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The Island Mystery

by George A. Birmingham · English · Gutenberg #29644 · 412,650 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Island Mystery

Author: George A. Birmingham


        
Release date: August 9, 2009 [eBook #29644]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ISLAND MYSTERY ***




Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









 THE
 ISLAND MYSTERY

 BY

 G. A. BIRMINGHAM

 _Author of "Gossamer," "General John Regan,"
 "Spanish Gold," etc._

 NEW YORK
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY




 _Copyright, 1918,
 By George H. Doran Company_

 _Copyright, 1918,
 By The Frank A. Munsey Company_

 _Printed in the United States of America_




BY G. A. BIRMINGHAM

 THE ISLAND MYSTERY
 GOSSAMER
 MINNIE'S BISHOP AND OTHER STORIES
 GENERAL JOHN REGAN
 THE LOST TRIBES
 SPANISH GOLD
 LALAGE'S LOVERS
 THE SEARCH PARTY
 THE SIMPKINS PLOT
 THE MAJOR'S NIECE
 PRISCILLA'S SPIES
 THE RED HAND OF ULSTER
 THE ADVENTURES OF DR. WHITTY
 THE SEETHING POT
 THE BAD TIMES
 HYACINTH
 FROM DUBLIN TO CHICAGO

 NEW YORK
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY




 TO

 THEODOSIA

 WHOSE DISLIKE OF SUBTLE BOOKS
 AND "BRAINY" PEOPLE I SHARE




THE ISLAND MYSTERY




CHAPTER I


In 1914 there were not twenty men in England who had ever heard of the
island of Salissa. Even now--I am writing in the spring of 1917--the
public is very badly informed about the events which gave the island a
certain importance in the history of the war. A couple of months ago I
asked a well-known press-cutting agency to supply me with a complete
collection of all references to Salissa which had appeared in our
newspapers. I received a single short paragraph from a second-rate
society weekly. It ran thus:

"Is it true that our new Minister for Balkan Problems has a curious
story to tell about a certain island in the Mediterranean, and is
there a lady in the case?"

The Minister referred to is, of course, Sir Bartholomew
Bland-Potterton. The island must be Salissa. It is a clear proof, if
proof is required, of the efficiency of our press censorship that this
should be the only reference to the island in any newspaper in the
course of three years. We have blundered a good deal during the war;
but it cannot be said of us that we have allowed our press to supply
the enemy or any one else with information likely to be of value.

Such knowledge as the public now possesses has come to it, not through
newspapers, but by way of gossip. Sir Bartholomew sometimes talks, and
the words of a man in his position are repeated in the smoking-rooms
of clubs, round tea tables and elsewhere. Unfortunately gossip of this
kind is most unreliable. The tendency is to exaggerate the picturesque
parts of the story and to misinterpret motives. It is slanderous, for
instance, to suggest that Sir Bartholomew was in any way attracted by
the lady who bore the title of Queen of Salissa. He never spoke to her
or even saw her. His interest in the Salissa affair was that of a
patriotic statesman. He told me this himself, yesterday after dinner.

It was Sir Bartholomew who drew my attention to the exhaustive
monograph on the Island of Salissa written by Professor Homer Geldes,
of Pearmount University, Pa., U.S.A. The book was published ten years
ago, but has never been widely read. I am indebted to the professor
for the following information.

Salissa is derived by Professor Geldes from a Greek word Psalis, which
means an arched viaduct. It is a doubtful piece of etymology, but if
it were reliable the name seems appropriate enough. The island,
according to the maps published in the book, appears to be a kind of
roof supported by the walls of caverns. It is possible that the
professor has exaggerated this peculiarity. He was naturally anxious
to make good his derivation of the name. But there are certainly many
caves under the fields and vineyards of Salissa. There is one
excellent natural harbour, a bay, about a mile wide, in the south
coast of the island. It is protected from heavy seas by a reef of
rock, a natural breakwater, which stretches across and almost blocks
the entrance of the bay.

In the chapter on Ethnography I find that the people are of a mixed
race. A Salissan, I gather, might boast with equal truth of being a
Greek, a Turk, a Slav, or an Italian. His skull is dolichocephalic.
His facial angle--but it is better for any one interested in these
points to read Professor Geldes' book for himself. No regular census
has ever been made on the island; but in 1907 there were forty-three
inhabitants. The number has probably increased since then.

The principal industries are set down, rather grandiloquently, as
agriculture and fishing. A small quantity of poor wine is made by the
inhabitants for their own use. The religion of these islanders, like
their race, is mixed. It seems to consist of some vague pagan beliefs
and the observance of a few Christian ceremonies. The people are
not in any way bigoted. Their priesthood--if it can be called a
priesthood--is patriarchal. There are no taxes, no police, no courts
of justice, no regular laws, indeed no government, though the island
is, or was, part of the Kingdom of Megalia.

My friend Gorman, who spent some time there, says that Salissa was a
delightful place to live on until the Great Powers discovered its
existence. But I do not quote Gorman as a reliable authority on a
question of this kind. He is an Irishman, Member of Parliament for
Upper Offaly, and therefore naturally at home on an island with no
government. There are people who prefer to live under settled
conditions, who like paying taxes, who appreciate policemen. It is not
likely that they would have been happy on Salissa three years ago.
They would certainly not like to live there now.

It is scarcely necessary to add--any one who possesses an atlas can
find this out for himself--that Salissa lies 47 miles (nautical)
south-east of the nearest point of the Megalian coast, and thus
occupies a position of supreme strategic importance. Sir Bartholomew
kindly allows me to quote him on this subject. I took down the words
he used and read them over to him afterwards.

"The Power," he said, "which controls the Near East controls the
world. The Power which dominates the Cyrenian Sea holds the Near East
in its grasp. The Island of Salissa is the keystone of the Cyrenian
Sea. The German dream of world power depends, at the last analysis, on
the use of the Island of Salissa as a submarine base."

This reads like a quotation from a political speech. It is nothing of
the sort. Sir Bartholomew always talks in that way. He made this
statement to me yesterday evening after dinner, when I told him that I
had undertaken to write the story of recent events in the island. The
pronouncement, coming from a man like Sir Bartholomew, admittedly the
greatest living authority on all Near Eastern questions, justifies the
writing of this book.

Whether I am the man to attempt the work is another question. Gorman,
Michael Gorman, M.P., would no doubt do it better. Though he has no
financial interests in the island, he was mixed up in its affairs and
knows a great deal about them. But Gorman will not do it. He says,
perhaps truly, that there is no money in histories of recent events.
William Peter Donovan paid heavily for his knowledge of Salissa and is
certainly entitled to such credit as may be won by writing a history
of the recent troubles. But Donovan has devoted his later years to the
cult of indolence, and he suffers from disordered action of the heart.
Miss Daisy Donovan--I prefer to use her original name--might have
given us a picturesque account of the events in which she played the
leading part. But she is now very fully occupied with more personal
affairs. Lieutenant-Commander Phillips, R.N.R., is barred by
professional regulations from writing the story, and in any case he
had no direct knowledge of the beginning of it. King Konrad Karl II of
Megalia knows most of the facts, but it is doubtful whether the
British public would tolerate a book from the pen of a man who is
legally an alien enemy.

I have, at all events, leisure to devote to the work, and I have heard
the story from the lips of those chiefly concerned. They have allowed
me to question them on various points, and placed all, or almost all,
they knew at my disposal.




CHAPTER II


Konrad Karl II began to reign over Megalia in 1908. He obtained the
throne through the good offices of his uncle, who wanted to get rid of
him. Konrad Karl, at that time prince, was the hero of several
first-rate scandals, and had the reputation of being the most
irrepressible blackguard of royal blood in all Europe. He was a
perpetual source of trouble in the Imperial Court. Gorman says that
the Emperor pushed him on to the vacant throne in the hopes that the
Megalians would assassinate him. They generally did assassinate their
kings, and would no doubt have cut the throat of Konrad Karl II if he
had not left the country hurriedly after reigning two years.

As king in exile Konrad Karl made a tour of the central European
courts, staying as long as he could in each. He was never allowed to
stay very long because of Madame Corinne Ypsilante. This lady had
shared with him the palace, but not the throne, of Megalia. She
accompanied him in his flight and subsequent wanderings. In these
democratic days Grand Dukes, Kings, and even Emperors, must have some
regard for appearances if they wish to keep their positions. It is
painfully necessary to avoid open and flagrant scandal. Madame
Corinne was a lady who showed wherever she was. It was impossible to
conceal her. Konrad Karl did not even try.

Some time in 1912 or 1913 he arrived, still accompanied by Madame,
in London. His reputation, and hers, had preceded him. English
society did not receive him warmly. He occupied a suite of rooms at
Beaufort's, the expensive and luxurious hotel which is the London home
of foreign royalties and American millionaires. Kings, I suppose, can
hold out longer than ordinary men without paying their bills. Konrad
Karl was in low water financially. His private fortune was small.
Madame Corinne had no money of her own, though she had jewels. Perhaps
Mr. Beaufort--if the proprietor of the hotel is indeed a Mr.
Beaufort--makes enough money out of the millionaires to enable him to
entertain impecunious kings.

My friend Gorman made the acquaintance of Konrad Karl early in 1913.
Gorman is a man who lives comfortably, very much more comfortably than
he could if he had no resources except the beggarly £400 a year which
his country pays him as a reward for his popularity with the people of
Upper Offaly. He makes money in various ways. His journalistic work
brings him in a few hundreds a year. Enterprises of a commercial or
financial kind add very considerably to his income. In 1913 he was
interested in the Near Eastern Winegrowers' Association, a limited
liability company which aimed at making money by persuading the
British public to drink Greek wine. He heard of Konrad Karl, and at
once invited that monarch to become one of the directors of the
company. Konrad Karl was not a Greek, and his country did not produce
wine which any one except a Megalian could drink. His value to Gorman
lay in the fact that there was not another limited liability company
in all England which had a King on its Board of Directors.

One of the least objectionable of the wines which Gorman's company
sold was put on the market as Vino Regalis. The advertisements hinted
without actually stating that the King had succeeded in carrying off a
thousand dozen bottles of this wine out of the royal cellars when he
fled from his subjects in Megalia. The bottles in which Vino Regalis
was sold had yards of gold foil wrapped round their necks. They were
in their way quite as splendid and obtrusive as Madame Corinne was in
hers. I always think that Gorman must have had the lady before his
eyes when he arranged the get-up of that wine.

The company prospered for a while, until the public became aware of
the quality of the wine sold. Then came a collapse. But Gorman did
pretty well out of it. The King also did pretty well. He drew fees as
a director, a special honorarium in recognition of the value of his
title, and his share of the profits. The profits were large, but he
spent all he got as he received it. Madame Corinne is an expensive
lady, and the King was just as badly off after the collapse of the
company as he had been before he became a director. He consulted
Gorman about his future. This was a very wise thing to do. Gorman
probably knows more ways of making money than any man in London.

