to marry this man Mortimer. Of course the very idea was preposterous, and I let Drakovics see what I thought of it; but to make sure, I determined to watch them both, and I soon saw that there was nothing in it.”
“That was very satisfactory, I am sure.”
“Most satisfactory. I watched Mortimer when he was in Ernestine’s presence, spoke to him of her when we were alone together—even, as I said, hinted at the rumours that had reached me—but he never so much as changed colour. Not a muscle moved, his eyes met mine without the slightest confusion. He is an honest man.”