“Unfortunately, madame, you must know, as I do, that no considerations of friendship or affection would be allowed to stand in the way of Count Mortimer’s plans. It is possible that he fears your husband’s return to Thracia may undermine his own influence here, and that would be quite sufficient to cause him to arrest him.”
“I can’t believe it,” Nadia repeated helplessly; but unfortunately her memory tallied only too well with that of the Princess. If Cyril had any scheme in view, it was not likely that he would allow Caerleon to interfere with its success.
“In any case,” went on the Princess, “you were taking the right course when you came to the Queen. She is the only person who would have both the authority and the courage to demand an explanation from Count Mortimer—with the exception of Drakovics, of course. We will go up-stairs and see her now. Come, my Lida,” and she held out her hand to her little girl, who had been clinging to her dress.
“Oh, mayn’t I take her?” entreated Philippa. “Usk and I will hold her hands all the way up-stairs, and we will be so careful. She shan’t fall, really and truly. Come, baby darling.”
“Her name is Ludmilla,” said the Princess, laughing; “Lida is her pet name.”
“I know; just as I’m called Phil,” assented Philippa, with a beaming smile, as she and Usk, with little Princess Ludmilla between them, began to mount the stairs after their mother and the Princess. Just as they reached the top, Nadia paused suddenly.
“Madame,” she said, “I cannot believe that Count Mortimer is responsible for his brother’s arrest. I entreat your Royal Highness not to prejudice his position with her Majesty by suggesting it.”
“If the Queen did not order the arrest, Count Mortimer must have done so,” returned the Princess inexorably. “We shall see.”
Absurd though the idea appeared to Nadia, it was nevertheless the case that the Princess was much nearer the truth in accusing Cyril than his sister-in-law in defending him, and no one would have acknowledged the acuteness of his fair opponent more readily than Cyril himself. At the moment that the conversation was taking place in the hall of the Villa, he was crossing the railway platform at Velisi, on his way to the police-station, to which Caerleon had been hurried. He found the occupants a good deal disturbed in their minds, and it needed all his commendations for their prompt obedience to his orders to reassure them. Oh yes, the English traveller had been arrested, and was now detained in the parlour of the superintendent’s house, which they had thought it advisable to place at his disposal, since it was evident he must be a great man in his own country. He had been angry, very angry, at his arrest, and had threatened his assailants with unheard-of penalties—the nature of which they understood only very imperfectly, however, since Caerleon had almost lost the small knowledge of Thracian of which he had once been possessed. Did his Excellency really intend to grant this very violent person an interview? Surely he would at least allow two of the police to be present, with drawn swords, so as to be able to repel any attempt at attack? But Cyril refused the offered protection, and entered the parlour boldly. He found Caerleon pacing up and down, still in his travelling ulster, and looking absurdly large and substantial for the little room. He turned when Cyril entered, and faced him in blank astonishment, which changed quickly to anger as the memory of his wrongs returned upon him.
“Well, Cyril, this is a pretty state of things!” he cried. “May I ask what it means? I am taken into custody in a public place, and when I ask why, they tell me it is by your order.”