The consultation--the true starting point of the story of the Island
of Salissa--took place in one of the King's rooms in Beaufort's.
Madame Corinne was not there. She had, I think, gone to the opera.
Gorman and the King dined well, as men do who can command the services
of the chef at Beaufort's. The wine they drank was not Vino Regalis.
After dinner they sat in front of a fire. Brandy and coffee were on a
small table set between their chairs. They smoked large and excellent
cigars.

"My friend," said the King, "I find myself in a tight place. I am, as
the English say, broke like a stone."

The King prided himself on his mastery of that esoteric English by
which the members of various sets, smart, sporting and other, conceal
the meaning of what they say from outsiders, especially from
foreigners who have acquired their knowledge of our language by
painful study of dictionaries and grammars.

"Since the wine company went on the burst," said the King, "I have not
a stiver, not a red cent, not in all my pockets the price of one
damned drink."

"If I might venture to advise you, sir," said Gorman.

"Advise? Certainly advise. But drop or, as you say in England, knock
up calling me 'sir.' I am no longer a king. I resign. I abdicate. I
chuck up the sponge of royalty. What the hell, my dear Gorman, is the
good of being a king when there are no shekels?"

"I shouldn't do that if I were you," said Gorman. "After all, royalty
is an asset. A title like that--kings aren't at all common, you
know--is worth money in the market."

The King drank a glass of brandy with an air of great dejection.

"In what market? Who will buy?"

"Well," said Gorman, "I suppose you might marry. There must be lots of
wealthy girls who would like to be called queen."

The King leaned forward and smacked Gorman heartily on the knee.

"You have hit the business end of the nail," he said. "I am ready. I
shall marry. Produce the lady, or, as you say in England, cough her
up."

Gorman had not expected this prompt and enthusiastic approval of his
suggestion. He had not a list of heiresses in his pocket.

"But," he said, "there's Madame Ypsilante."

"Corinne is reasonable," said the King. "I should not, of course, show
my cold shoulder to Corinne. She would share the loot. She and I
together."

Gorman knew that the King was a blackguard entirely without principle
or honour; but this proposal startled him.

"I have it," said the King. "Something has happened--no, occurred to
me. There is in this hotel at this moment an American, an oof-bird, a
king of dollars."

"Donovan?"

Gorman knew Donovan pretty well; as indeed he knew all wealthy
Irish-Americans. It was Gorman's business to cross the Atlantic from
time to time to get money for the support of the Irish Party. Donovan
had been for many years a generous subscriber to these funds.

"There is a daughter," said the King. "I have not put eyes on her. She
may be--but it does not matter what she is, not a curse, not a damn
from the Continent. I shall still have Corinne. The American oof-girl
may have the eyes of a pig. I do not care."

It is not easy to shock Gorman. Indeed, I should have said beforehand
that it was impossible to shock him. But I have his assurance that
Konrad Karl did it. It is true that Gorman himself had suggested
marriage to the King as a way out of his difficulties. But marriage
with an unnamed and unknown heiress is one thing. The King's plan,
frankly worked out, for insulting and robbing a girl whom Gorman knew
personally was quite a different matter. Miss Daisy Donovan is a
bright-faced, clear-eyed, romantic-souled girl. She had finished her
course of study in one of the universities of the Middle-west without
becoming a cultivated prig. In spite of the fact that history,
economics, emasculated philosophy and a kind of intellectual
complexion cream called literature had been smeared all over her by
earnest professors, she had never learned to take herself, life or
society at all seriously. She had all the vitality which gives
American women their singular charm and none of the appalling
earnestness of high endeavour which sometimes leads even very charming
women into repulsive kinds of foolishness. The thought of a marriage
between Miss Daisy and King Konrad Karl--with Madame Ypsilante in the
near background--affected Gorman with a feeling of physical nausea.

The King possessed a certain capacity for sympathy. He guessed
something of what was in Gorman's mind.

"After all," he said, "she would be a queen. It is something. You have
said so yourself, my friend. You cannot have an omelette without the
sacrifice of an egg. But I see--I see very plainly that you do not
wish me to marry the Donovan oof-girl. You will not back me up. Good.
I back down. I bear no malice. I wish you success. I shall eat cake at
your wedding without envy. To you the American with pigs' eyes--yes, I
am sure she has pigs' eyes. To me Corinne. To which of us happiness?
eh, my friend?"

Gorman felt that it would be perfectly impossible to convince the King
that he had no wish to marry Miss Daisy or her fortune.

"All right," he said. "Leave it at that if you like."

"I have left it," said the King, "at that, precisely at that, though I
do not like it at all."

"And now," said Gorman, "let's get back to your own affairs. You say
that you're in a tightish place just for the moment."

"I am in a hell hole," said the King.

"Why not go back to the Emperor? He must do something for you. After
all, he's your uncle. He can't let you go under altogether. Of course
you'll have to eat humble pie, do the repentant prodigal and all that
sort of thing."

"I should with gladness eat any pie--even pie made of the fatted calf
of the prodigal; but--there is Corinne. The Emperor regards Corinne
very much, my dear Gorman, as you regard me. I do not complain. You
and the Emperor are no doubt right. You hit your nails on the head,
both of you, when you say of Corinne and me--they are blackguards. But
I prefer Corinne and no veal pie to veal pie and no Corinne. Yes, my
friend, I choose Corinne every time."

I have met King Konrad Karl once or twice, and I have, of course,
heard a good deal about him. He is, unquestionably, a scoundrel. But I
agree with Gorman that he is a frank and therefore an attractive
scoundrel. Besides, his fidelity to Corinne is a redeeming feature,
perhaps the only redeeming feature of his character.

Gorman is, if not a blackguard, at all events an adventurer, and
therefore kin to the King. He saw the impossibility of leading Corinne
to the foot of the imperial throne; and he felt that, after all, the
King was right from his own point of view. Corinne was more desirable
than many fatted calves. He cast about for some other way out of the
difficult position.

"We might," he said, "make something out of Megalia."

"Nothing," said the King. "I have been in Megalia and I know it. It is
a one-dog country. There is nothing in it. I have tried it, and I
know."

"We might start a Megalian Development Company," said Gorman.

"A company, perhaps," said the King, "but development of Megalia,
never."

"I was not thinking of actually developing it. That would be the
company's business afterwards. Not that it will be easy to start the
company. It won't. Nobody knows anything about the damned place."

"That is our best chance," said the King. "If any one did know
Megalia, the company would be--what is it you say--a scrub down--no--a
wash-up--ah, I have it--a wash-out."

"You'd grant concessions, I suppose," said Gorman.

"I do not know exactly what a concession means," said the King, "but
if any one will pay for it I will give them permission to make the
people of Megalia into sausages and kidneys. Believe me, my friend,
that is the only development of which the Megalians are capable. They
are pigs--Gadarene pigs."

"We won't suggest that in the prospectus," said Gorman. "Our company,
if we ever get it started, must be humanitarian, altruistic; I'm not
sure that it ought not to be a little religious--mission of
civilization. That's the note to strike."

"And you expect to make money out of--out of _that_? out of what you
teach in your schools for Sunday?"

"It's just exactly out of that that money is made."

"The English," said the King, "are a great people, very wonderful.
You--even you, my friend, who are not English, but Irish--you will
not let me marry because of Corinne. You wish me to eat humble pie
while poor Corinne goes hungry, and yet you will make money out of
a company for reforming the people of Megalia, making them civilized,
Christian--a thing that is not at all possible--ever, in any way. Tell
me, my friend, could you not start a company to develop, reform,
improve Corinne and me. Believe me, it would be easier to do."




CHAPTER III


Gorman realized that the development of Megalia was not an enterprise
likely to attract the British capitalist. Still all things are
possible in business, the business of company promoting. He set to
work to collect what information he could about the country. The
library of the House of Commons was useless to him. Megalia is the
only country in the world about which no Blue Book ever has been
published. A belief existed among certain city men interested in
mining speculation, that there was copper in the mountains of Megalia;
but no one had any exact information on the subject. Longwood, the
Balkan correspondent of the New York Press, was in London at this
time, and Gorman got hold of him. He had little to say about Megalia
except that all the inhabitants are brigands. Steinwitz, managing
director of the Cyrenian Sea Steam Navigation Company, professed to be
interested in Megalia. He was certainly interested in the fact that
Gorman was making inquiries about the country. He said that there were
no harbours or possible ports of call on the Megalian coast.

"Nothing," he said, "can be done with that country. Nothing at all.
There is no trade, no traffic of any kind. And there cannot be. If
there were anything to be done in Megalia, we should have had a
steamer going there. Our ships pass the coast. But they do not call.
Never."

This interview, curiously enough, was the one thing which gave Gorman
any hope. Steinwitz was plainly anxious to discourage inquiries about
Megalia. And Steinwitz had the reputation of being a very astute man.

Gorman tabulated the information he had acquired. He produced, after
some thought, a few notes on Megalia which might be embodied in a
plausible prospectus.

     1. A Megalian Development Company would have a clear field
     and no competition to face. Gorman felt that this was a fair
     deduction from the fact that nobody knew anything definite
     about the country.

     2. The mineral wealth of Megalia is untapped. Nobody had
     ever taken any copper from the mountains and nobody denied
     that it was there. It was therefore fair to say that the
     mineral wealth of the country was untapped.

     3. The inhabitants are energetic and enterprising, a
     vigorous and courageous race. Sluggards and decadents, so
     Gorman felt, do not become brigands.

That was all the material Gorman had to work with. Except the one
fact, which could not be published, that Steinwitz, the director of a
German Shipping Company with its headquarters in London, did not want
public attention turned to Megalia. The floating of a company, even if
the King offered every concession, did not seem to be a hopeful
enterprise.

Gorman did not, in the end, attempt to form that company. A second
dinner at Beaufort's showed him another way of saving the unfortunate
King Konrad Karl from ruin. This time the invitation came from Mr.
Donovan.

The Donovans occupied one of the best suites of rooms in that
sumptuous hotel. The old gentleman had the satisfaction of stretching
himself in beautifully upholstered chairs and dropping cigar ashes on
highly gilt tables. He was suffering, so he believed, from disordered
action of the heart, induced by the toil and excitement of making a
large fortune. Several doctors agreed in recommending complete rest
and quiet. Mr. Donovan was convinced that rest and quiet would be
pleasant as well as beneficial. He left Chicago, where such things are
certainly not to be found, and sought them in London. For a time he
believed he had found them. He sat all day in his room at Beaufort's,
waited on by footmen who wore gold-braided coats, crimson breeches and
silk stockings, looking like very dignified ambassadors. He signed
cheques payable to Miss Daisy. He exerted himself in no other way. But
rest and quiet are hard to come by. Letters pursued him from Chicago.
Thoughtless people even cabled to him. Secretaries of benevolent
societies discovered him. The London agents of American financiers
rang him up on telephones. Finally Miss Daisy, having drunk deep of
the delights of London, became restless.

