“But the railway is not yet open all the way.”
“No; but it is sufficiently near completion to allow of the passing of ballast-trains. Milénovics was telling me so only yesterday. My man and I must find accommodation on the engine of one of those trains, and my things can be sent on to me from Bellaviste.”
The Premier’s eyes glistened, but he restrained himself. “You are the man for the present state of affairs,” he said; “for you know better than any of us how to spoil the success of a woman’s tricks. Mind, I rely upon you wholly as regards Tatarjé. I must get on as best I can at the capital; but the safety of the King, and therefore of Thracia, rests on your discretion. I may run down occasionally, of course; but you will be obliged to act on your own judgment if any difficulty arises. You can trust me to support you.”
A little further conversation on various important points followed, and the two Ministers separated to seek their respective trains. The first part of Cyril’s journey passed without discomfort, as the line had been in use some time; but when the section still in process of construction was reached, matters were very different. When the passengers were all obliged to quit the train, which went no farther, the disclosure of Cyril’s identity secured permission for himself and Dietrich to travel in the cab of the engine attached to a line of ballast-trucks which were just about to start; but so rough did the way in front appear that at first even the stolid German hesitated to follow his master. But there was no time for delay, and in response to Cyril’s “Be quick, Dietrich; either come or stay behind!” the valet shut his eyes, metaphorically speaking, and took the plunge. The journey was like a peculiarly realistic nightmare, owing to the swaying and jolting and clanking and leaping of the train, which varied matters occasionally by running off the rails and regaining them in some miraculous manner. It was an experience no one would wish to repeat; but as Cyril stood at eight o’clock that evening, bruised, dusty, and exhausted, on the platform of the country station at which the farther end of the new line joined that running to Tatarjé, he rejoiced. Three hours’ journey would bring him to his goal, and deprive the Queen of her anticipated triumph over her Ministers. His calculations were not mistaken. By midnight he had reached Tatarjé, only an hour or so later than the Court, and selected his quarters in the Villa, giving strict orders that the Queen was not to be informed of his arrival. In the distracted state of affairs consequent on Herr Batzen’s mission of preparation, the order was easy of fulfilment, and Cyril took a good night’s rest, and bided his time.
His time was not long in coming. In the morning the Queen and Baroness von Hilfenstein found themselves beset by a throng of tearful ladies and loudly complaining maids, who all expatiated upon the discomforts of the night, and the absolute lack of furniture and even food which prevailed in all parts of the house. Finding the Queen quite at a loss, the Baroness made the practical suggestion that Count Mortimer should be summoned, and matters given into his hands.
“Count Mortimer!” cried the Queen in astonishment. “But he is at Praka, or at any rate no nearer than Bellaviste.”
“Pardon me, madame; but I am almost certain I caught a glimpse of him coming to the Villa this morning.”
The Queen turned in bewilderment to the other ladies, one of whom hastened to assure her that she had found Count Mortimer established in an office on the ground-floor, and had complained to him of the state of affairs, when he had replied that he would do his best to remedy it as soon as he had the Queen’s authority. It was evident that the only thing to do was to send for him, and this the Queen did.
“When did you arrive, Count?” she asked, when he appeared.
“Last night, madame,” with a look of surprise.