At first she had enjoyed life thoroughly. She had a marble-fitted
bathroom for her sole use. She slept in a beautiful bed under a
painted ceiling. She tried on dresses for hours every day in front of
huge gilt mirrors. She gathered in immense quantities the peculiar
treasures of Bond Street. Then she began to yearn for something more.
Her father considered her demands, thought of his own disordered heart
and asked Gorman to dinner.

The conversation at first ran along natural lines. The sights of
London were discussed. The plays which Miss Daisy had seen and the
picture galleries she had visited were criticized. Then Gorman was
called on to give opinions about the books she had not found time to
read. London and its attractions were compared with Chicago and
Detroit; Miss Daisy preferred London. Her father said there were
points about Detroit, but that quiet was no more obtainable in one
than the other. Afterwards politics were touched on. Miss Daisy gave
it as her opinion that the Irish Party was rather slow about getting
Home Rule. She displayed a considerable knowledge of affairs, and told
Gorman frankly that he ought to have been able to buy up a substantial
majority of the British House of Commons with the money, many hundred
thousand dollars, which her father and other Americans had subscribed.

Gorman has always been of opinion that women are incapable of
understanding politics. Miss Daisy's direct and simple way of
attacking great problems confirmed him in his belief that Woman
Suffrage would be a profound mistake.

He was relieved when, after dinner, Donovan himself started a new
subject.

"I hear," he said, "that there is a king, a European monarch, resident
in this hotel. That so?"

"King Konrad Karl II of Megalia," said Gorman.

"Friend of yours?"

"Well, yes," said Gorman. "I've had some business connection with
him."

"I'm interested in that monarch," said Donovan. "It was Daisy drew my
attention to him first, and then I made inquiries. He's not considered
a first-class king, I reckon. Doesn't move in the best royal circles.
He could be approached, without diplomatic formalities, by a plain
American citizen."

"There's not the least difficulty about approaching him," said Gorman.
"I don't believe you'd care for him much if you knew him, and----"

Gorman cast about for the best way of saying that King Konrad Karl
would not be a desirable friend for Miss Daisy. Donovan saved him the
trouble of finding a suitable phrase.

"He could be approached," he said, "by a plain American citizen, if
that citizen came with a business proposition in his hand."

Gorman saw what he believed to be an opportunity. Donovan apparently
wanted to do business with the King. Such business must necessarily
be connected with Megalia. A company for the development of that
country could be founded without difficulty if a man of Donovan's
enormous wealth took up a substantial block of shares. Gorman poured
out all the information he had collected about Megalia. Donovan
listened to him in silence. It was Miss Daisy who spoke at last.

"What you say about the enterprising nature of those inhabitants
interests me," she said, "but I am not much taken with the notion of
copper mining. It seems to me that copper mines would be liable to
spoil the natural beauty of the landscape."

Gorman was, for the moment, too much surprised to speak. He had been
in America several times and knew a good many American women. He
realized their independence of character and mental vigour. But he did
not expect that a young girl, fresh from college, enjoying the first
taste of London, would take a leading part in discussing a matter of
business. Before he had made up his mind what line to take with Miss
Daisy, Donovan shot a question at him.

"What size is that monarchy?" he said.

"The actual boundaries are a little uncertain," said Gorman, "but I
think we may say a hundred miles by about thirty."

"Inhabitants? Is it considerably settled?"

"I should guess the population at about 10,000."

Gorman glanced at his daughter. Miss Daisy's eyes gleamed with
pleasurable excitement.

"I'll buy that monarchy," said Donovan, "money down, and I expect the
King and I won't fall out about the price. But if I buy, I buy the
section and all fixings, royal palace, throne, crown and title. I'm
particular about the title."

Miss Daisy jumped from her chair and ran round the table. She flung
her arms round her father's neck and kissed him heartily, first on one
cheek, then on the other.

"You darling!" she said.

Donovan disengaged his head from her embrace and turned to Gorman.

"My little girl has taken a notion," he said, "that she'd like to be a
queen. The thing might be worked by marrying; but we don't either of
us care for that notion. She'd be tied up if she married, and she
might tire. My idea--and hers--is that it's better to buy what we want
right out. I don't say that Megalia is precisely the kingdom I'd have
chosen for her. I'd have preferred a place with a bigger reputation,
one better advertised by historians. But I realize that the European
monarchy market has been cornered by a syndicate, and I can't just
step down and buy what I like. Your leading families, so I understand,
have secured options on the best kingdoms and won't part."

Miss Daisy was still standing with her arms round her father's neck.
She hugged him as she spoke.

"I shall just love Megalia," she said. "I'd far rather have it than
one three times the size."

"Well," said her father, "I guess there's no reason why you shouldn't
have it."

Gorman saw several reasons, excellent ones, why Daisy Donovan could
never be queen of Megalia. He began to explain them. Kingdoms cannot
be bought and sold like horses. There are emperors and other kings to
consider. There is the Balance of Power in Europe. There are
ambassadors, chancelleries, statesmen. He was not at all sure that the
Monroe Doctrine, in an inverted form, might not be an absolute bar to
the purchase of a European kingdom by an American. Donovan brushed the
difficulties aside.

"Those points," he said, "will be considered in settling the price.
I'm aware that Europe has its prejudices. I'm not out to trample on
them. Genuine vested interests owned by other monarchs will be paid
for. Ambassadors and chancellors will be taken on and employed at
their old salaries as part of a going concern."

Gorman is, like the Megalians, enterprising and full of courage. He
did not believe that the sale of the Crown of Megalia could possibly
be carried through; but something might be done which would satisfy
Donovan. An estate, carrying with it a title like that of Grand
Duchess, might be made over to Miss Daisy. All kings possess the power
of conferring titles. If such honours are freely sold in a country
like England, there could be no possible objection to the King of
Megalia taking a reasonable price for creating a Grand Duchess, even,
perhaps, a princess. Donovan's next words made Gorman determine to
try what he could do.

"There'll be a rake-off from the purchase price," said Donovan, "for
the man who arranges the sale. I don't kick against a reasonable
percentage."




CHAPTER IV


It was Gorman's misfortune that all through the Megalia negotiations
he had to deal with women as well as men, indeed sometimes with women
rather than men.

Donovan held it as an article of faith that anything in the world can
be bought for money, if only there is money enough. But Donovan would
not have insisted on justifying his faith by putting it to the test.
No one does that. Not even a church, though firmly convinced of its
own infallibility, will bludgeon the world into an acceptance of its
claim by making decisions about matters which are susceptible of
proof. Donovan would have been quite content to believe that he could
purchase the Crown of Megalia without actually doing so. It was Miss
Daisy, who had no theories about the power of money, who insisted on
becoming a queen.

King Konrad Karl knew perfectly well that he could not sell what
Donovan wanted to buy.

"I would," he said, "sell Megalia with damnable pleasure. Your
friend's daughter might be Queen or Empress or Sultana. You, my dear
Gorman, might be king consort when you married her. But you know and I
know and Corinne knows--alas! we all know--that if I attempted a
_coup d'état_ of that kind the Emperor would at once put in my wheel a
spoke. It is a cursed pity; but what can we do? We must, as you once
said to me, Gorman, be content to leave it at that."

Madame Ypsilante was present when Gorman first suggested the sale of
Megalia. She cut into the conversation with a very pertinent remark.

"The price," she said, "would be enormous."

Madame is a lady of expensive tastes and appreciates the advantage of
possessing money. There was at that time in Goldsturmer's Bond Street
establishment a rope of pearls which she very much wished to possess.
Miss Daisy Donovan had seen it and admired it greatly. This fact
rendered Madame's desire almost overwhelming.

"The price of a kingdom," she said. "Consider."

Her fine eyes opened very wide as she considered the price which
Donovan might be induced to pay for Megalia. The King sighed deeply.

"Alas!" he said. "The Emperor."

"Damn the Emperor," said Madame.

She had every reason to wish evil to the Emperor. His malignant
respect for conventional morality had driven her from the precincts of
his court, had been the prime cause of the misfortunes which had
nearly overwhelmed her and Konrad, and now the Emperor stood between
her and the possession of the most magnificent pearls in Europe. It
was no wonder that she cursed him. Konrad Karl did not rebuke her
disloyalty. He merely shrugged his shoulders, feeling that it was no
use damning the Emperor. That potentate would not moult a feather
though Madame Ypsilante cursed him all day long. Madame herself felt
the uselessness of losing her temper with some one she could not hurt.
She asked the King to give her a glass of brandy. That stimulated her
imagination.

"This American," she said, "is no doubt a fool, and his daughter
imbecile. Do not contradict me. All young girls are imbecile. As for
the father, if he were not a fool would he wish to buy Megalia?
Megalia, my God! The world is full of things desirable to buy; and he
asks for that."

The King nodded. He knew Megalia. The man who wanted to buy it was
certainly a fool. Gorman was forced to admit that Donovan showed less
wisdom than might be expected in wishing to spend money on a kingdom
of that kind.

"Then," said Madame, "the affair is simple. He buys. You sell. He
pays. You take. We skip. I love London--yes, very well. But after all
there are other cities. We skip. The Emperor acts. The American
curses. What is that to us?"

The King shook his head. The plan was simple. Unfortunately the world
is not big enough for the working out of really great conceptions.

"We should be pursued. They would take us by the collar. We should be
compelled to disgorge the swag."

"We should not be so compelled," said Madame. "I should at once buy
pearls and diamonds, and I should conceal them. You, Konrad, would
have nothing to disgorge."

It is certain that the King had a real affection for Madame Corinne.
Gorman called it an infatuation. No doubt he even trusted her. It is
just conceivable that he would have allowed her to wander off by
herself with several hundred thousand pounds worth of jewels while he
argued with the Emperor and Donovan and the U. S. Ambassador. But
Gorman pointed out a fatal defect in the scheme.

"I don't deny," he said, "that there's a soft spot somewhere in
Donovan. But he's not that particular kind of fool. You may take it
from me, Madame, that the price won't be paid till you have delivered
the goods. You won't get more than a few thousands in advance until
Miss Daisy is actually sitting on a throne with a gold crown on her
head."

"There is no crown in Megalia," said the King. "There never was. If
there had been it would not be there now. I should have brought it
with me when I made my scoot."

"Donovan won't bother about that point," said Gorman. "In fact, I
expect he'd buy a new crown in any case. He wouldn't like the idea of
his daughter appearing in anything second-hand. What he wants for her
is the right to wear a crown."

"That," said the King, "is exactly the pinching shoe. That she cannot
have. We are at a dying--no, a dead lock."

"Somehow," said Madame, "we must have the money. If that girl, that
miss, who is more imbecile than all other _jeunes filles_--if she
obtains that rope of pearls from Goldsturmer, those pearls which ought
to be mine, I shall go mad and take poison, very terrible poison, and
die in front of your eyes, Konrad."

With a view to showing how mad she could go if she tried, she threw
her brandy glass on the floor and hacked at it with the heel of her
shoe. The carpets in Beaufort's hotel have the softest and deepest
pile of any carpets in Europe. Madame's first two or three hacks did
no more than snap the stem of the glass. To complete its destruction
she stood up and stamped on it.

Gorman may have feared that she would trample on him next. He told me
that she really was a very alarming sight. Stimulated by terror, his
mind worked quickly.

"Look here," he said to the King, "I've got a suggestion to make. Get
Madame to sit down and keep quiet for a few minutes."

The King had an experience, gathered during six years of intimacy, of
Madame's ways. He knew what to do with her. He got another glass of
brandy and a box of cigarettes. He set them on a table beside a deep
armchair. Madame suffered herself to be led to the chair.

"Now, my friend Gorman," said the King, "if you have a key which will
open the dead lock, make it trot out."

"What Donovan wants," said Gorman, "is a kingdom for his daughter. Not
Megalia in particular, but some kind of right to wear a crown. Any
other kingdom would do as well."

"But there is no other," said the King. "In all the courts of Europe
there is no other king in such a damned hole as I am, no other king
who would sell even if he could."

"I don't know Megalia well," said Gorman, "but there must surely be
some outlying corner of that interesting country--an island, for
instance--which you could make over, sporting, mineral and _royal_
rights, to Donovan; just as England gave Heligoland to the Germans and
somebody or other, probably the Turks, gave Cyprus to the English. The
thing is constantly done."

"But the Emperor," said the King. "Again and always the Emperor. All
roads lead to Rome. All _Real Politik_ brings us in the end back to
the Emperor."

"My idea," said Gorman, "would be, to choose a small island, quite a
small one, so small that the Emperor wouldn't notice it was gone. As a
matter of fact I expect a small island would suit Donovan better than
the whole country. He has a weak heart and has come over to Europe for
rest and quiet. He won't want to be bothered with the politics and
revolutions and complications which will be sure to arise in a large
tract of land like Megalia."

"A revolution," said the King, "arises there regularly. A revolution
is biennial in Megalia."

"In a really small island," said Gorman, "that would not happen. A man
like Donovan would feed the inhabitants until they got too fat for
revolutions. Now the question is, do you own an island of that kind?"

"There is," said the King, "Salissa. There is certainly Salissa. My
predecessor on the throne, my cousin Otto, resided in Salissa
until----. He thought it a safe place to reside because it was
so far from the land. He even built a house there. It is, I am
told, a charming house. Hot and cold. Billiard and No Basement.
Self-contained, Tudor and Bungalow, ten bed, two dressing, offices of
the usual, drainage, commanding views, all that is desirable. But,
alas for poor Otto! Salissa was not safe. He had forgotten that
Megalia has a navy, a navy of one ship only, but that was enough. It
cooked the goose of Otto, that Megalian Navy. The Prime Minister and
the Commander of the Forces and the Admiral arrived at Salissa one day
in the Navy. That was the end of Otto."

"I hope," said Gorman, "that the inhabitants of Salissa aren't a
bloodthirsty lot. I wouldn't like to think of Miss Daisy being
murdered. Besides, there'd be complications. The assassination of
an odd prince doesn't much matter to any one. But an American
millionaire! The sudden death of a man like Donovan would mean a
panic in Wall Street, and there'd have to be a fuss."

"The inhabitants!" said the King. "They would not kill a baby. They
are lambs, ducks, kids, doves. They bleat. They coo."

"The Prime Minister," said Gorman, "the Commander of the Forces and
the Admiral could be squared, I suppose?"

"They would not want to kill her," said the King. "She would not be
their queen."

"Sounds all right," said Gorman, "if you can be sure of selling
the whole thing without reservation of any kind to him. The
royal rights are essential. Remember that. There must be no
'subject-to-the-Crown-of-Megalia' clause in the deed."

"The Emperor need not know," said the King. "Salissa is very small,
and far, very far, from the land. If we keep the transaction
shady--that is to say, dark--the Emperor will not tumble into it."

Madame swallowed her last sip of brandy.

"The price?" she said.

"You cannot," said Gorman, "expect as much for a small island like
that as if you were able to sell the whole kingdom; the revenue can't
be anything much."

"There is no revenue in Megalia either," said the King.

"But Donovan is getting what he wants. His daughter will be a reigning
queen. I daresay we'll be able to screw him up to----"

"The price of that rope of pearls," said Madame, "is ten thousand
pounds."

"Oh," said Gorman, "we'll get that and a bit over."

"At once," said Madame, "cash down. For if we have to wait and wait
for months that imbecile girl will buy the pearls. Do not say no. I
know it. I have a feeling. There is a presentiment. And if she gets
those pearls I shall----"

Gorman did not want her to go mad again.

"Couldn't you see Goldsturmer," he said, "and arrange with him to give
you the refusal of the pearls, say, three months from now?"

"Goldsturmer," said Madame, "is a devil. He will not trust me for one
day, although he knows Konrad well."

Goldsturmer would probably have said that he refused to trust Madame
_because_ he knew Konrad well.

Gorman promised to lay the Salissa proposal before Donovan, and to get
him, if possible, to pay at least ten thousand of the purchase money
in advance.

"But above all," said the King, "let him hold tight to his tongue,
and you, my friend Gorman. This is no affair about which a song
can be made in the market place. If the Emperor were to hear a
whisper--Gorman, you do not know the Emperor. His ears are long. If he
were to hear there would be an end. There would be no sale."

"Donovan," said Gorman, "would probably offer the Emperor five per
cent. of the purchase money if there was any trouble."

"Five per cent.!" said the King. "The Emperor! God in heaven!"

King Konrad Karl probably feared God in heaven very little. But there
is no doubt that he had a nervous dread of the Emperor.




CHAPTER V


Donovan was, I believe, relieved when he heard that he could not buy
the whole kingdom of Megalia. The price would have been enormous, but
he would not have hesitated to pay it if, by paying, he would have got
what he wanted. The more he looked into the business of kingship, the
less he liked it. The idea of Court etiquette worried him. Donovan
disliked dressing for dinner, a form of activity to which he was
unaccustomed. He got it into his head that the father of the reigning
monarch in a state like Megalia might be called on to wear uniforms,
troublesome things with unusual buttons and straps, and change them
two or three times a day. He feared that such a combination of
exertion and worry would still further disorder the action of his
heart. He saw no prospect of quiet indolence among a people which went
in for revolutions as a pastime. Salissa, on the other hand, seemed
almost an ideal spot. There were not likely to be any regular postal
arrangements. There was certainly no cable. Since there were less than
a hundred inhabitants a liberal pension could be given to each.
Pensioners are notoriously peaceful and unobtrusive people.

Miss Daisy was a little disappointed at first; but only at first. Once
she hit on the idea that her kingdom would be the "dinkiest" in
Europe, indeed in the world, she was pleased. The negotiations were
rushed through at a pace which struck even Gorman as indecent. But
everybody concerned was in a hurry. Konrad Karl was afraid that the
Emperor might hear of the sale through the Megalian ambassador in
London. But that gentleman--he was a Count, I think--was under the
influence, probably in the pay of the Emperor, and had been instructed
to ignore King Konrad Karl as much as possible. He heard nothing about
the matter. Madame Ypsilante was in a hurry for obvious reasons. Miss
Daisy Donovan had looked at the pearl necklace two or three times, and
there was a horrible possibility that she might regard it as a
suitable ornament for a queen. Miss Daisy was eager to see her island
kingdom as soon as possible. Donovan himself was finding London less
restful than ever. He wanted to get the Salissa business settled out
of hand.

It was settled early in April. I never heard the exact date of the
signing of the papers, but April the 1st would have been appropriate.
An immense document was drawn up by a solicitor, a cousin of Gorman's
who lived in a small west of Ireland town. Gorman said he gave the job
to this particular man because no London lawyer would have kept the
matter secret. My own impression is that no London solicitor would
have undertaken the job at all. There cannot be any recognized legal
form for the sale of kingdoms. However, Gorman's cousin did his work
excellently. The document looked well. He attached eight enormous
seals to it, and he had several of the most important clauses
translated into Latin. It must have been as good as it looked.
Later on nearly every ambassador in Europe had a look at the
"instrument"--Gorman called it an instrument sometimes, sometimes a
protocol--and they were all baffled. The American ambassador in
Megalia offered Gorman's cousin a post in the U. S. A. diplomatic
service, a high testimonial to his abilities. Miss Daisy and her heirs
became the independent sovereigns of the Island of Salissa. Donovan
promised to pay down the purchase money as soon as he was satisfied
that the island really existed. The most Gorman could screw out of him
in the way of an advance was £5,000.

The evening after the "instrument" was signed, Gorman had a visit from
Goldsturmer, the well-known jeweller. The man, a rather unctuous, but
very suave and polite German Jew, was shown into Gorman's
sitting-room.

"I think," he said, "that you are a friend of his Majesty, King Konrad
Karl of Megalia?"

Gorman was on his guard and determined to give away no information of
any kind. The King's nervous fear of the Emperor's displeasure had
impressed Gorman with the necessity of keeping the sale of Salissa as
secret as possible; but he could hardly avoid admitting that he knew
King Konrad Karl. The affairs of the wine company had occupied some
space in the daily papers, and the names of the directors had been
published. His name and the King's had appeared together very
frequently.

"And perhaps," said Goldsturmer, "you also know Madame Ypsilante?"

"I have seen the lady," said Gorman.

Goldsturmer was not in the least discouraged by Gorman's reticence.

"I cannot," he said, "expect you to answer more frankly unless I am
equally frank with you. I am at this time engaged in a business
transaction of some importance with Madame Ypsilante. The sum of money
involved is very large. It is"--Goldsturmer's tone became
reverent--"£10,000."

"Can she pay?" said Gorman, "not that it's any affair of mine whether
she can or not."

"The lady herself cannot pay; but the King--she tells me that his
Majesty has recently sold an estate situated in Megalia to a wealthy
American. Now if that is true----"

"Perhaps in that case the King might pay," said Gorman.

"I wonder," said Goldsturmer, "if the sale has taken place?"

"Shouldn't think it likely," said Gorman.

Goldsturmer paused. For quite a minute he sat looking at Gorman. Then
he said:

"In a matter of this kind I am prepared to pay for information which
would be of use to me. I shall speak frankly. It would be worth my
while to give one per cent. of the sum involved to any one who could
tell me whether the sale which Madame mentioned to me has really been
effected."

"Ah," said Gorman, "one per cent. on, did you say, £10,000?"

"It would amount to £100."

"I wish I could earn it," said Gorman, "but unfortunately I know
nothing at all about the matter."

Political life, so Gorman has often told me, is the very best
education obtainable in one respect. The politician learns to lie
fluently and without discomfort. Even politicians are not, of course,
always believed, but they know how to lie in a way which makes it very
difficult for any one to give expression to unbelief. Goldsturmer may
actually have believed Gorman. He certainly pretended to. He did not
even offer a two per cent. bonus.

"I must ask you to pardon me," he said, "for occupying your time with
my inquiries. I thank you for the way in which you have received me.
Good-bye."

He bowed his way to the door. Then he turned to Gorman again.

"You will understand, I am sure, that mine was a purely business
inquiry. I am not interested in any of the scandal which unfortunately
is connected with the name of his Majesty, or with that of the
charming lady of whom I spoke. Still less am I concerned with the
state affairs of Megalia. I have no connection with Megalia."

Gorman sat thinking for a while after Goldsturmer left him. The
jeweller's visit and his questions were natural enough. Such inquiries
are made every day. There was nothing surprising in the offer of one
per cent. on the money which was to change hands in return for
information. Gorman was a politician. It was not the first time he had
been offered a commission. He hoped it would not be the last. What
puzzled him was Goldsturmer's final remark. Why should the man have
said he had no interest in the state affairs of Megalia unless indeed
he was interested, was on the track of a suspected secret?

Once more Gorman lamented the fact that women were mixed up in a
business affair.

"Damn Madame Ypsilante," he said.

Then, finding some relief for his feelings in expressing them aloud:

"Damn that woman's tongue."

Gorman was puzzled and therefore anxious. His commission on the sale
of Salissa--his rake-off, as Donovan called it--was large, a sum
which Gorman did not want to lose. He was most anxious that the
transaction should be successfully completed and the money actually
paid. The King's evident nervousness about the Emperor impressed him
unpleasantly. Gorman was not a student of foreign politics. He did not
know precisely what the Emperor's position was. Megalia was nominally
an independent state. Its King could, he supposed, cede a portion of
territory to a foreign power without consulting any other monarch. Yet
the Emperor evidently had to be considered, might put a stop to the
whole business. Konrad Karl had no doubts about that, and he ought to
know.

I am sure that I should be doing Gorman an injustice if I were to
represent him as anxious only about the commission. He had a queer
liking for the unfortunate Konrad Karl. He wanted--as everybody who
knew her did--to gratify Miss Daisy Donovan. And he took a sporting
interest in the sale of Salissa. There was a novelty about the
purchase of the position of reigning monarch which appealed to Gorman,
and there were all sorts of possibilities about the situation and its
future developments.

A week later, just as he was beginning to forget Goldsturmer's visit,
Gorman had fresh cause for anxiety. I remember the day very well. I
was lunching at my club, a club of which Gorman is also a member. As I
entered the room I saw him sitting at a table near the window. I
intended to join him, for Gorman is always good company. When I
reached his table I saw that he already had a companion--Steinwitz,
the director of the Cyrenian Sea Steam Navigation Company. I turned
away at once, for Steinwitz is a man whom I particularly dislike.
Gorman caught sight of me and called:

"Come and sit here. There's plenty of room. The waiter can lay another
place."

"Thanks," I said, "but I've just caught sight of a man at the far end
of the room whom I particularly want to talk to."

"Talk to him later on," said Gorman, "Come and sit here now."

There was something in Gorman's tone which made me think he really
wanted me to sit at his table, that he had a motive in pressing me as
he did. But I was not going to lunch in the company of Steinwitz. I
have nothing definite against the man; but I do not like him. I shook
my head and found a seat at the far end of the room.

Afterwards--months afterwards--Gorman told me that he wanted me very
badly that day, me or some one else. He wanted a third person at his
table. Steinwitz was asking inconvenient questions, talking about
matters Gorman did not want to discuss. The presence of a third person
might have saved Gorman some awkwardness.

Steinwitz was insistent and determined. He laid hold on Gorman before
lunch and clung to him until they sat down together.

"You remember asking me," said Steinwitz--"let me see, it must have
been a couple of months ago--you remember asking me for information
about Megalia."

"Did I?" said Gorman.

"And I told you it was a rotten country--no trade, no harbours, no
tourist traffic, no anything. Well--rather an odd thing happened
yesterday. A man came into my office--by the way, you know him, I
think--Donovan, the American millionaire----"

"Oh, yes, I know him. Owns a pretty daughter, doesn't he?"

"She was with him," said Steinwitz--"a romantic sort of girl, I should
say, by the look of her. Head stuffed full of silly fancies."

Steinwitz' eyes were on Gorman all the time he was speaking. Gorman
says he felt very uncomfortable, but I am sure he did not show it.

"I scarcely know the girl," said Gorman. "What did old Donovan want
with you?"

"Wanted to charter a steamer, captain, crew and all, one of our boats.
Said he was going for a cruise off the coast of Megalia and wanted a
biggish ship and officers who know the Cyrenian Sea thoroughly."

"Odd fancies the Americans have," said Gorman. "However, he can pay
for what he wants. If half what they say about him is true, he could
buy up your whole fleet without missing the money."

"He certainly did not boggle over the figure I named."

"Oh, you let him have the ship then?"

"Certainly. Trade is dull in those parts now. As a matter of fact the
_Ida_ was lying up."

Gorman pretended to yawn by way of showing how very little interest he
took in the matter.

"Hope he'll enjoy the trip," he said. "Doesn't sound an attractive
country by your account."

"Well," said Steinwitz, "there are some interesting things to see.
There's the Island of Salissa, for instance."

Gorman was startled by the mention of Salissa. He may possibly have
shown his surprise. Steinwitz went on:

"By the way, talking of Salissa, Goldsturmer told me a curious thing
the other day. You know Goldsturmer, don't you?"

"The jewel man?"

"Yes. He says your friend Donovan has bought the island of Salissa
from that picturesque blackguard King Konrad Karl. I wonder if that
can be true. Goldsturmer says he has it on the best authority."

"Those 'best authorities'," said Gorman, "are invariably liars. I have
known scores of them."

"I daresay you're right," said Steinwitz; "anyhow, in this case the
authority wasn't one that I should care to rely on. It was Madame
Ypsilante--a very charming lady, but----"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I wouldn't care to bet my last shilling," said Gorman, "on the truth
of a statement made by Madame Ypsilante."

"In this case," said Steinwitz, "her story was a ridiculous one,
absurd on the face of it. She said that the American girl wants to set
up as a monarch and that Konrad Karl had sold her the right to call
herself Queen of Salissa."

"Either Goldsturmer was pulling your leg," said Gorman, "or Madame
was pulling his. Was she trying to get anything out of him?"

"Pearls," said Steinwitz. "There is a certain rope of pearls----"

"That accounts for the whole thing," said Gorman.

Steinwitz seemed quite satisfied that it did. But he was not inclined
to drop the subject altogether.

"A sale of that sort," he said, "would be impossible. The Emperor
wouldn't permit it."

Then Gorman made a mistake. For the first time he showed a real
interest in what Steinwitz said. There is every excuse for him. He
wanted very much to understand the Emperor's position; and Steinwitz
had already heard--possibly believed--the story of the sale of
Salissa.

"What on earth has the Emperor got to do with it?" said Gorman.
"Megalia is an independent state, isn't it?"

Steinwitz laughed.

"Very few states," he said, "are independent of the Emperor."

There was something in the way he spoke, a note of arrogance, a
suggestion of truculence, which nettled Gorman.

"Donovan," he said, "is a free citizen of the United States of
America. That's what he says himself. I don't expect he cares a damn
about any emperor."

"Ah well," said Steinwitz, "it does not matter, does it? Since he has
not bought the Island of Salissa, no question is likely to arise. The
Emperor will not object to his wandering round the Cyrenian Sea in the
_Ida_."

Gorman was singularly dull when he joined me in the smoking-room after
luncheon. I do not recollect any other occasion on which I found him
disinclined to talk. I opened the most seductive subjects. I said I
was sure Ulster really meant to take up arms against Home Rule. I said
that the Sinn Féiners were getting stronger and stronger in Ireland,
and that neither Gorman nor any member of his party would be returned
at the next General Election. Gorman must have wanted to contradict
me; but he did not say a word. It was only when I got up to go away
that he spoke; and then he made a remark which had no bearing whatever
on anything which I had said.

"Women," he growled, "are hell. In business they're red hell."




CHAPTER VI


The Donovans started for Salissa within three weeks of the completion
of the sale of the island. This was a remarkable achievement, and the
whole credit is due to the amazing energy of Miss Daisy. She was all
eagerness to enter into the possession of her kingdom; but she had no
idea of going to an unknown island without proper supplies. She bought
furniture for her house. King Konrad Karl was of opinion that there
must be furniture in it. The Prime Minister, the Commander-in-Chief
and the Admiral had almost certainly carried off any jewellery or
plate there might have been, after the assassination of the late king.
Tables, chairs, carpets and beds, they must, he thought, have left
behind, because the Megalian Navy was not big enough to carry very
much cargo. But Miss Daisy took no risks. She bought everything
necessary for a house of moderate size, and had the packing cases put
into the hold of the _Ida_.

She gave large orders for every kind of portable provisions. She
entrusted a wine merchant with the duty of stocking the royal cellars.
Certain dressmakers--eight, I believe--were kept busy. The new queen
did not actually purchase royal robes; but she got every other kind
of clothes from the most fantastic teagowns to severe costumes
designed for mountaineering. There might be a mountain in Salissa. The
Queen liked to be prepared for it if it were there.

She engaged a staff of servants, hitting on twenty as a suitable
number for the household of a queen of a small state. The chief of
this band was a dignified man who had once been butler to a duke. Miss
Daisy gave him the title of major domo, and provided him with a thick
gold chain to hang round his neck. There were alterations to be made
in the _Ida_, a steamer not originally intended to carry passengers.
These were left to Steinwitz; but Miss Daisy managed to run down every
day to see that the work was being done as quickly as possible. She
had interviews with Captain Wilson, who commanded the _Ida_, and Mr.
Maurice Phillips, the first officer. She asked them both to dinner.
Captain Wilson, a Scot, was taciturn and suspicious. He regarded the
job before him as an objectionable kind of practical joke, likely,
before it was over, to impair his natural dignity. Mr. Phillips was
filled with delight at the prospect. He was a young man with curly
fair hair and cheerful eyes.

The start might have been made in even less than three weeks, if it
had not been for the Heralds' Office. Miss Daisy wanted a banner to
hoist over the royal palace in Salissa. She consulted Gorman, and
gathered from what he told her that heralds are experts in designing
banners. She found her way to the office and explained what she
wanted to a suave, but rather anæmic young gentleman who talked about
quarterings. Miss Daisy was not to be cowed by jargon.

"Put in any quarterings you fancy," she said. "I'm not particular. If
ghules, argents and ramparts are extra, I am prepared to pay. But
don't you meditate too much on the unforgotten glories of the past.
Get a move on."

That it appeared was the one thing the Heralds' Office could not do.
Miss Daisy stormed at its doors. She telephoned at short intervals all
day. She even tried to persuade her father to take part in the
persecution. But Mr. Donovan was too wise.

"There are things," he said, "which cannot be done. No man living, not
even a railway boss--can speed up a state department."

"Any firm in New York," said Miss Daisy, "would have sent in designs
for a dozen banners in half the time that young man in the Heraldry
Office has been thinking about one."

"Heralds," said Mr. Donovan, "are mediæval. If they laid hold on the
idea of an automobile and went in for speed, they'd lose grip on the
science of heraldry."

In the end, goaded and worried by Miss Daisy into a condition of
bewildered exasperation, the Heralds' Office produced a large
pale-blue flag. In the middle of it was a white flower, said to be a
daisy. It arrived at Southampton by the hand of a special messenger
just before the sailing of the _Ida_. Later on--when that flag became
a subject for argument among diplomatists--the heralds disclaimed all
real responsibility for it. They said that they had no idea they were
making a royal standard. They said that they understood that they were
preparing a flag for a young lady's house-boat. Miss Daisy asserts, on
the other hand, that her orders were quite distinct. She told the
anæmic young man at their first interview that she wanted a "Royal
Banner, done according to the best European specification."

Nine of the servants refused to sail at the last moment. They alleged
that the sleeping accommodation on board the _Ida_ was not what they
were accustomed to. The major domo only agreed to go on board when he
was given the cabin originally intended for Miss Daisy. She occupied
that which had been allotted to a kitchen-maid, one of the deserters.
Steinwitz and Gorman, who saw the party off, induced the other ten
servants to go on board, apologizing humbly to them and explaining
that the cabins in the _Ida_ had necessarily been very hurriedly made.
For all the use any of the servants were on the voyage, or afterwards,
they might as well have stayed at home. The major domo shut himself up
in his cabin and was resolutely seasick even in the calmest weather.
The others, though not as sick as he was, pretended to be incapable of
doing anything.

The Donovans, Captain Wilson and Mr. Phillips were waited on by a
steward, a man called Smith who had been brought from London and added
to the ship's company at the last moment by Steinwitz. He proved to be
an excellent servant and a man of varied talents. He took a hand in
the cooking, mixed cocktails, and acted as valet to Mr. Donovan,
waited at table, made beds and kept the cabins beautifully clean. He
even found time to save the major domo from starvation by bringing him
soup and dry toast occasionally.

Captain Wilson, who could not get over the idea that he was being made
to look ridiculous, remained rather aloof during the voyage. He
accepted the cigars which Donovan pressed on him, and was civil to
Miss Daisy, but he made no pretence of enjoying himself. Mr. Phillips
was in high spirits the whole time. He fell in love with Miss Daisy
the moment he saw her. But there was nothing mournful or despairing
about the way the great passion took him. He never brooded in silence
over the hopelessness of his prospects; though as a subordinate
officer in the merchant service, he had not much chance of marrying
one of the richest heiresses in Europe. His devotion was like that of
a frisky terrier which gambols round an adored mistress. Miss Daisy
found him a most agreeable young man.

It was he, and not Captain Wilson, who came to her one evening with
the news that they might expect to sight Salissa next morning. Miss
Daisy scarcely slept. At five o'clock she was on the bridge. Captain
Wilson told her that she might safely go to bed again till seven or
eight. But she stayed where she was. Mr. Phillips fetched a cup of tea
for her at six and another at seven. She drank both and ate a good
deal of bread and butter. When at last the island appeared, a dim
speck on a clear horizon line, she danced with excitement, and sent
Mr. Phillips below to fetch her father. Mr. Donovan was at breakfast,
attended by Smith, and flatly refused to stir. Captain Wilson,
satisfied that the island lay just where he expected it, left the
bridge and joined Mr. Donovan. Miss Daisy and Mr. Phillips stood
together, their eyes fixed on the island.

Salissa is a beautiful island and had the good fortune to look its
best when its new queen saw it. The sky was cloudless. The sea was
almost calm. The island rose, clear outlined, from the blue water.
There are some islands, as there are some complexions, which are best
looked at in a light which is not too clear, which require a dimness,
a little mist, to make them beautiful. Salissa--Phillips would have
said the same of Salissa's mistress--was at its loveliest on a clear
May morning. The island appeared first as a flattened cone, intensely
green. Then, as the steamer drew nearer, the cliffs which embraced the
natural harbour shone out dazzlingly white. The sea rolled lazily, a
belt of foam across the reef which almost blocked the entrance to the
bay. Beneath the cliffs, right under them, the colour of the water
turned to the palest blue. On the south side of the bay was a sandy
beach, and above it a small village, seen to be a village afterwards,
at first no more than splashes of bright colour, blue and red. Behind
the village, sloping upwards, was a broad stretch of cultivated land.

"Vineyards," said Mr. Phillips, who had voyaged much about the
Cyrenian Sea.

On the north side of the bay, opposite the cottages, a promontory ran
out into the water. On it, sometimes on its very edge, sometimes drawn
a little back with a space of smooth rocks in front of it, was the
house built by King Otto, Konrad Karl's unfortunate predecessor on the
Megalian throne. Perhaps that king himself had a taste for the
fantastic. Perhaps he was only a commonplace man who had the luck to
employ an architect of airy genius. The house was the palace of a
dream of fairyland. It was built of the white stone of the island.
Long windows opened on balconies supported on white pillars which
stood in the water. There were little glistening spires which rose
from steep patches of red roof. There were broad shaded porches and
flights of shallow white steps which led down into the water. The
ground plan of the house followed the outline of the promontory on
which it stood. Only in the upper storey did the eye find rest in a
straight line. There nine great windows, green jalousied, gave upon a
wide balcony. At one place where the rock had been eaten into by the
sea, the architect had built over water which sighed and gurgled
among mysterious green shades under vaulted roofs among the
foundations of the house.

Miss Daisy, standing on the bridge, clapped her hands and then stood
silent and motionless in an ecstasy of delight. Mr. Phillips, his eyes
on the girl, rang the ship's engines to "Dead Slow" and sent a man to
summon Captain Wilson.

The steamer slid slowly through the water towards the opening at the
south end of the protecting reef. Captain Wilson came on deck. Mr.
Donovan followed him. He stood leaning over the bulwarks just forward
of the bridge. Miss Daisy ran to him and seized his arm.

"Father," she cried, "isn't it all lovely? Isn't it just a dream? Look
at the two cottages. Look at the cliffs and the blue water. Did you
ever see such blue----? and now----"

The ship swung slowly round the south end of the reef. The house on
the promontory came full in view.

"And now look at the castle. It's too fairy for anything, isn't it?"

"Reminds me quite a bit," said Donovan, "of the hotel at the south end
of the Marine Parade at Atlantic City. Kind of fanciful."

"It's a dream come true," said Miss Daisy.

Mr. Donovan turned round. Behind him, in a respectful attitude, stood
the major domo. A little further back, grouped together, were his ten
fellow-servants, all in respectful attitudes.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the major domo.

The man, though engaged by Miss Daisy, had from the first refused to
recognize her as his mistress. The negotiations in Southampton about
the cabin had been carried on with Mr. Donovan. It was to Mr. Donovan
that he spoke now.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but does the family propose to reside
here for any length of time?"

Mr. Donovan waved his hand towards Miss Daisy. She realized that, as
queen of the island, it was her business to decide the movements of
the court.

"Always," she said. "For ever and ever and ever. I shall never live
anywhere else, and when I die I'll be buried here."

"In that case, sir," said the major domo, still ignoring the queen, "I
must request, in the name of self and the rest of the staff, to return
to England at once, sir, and if I may add a suggestion, sir, I'd say
by rail. This ship is not what we've been accustomed to in places
where we've lived before."

"Well," said Mr. Donovan, "you can go back if you like. Salissa is a
free state, though not a republic; but there's liable to be some delay
if you wait for a train."

"You nasty beasts!" said Miss Daisy. "You've spoiled the whole thing
now by being cats. Just when everything was beautiful and I was so
happy. I'd like to tell you what I think of you all. Oh, I do wish Mr.
Phillips was here. He'd----Oh, father, would you? I'm sure you could."

Mr. Donovan looked at her and waited. In time, such was his
experience, Miss Daisy usually explained what she wanted pretty
clearly.

"I once heard Mr. Phillips talking to one of the sailors," she said.
"He didn't know I was listening, of course. The sailor had been
messing things about in a wrong way, and Mr. Phillips----"

"Language?" said Mr. Donovan.

"It was splendid. I never knew before that there were such words."

"Well," said Mr. Donovan, "I haven't cursed any for quite a bit; but
I'm willing to try. But you'd better run up the bridge, Daisy, right
now, before I start. I might be kind of held back from some
expressions if I knew you were listening."

Miss Daisy, who was sometimes quite an obedient girl, reached the
bridge in time to hear the order given, and to see the anchor splash
into the blue water.

Mr. Donovan began to speak slowly and very quietly. It took the women
servants nearly two minutes to realize that he was using the most
atrocious language. Then they fled. The three footmen stood their
ground a little longer. Mr. Donovan raised his voice a little. He felt
old powers returning to him. He became fluent. One by one the footmen
slank away. Mr. Donovan went on, without passion or heat. He arrived
at a terrific malediction which he had found effective many years
before in dealing with Italian navvies. The major domo cowered, his
hands held to his ears, and vanished into the cabin.

Mr. Donovan took from his pocket a large purple handkerchief. He wiped
away the sweat which had gathered on his upper lip. Then he looked
round him with an air of satisfaction. There was no one left near him
except Smith, the ship's steward, who stood in a respectful attitude
apparently waiting for an opportunity to speak.

"I don't know," said Mr. Donovan, "that I can do any more real
high-class cursing, without preparation; but if you're not satisfied
I'm willing to try."

"I was only going to suggest, sir," said Smith, "that if it would be
any convenience to you, sir, and to her Majesty----" Mr. Donovan
started. It was the first time Miss Daisy had been given her new
title.

"I'd be very glad, sir, to remain with you and do all I can, sir, to
make you comfortable--subject to Captain Wilson's permission. Of
course you'll understand, sir, that I signed on as ship's steward. I
couldn't leave my duty, sir, if Captain Wilson required me."

"Smith," said Mr. Donovan, "you're a white man. I'll square things up
with Captain Wilson. He can have the use of that sausage skin of a
butler on the voyage home. I hope he'll just set those able-bodied
wasters of footmen to shovel coal in the stokehole. I shan't say a
word if he corrects the women with a rope's end every time they're
seasick. I'm a humanitarian, Smith, opposed to executions and
corporal punishment on principle, in a general way; but I'm not a
hide-bound doctrinnaire. There are circumstances--I kind of feel that
the British domestic servant is one of these circumstances."

"Yes, sir," said Smith. "Quite so, sir."




CHAPTER VII


History says little about them, but there doubtless have been queens
who lacked dignity, queens with high spirits and little sense of
decorum, queens who outraged pompous chamberlains and brought shame
into the lives of stately chancellors. The behaviour of the new queen
of Salissa caused no scandal; but that was only because there was no
one in her small court who had any sense of the dignity proper to
queens. The major domo's feelings would certainly have been outraged
if he watched Queen Daisy make her first royal progress. But he was
shut up in his cabin. The other servants might have quivered with
shame and disgust if they had seen--but they saw nothing, having
turned away their eyes from beholding vanity.

After the cable had ceased rattling through the hawse hole Miss Daisy
demanded a boat. Scarcely waiting for Captain Wilson's word, Mr.
Phillips rushed to lower one. Lashings were cast loose, the boat was
swung outboard and manned with a speed which would have done credit to
a smart yacht's crew. Miss Daisy ran to her cabin. The oarsmen sat
ready to push off. Mr. Phillips stood in the stern sheets, the tiller
between his feet. Miss Daisy appeared at the top of the accommodation
ladder. She held a large parcel in her hand.

"Catch," she said to Mr. Phillips, "it's the flag."

She flung it. Mr. Phillips with a wild grab saved it from the sea.
Miss Daisy laughed joyously.

"Catch again," she said, "the palace keys."

A bunch of keys crashed on the floor boards of the boat between the
feet of the man who rowed stroke. Mr. Phillips picked them up. Miss
Daisy, disdaining a helping hand held out by Smith, skipped down the
steps; her skirt held tight in one hand she leaped into the boat.

"Quickly," she cried, "oh, quickly, quickly! Please don't be long."

"Shove off," said Mr. Phillips, "and pull like--pull like----"

"Say it," said Miss Daisy, "say it, if it will make them go quicker."

"Pull," said Mr. Phillips, "pull like--billy-o."

The men pulled. Not even the expected invocation of bloody hell would
have stirred them to greater exertions. The boat sprang forward. She
sped towards the palace. The water bubbled round her bows, swished and
foamed in the wake astern of her. Mr. Phillips brought her up
alongside a broad flight of white steps. The men clawed at the smooth
stone with their fingers. The Queen stepped ashore.

She stood on the lowest step, a figure poised for swift eager motion,
a flushed excited girl, a queen with palpitating heart and eyes full
of dancing merriment. The steps, blazing white in the sunshine, led up
to a broad platform where a tall flagstaff stood. Behind was all the
fantastic wonder of the palace, the porticoes, slender carved columns,
stone lacework of flying buttresses, spires, hollowed spaces of dark
shade, points of sparkling light, broad surfaces of dazzling
whiteness. Mr. Phillips leaped ashore and passed the Queen, bounding
up the steps to the platform. He carried in his hand the parcel which
she had flung into the boat. He reached the flagstaff. He knotted a
light line round his waist. He swarmed up the bare pole. He rove the
line through the block at the top of the staff and slid to earth
again. He bent the halyard to the flag. It ran up, a neat ball. With a
sharp chuck at the line Mr. Phillips broke it out. The Royal Standard
of Salissa fluttered in the morning breeze, pale blue, glorious.

Mr. Phillips shouted:

"Long live the Queen! long live the Queen!"

The Queen, still standing on the bottom step, gave a little cry of
delight. The men in the boat sat still, with puzzled grins on their
faces. Mr. Phillips bounded down to them, leaping the steps in threes
and fours.

"Cheer, you blighters," he said, "unless you want your silly skulls
smashed. Cheer like billy-o. Long live the Queen!"

The men scrambled to their feet and responded. Their cheers rang out.
One of them, moved to enthusiasm, seized his oar and beat the water
with the flat of the blade. Like a man with a flail he raised the oar
high and brought it down with loud smacks on the water, splashing up
sparkling drops, rocking the boat in which he stood. He was not a
native of Salissa, not a subject of the Queen, but his action
expressed the enthusiasm of devoted loyalty.

The Queen bowed, blushing, laughing, breathless with excitement.

Across the bay came the sound of shouting from the men on board the
_Ida_, ragged cheers. The steamer's syren shrieked. Mr. Donovan stood
on the bridge, the rope which controlled the syren in his hand. The
Queen waved to him. Five revolver shots rang out in quick succession.

"Good old Wilson!" said Mr. Phillips. "I wouldn't have thought he had
it in him to fire a royal salute."

He gave Captain Wilson credit which was not his due. It was Smith, the
steward, who fired the revolver. Afterwards that loyal servant excused
himself to Mr. Donovan.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "perhaps I oughtn't to have fired without
orders; but it seemed the proper thing to do, sir."

"Do you always carry a gun in your pocket?" said Mr. Donovan.

"Only when I'm among Eastern peoples, sir. It's wiser then. Not in
England, sir."

The Queen, standing radiant in the sunshine before her palace, gave
her first royal command.

"Mr. Phillips," she said, "take the keys and come along."

They ran up the steps together, past the flagstaff, crossed a space of
smooth white rock, and reached the great door which faced them. Mr.
Phillips fitted the key and flung the door wide. A gloomy cool space
lay before them. They were standing in bright sunshine and a glow of
reflected light. Their eyes failed to penetrate the darkness before
them. It was as if a thick black curtain hung inside the door. The
Queen hesitated on the threshold. Mr. Phillips entered the room. He
threw open the shutters and flung the great windows wide. Broad belts
of light crossed the room. The sunshine flooded it. The morning breeze
blew in, driving before it the heavy stagnant air.

The Queen entered.

She stood in a great hall. Round the walls hung pictures in tarnished
frames. Rich furniture, damp-stained and worm-eaten, stood stiffly
arranged as if for some great function. Only here and there was
evidence of some disorder. A table was upset near the fireplace. The
covering of a chair had been torn, and the hair stuffing of its
cushions bulged through the rent. The ashes of a wood fire and the
charred remains of half-burnt logs were on the hearth. Some papers lay
scattered on the floor near one of the windows.

The Queen, subdued, quieter, went on tip-toe round the room. She
touched the furniture and the pictures softly, as she passed them.
There was in her a feeling, half fear, half reverence, for the things
which had once belonged to the dead King Otto. Phillips, moved by an
impulse of curiosity, crossed the room to where the torn papers lay.
He stooped down and picked up some of the fragments. For the most part
they were blank. On one or two there were words in a language he did
not understand. Only one fragment interested him. It was the corner of
a torn envelope. It bore an English stamp and a London postmark.

"Your Majesty," he said.

She did not hear or did not reply. Mr. Phillips was not used to
intimate association with royal persons. He tried another form of
address. "Your Serene Highness," he said.

The Queen looked round.

"Do you mean me?" she said.

"Yes, your Excellency," said Phillips.

The Queen laughed aloud. The sound of his voice and her own, the ready
merriment of her laughter, awoke her from the fear and reverence,
scattered the vague feeling of mystery which hung over her.

"Don't you do it," she said. "I'm queen of this island right enough,
but I don't mean to spend the rest of my life walking on stilts. I'm
not that kind of queen. I'm a genuine democrat all the time. Don't you
forget that. Now call me Miss Daisy, same as you used to on board."

Mr. Phillips blushed.

"Miss Daisy," he said, "how long is it since the last king lived
here?"

"I don't know," she said, "and I don't care. Centuries and centuries,
I expect. Come and explore, I want to see the whole of the palace and
let the light and air into every room."

She had shaken off entirely all vestiges of the sense of oppression
which had come on her when she first breathed the heavy stale air of
the hall and saw it with its decayed furniture, huge and dim before
her. It was full of sunlight now and she was merry again in the
sunlight and fresh air.

She ran from room to room, pulling shutters back, flinging wide the
windows. Phillips followed her, listened to her while she planned
these for her father's rooms, those for her own, how breakfast should
be laid on summer mornings on a balcony right over the water, how
midday meals should be eaten in a shaded portico.

"And this," she said, "shall be your room, for you're to spend all
your holidays here. See, if you open the window you can take a header
right into the blue water--Oh, isn't it a beautiful colour?--and have
a morning swim."

Phillips was ready to take a header from any window at the Queen's
command. He would ask nothing better than to spend, not holidays only,
but all his days there on the island with her. If he could enter her
service--he wondered whether the Queen of Salissa would start a Royal
Navy of her own.

They passed from room to room. They ran up winding staircases and
emerged in tiny turret chambers, glass enclosed like the tops of
lighthouses. They found a roof garden set round with huge stone urns
full of dry caked earth. Once, no doubt, flowers had bloomed in them.
Flowers, so the Queen determined, should bloom in them again. They
descended to cool, spacious kitchens, to cellars where wine had been
stored. They passed through a narrow doorway and found suddenly that
the sea was lapping at their feet. They were underneath the centre of
the house. Around them were high walls. From the water itself arose
thick round pillars, supports of the vaulting on which the great hall
rested. The light, entering for the most part through the water, was
blue and faint. The stones beneath the water gleamed blue. The pillars
as they rose changed from blue to purple. The water sighed, murmured,
almost moaned. It seemed as if it tried to cling to the smooth stone
work, as if it sank back again disappointed, weary of for ever giving
kisses which were not returned. They stood in silence, looking,
listening. Then Phillips spoke. His voice sounded strangely hollow. He
sank it to a whisper.

"Miss Daisy," he said, "how long is it since the last king lived
here?"

"Why do you ask me that again?" she said. "I don't know. A hundred
years ago, perhaps. They killed him, you know. I wonder if they threw
his body into the sea there?"

"Was it last December?"

"Of course not. How can you be so silly? As if any one would kill a
king last December! They only did things like that centuries ago."

Phillips took from his pocket the torn envelope he had picked up in
the great hall.

"Look," he said, "I found that near the fireplace in the hall we went
into first."

"It's an old envelope," she said. "It must have belonged to the king
they killed. How interesting! Fancy their having had envelopes in
those days!"

"The postmark on it," he said, "is London, and the date is December
15, 1913. Some one was in the house since then, living in it."

The Queen clapped her hands.

"Oh, splendid," she said. "A mystery. It was the one thing I longed
for. A mystery, a ghost, a secret chamber and all those beautiful
things. I was quite afraid the house was too sunny for mystery until
we came down here. There might be anything here, in this blue light,
brigands or wandering spirits, or the old gods of the island. Now I
call it just perfect. Thank you so much, Mr. Phillips, for finding me
that paper. Now we can just brood on that brigand. It must have been a
brigand. Or do you think the assassins came back, driven by pangs of
conscience, to the scene of their crime, and just dropped that
envelope so as to give a clue? There always are clues, aren't there?
Oh, I am glad you found it."

As she spoke there came a thin high sound, a ghostly wail. It echoed
back from the walls, repeating itself. The sound was broken among the
pillars, came confusedly to the listening ears. The waters stirred
uneasily, sucking at the walls and the pillars with a kind of fierce
intensity. Her hand sought his arm, caught it, held it tightly.

"It's the steamer's syren," said Phillips. "They must be signalling."

She loosed her hold of his arm and turned from him.

"How can you say such a thing? Just when I thought it was the ghost of
the murdered king crying for vengeance."

"I am sure they're signalling for us," he said. "We'd better go."




CHAPTER VIII


The Queen, closely followed by Phillips, hurried through the cellars,
along narrow passages, up a dozen different flights of stairs. They
lost themselves several times. Twice they arrived by different routes
at the large central kitchen. Twice they left it by different doors.
They grew hot with laughter and bewilderment. Then they heard the
steamer's syren and grew hotter still with impatience. At last,
breathless and flushed, they reached the steps at which they had
landed.

Eight boats lay clustered round the steamer. One of them was her own,
a heavy white boat, carvel built, with high freeboard. Four men sat in
her, resting on their oars. The other seven were island boats, gaily
painted red and green, high prowed, high sterned. The biggest of them
had a mast stepped right forward, a mast which raked steeply aft,
across which lay the yard of a lateen sail. Six oarsmen sat in her.
The other island boats were smaller. There were only two rowers in
each. They had the same high bows and high sterns curving inwards, the
same low freeboard amidships where the rowers sat. In them were many
women and children.

On the deck of the _Ida_ stood a little group of men. Captain Wilson's
neat alert figure was easily recognizable. Mr. Donovan's white Panama
hat was unmistakable. Phillips declared that the smaller man who stood
beside Mr. Donovan was Smith, the steward. A little apart from them
stood a tall bare-headed man. He had a long white beard. There seemed
to be some kind of consultation going on. When the Queen and Phillips
appeared on the steps below the castle the group on the steamer broke
up. Captain Wilson, Mr. Donovan and Smith took places in the _Ida's_
lifeboat. The old man went into the largest of the island boats. He
stood in the stern, his hand on the carved end of her huge tiller. The
eight boats, tailing out in a long procession, rowed slowly towards
the castle steps.

"They must be your subjects," said Phillips. "They are coming to swear
allegiance."

"My!" said the Queen. "What shall I say? What shall I do? What will
they do? They can't all kiss my hand. There must be forty of them."

"I think," he said, "that you'd better stand beside the flagstaff.
It's a commanding sort of position. They'll have to climb up the steps
to get to you. I wish the breeze had not died away. The flag would
look ever so much better if it blew out."

The Queen climbed the steps and took her place beneath the limp royal
standard. Mr. Phillips bared his head and stood behind her.

The boats reached the steps. Mr. Donovan landed. Smith stepped ashore
after him. Captain Wilson bade his men push off. He remained, a
critical observer of the scene, some twenty or thirty yards from the
shore.

"Daisy," said Mr. Donovan, "there's going to be a pageant. The
inhabitants of this island are going to demonstrate."

"How shall I talk to them?" said the Queen. "What language do they
speak?"

"Don't you fret any about that. I've brought Smith along. Smith is the
only living Englishman who speaks the Megalian language. He's been
explaining the situation to the high priest of the island for the last
half-hour while we blew bugle calls on the syren to attract your
attention. Smith is a wonderful man, worth any salary to a firm with a
big foreign business."

Smith bowed.

"It's hardly a language, sir," he said. "A dialect, a patois. Partly
Turkish, partly Slavonic, with a Greek base."

"Some language that," said Mr. Donovan. "It would interest our college
professors. If you found a university on the island, Daisy, you must
institute a system of visiting lecturers from the colleges on our
side."

"Oh, here they are!" said the Queen. "How lovely! Look at all their
bright dresses. And the men are as gay as the women. Oh! there's the
dinkiest little baby with a brown face. He's smiling at me. I know I
shall just love them all, especially the brown babies."

The islanders were disembarking from their boats. They crowded
together on the lower steps of the staircase which led up to the
flagstaff. They talked rapidly in low voices and gazed with frank
curiosity at the little group above them. Women held babies high in
their arms. Men took up toddling children and set them on their
shoulders. Evidently all, even the youngest, were to have their chance
of gazing at the new queen.

The old man who had stood at the tiller of the leading boat disengaged
himself from the crowd. He mounted the steps slowly, pausing now and
then to bow low. He was a picturesque figure. He wore a short black
jacket, heavily embroidered with gold thread. Underneath it was a blue
tunic reaching to his knees. Round his waist was a broad crimson sash.
He advanced with a grave dignity. Each bow--and he bowed often--was an
act of ceremonial courtesy. There was no trace of servility, nor of
any special desire to please or propitiate in his manner. He reached
the step below the terrace on which the flagstaff stood. He bowed once
more and then stood upright, looking straight at the Queen with calm,
untroubled eyes.

He spoke a few words in a soft, low tone. Smith stepped forward to
explain and interpret.

"This is Stephanos," he said, "the Elder of Salissa."

"Minister of religion?" said Donovan.

"He acts as such, sir," said Smith, "at marriages and such-like among
his own people; but I don't know that the Church of England would
consider him as a regular clergyman. He appears to be more of the
nature of a Lord Mayor than an Archbishop."

"What does he say?" asked the Queen.

"Does your Majesty wish me to translate literally?"

The Queen nodded.

"I Stephanos," Smith began, "elder of Salissa and father of the
dwellers on the island."

"Does he mean that they're all his children?" asked the Queen, "even
the babies?"

"I think not, your Majesty," said Smith, "though I expect he's father
or grandfather of half of them."

"Go on," said the Queen.

"I Stephanos, elder of Salissa and father of the dwellers on the
island, bid the English lady welcome. All that we have is hers."

"Oh," said the Queen, "how lovely! But of course I won't take anything
from them--tell him that--though I would rather like a brown baby to
play with, just loaned to me for a few hours every day, and of course
I would pay the mother whatever she asked."

"And you might explain," said Donovan, "that we're American citizens,
not English."

"I'll tell him, sir," said Smith, "but I expect it'll be the same
thing to him."

Smith made a long speech. Apparently he failed to make the difference
between an Englishman and an American clear to Stephanos, but he
conveyed the Queen's request for a baby.

Stephanos' answer was translated thus:

"Every baby from three years old and under shall be laid at the white
feet of the English lady and she shall take them all. There are five
such on the island. They are hers."

Stephanos turned while his speech was being translated, and addressed
his people. Apparently they were quite prepared to fulfil the promise
he had made on their behalf. Five smiling young women with babies in
their arms detached themselves from the crowd. They mounted two steps
and then stood, with bowed heads, waiting for the next command.

"The darlings," said the Queen. "But I don't want them all laid at my
feet. They'd be sure to roll away and fall into the sea. Tell them
to-morrow will be time enough, and--and I'd like mothers to come too.
I'm not sure that I could manage a baby all by myself."

She did not wait for Smith to translate this speech. She ran down the
steps to where the five young women stood. She took one of the babies
in her arms. She kissed another. The women stood round her, smiling
shyly. The babies cooed and gurgled. She kissed them all, and took
them one after another in her arms. She sat down on the steps and laid
a crowing baby on her lap. The mothers smiled and drew nearer to her.
Other women from the crowd below gathered round her. Their shyness
disappeared completely, too completely. They stroked her hair. They
patted her face and hands. They were filled with curiosity about her
clothes. They felt the texture of her dress, fingered the brooch she
wore, knelt down and took her feet into their hands that they might
examine her shoes. They explored the clocks on her stockings. Miss
Daisy--no queen for the moment--was seriously embarrassed. She jumped
to her feet, thrust the baby she held into its mother's arms.

"You mustn't pull my clothes off altogether," she said.

She smoothed her skirt down with her hands and brushed exploring
fingers from her blouse. But the island women were not easily
repulsed. They were ready to give their babies to her if she asked for
them. They would not forgo if they could help it the delight of
examining new and fascinating kinds of clothes. Miss Daisy--still Miss
Daisy, not a queen--burst from them and ran, with tossed hair and
ruffled garments, up the steps again.

"Oh, Smith," she said, "tell them that they mustn't do it. I'm sure
they don't mean any harm, but I can't bear to be pulled about."

Smith translated; but it is doubtful if the women understood or even
heard. There was a babble of soft voices. They were discussing eagerly
the strange garments of the English lady.

Stephanos spoke again, gravely, gently.

"It is in my mind," so Smith translated, "that one of our daughters
should be the servant of the English lady; seeing that she has no
maidens of her own people round about her. Kalliope is the fairest and
the deftest. If it be the good pleasure of the English lady Kalliope
shall serve her day and night, doing in all things the bidding of the
Queen wherein if Kalliope fail by one hair's breadth of perfect
service, I, Stephanos the elder, her grandsire, will beat her with
pliant rods fresh cut from the osier trees until the blood of full
atonement flows from her."

"My!" said the Queen. "After that I shan't dare say a word to Kalliope
even if she steals the last hairpin I own."

"Tell that high priest," said Donovan, "that I admire his loyalty. He
may trot out the young woman. You must have a maid of some sort,
Daisy, and I expect Kalliope will do her darnedest with that threat
hanging over her."

Stephanos the elder was an old gentleman of quick apprehension. He did
not wait for Smith to translate what Donovan said. He turned to the
women crowded below him. He raised one hand. Their babbling ceased at
once. Through the silence Stephanos the elder spoke.

"Kalliope."

A young girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age, came forward.
Bowing low at each step she mounted, she climbed slowly towards the
flagstaff. Her bowing suggested profound humility, but her eyes, when
she raised them, sparkled, and her lips were parted in a gay smile.
She was evidently in no fear of an immediate beating with fresh-cut
osier rods. Yet Kalliope had some cause to be afraid. It was she who
had endeavoured to explore to their source the clocks on the Queen's
stockings.

Stephanos the elder spoke to her briefly but very solemnly. Kalliope
remained unimpressed. She took quick glances at the Queen's face and
her eyes were full of laughter and delight. Stephanos took her by the
hand, led her forward and formally presented her to the Queen.
Kalliope immediately fell on her knees and kissed the toes of the
Queen's shoes.

"Tell the high priest," said Donovan, "that I'll pay the girl the same
wages that I undertook to give to the pampered English maid who went
on strike this morning."

Kalliope completed her obeisance and realized almost at once that she
had won the position of lady's maid to the Queen. She took her place
meekly behind her mistress. There she stood smiling at her sisters and
cousins who stood below. She was at the moment the most fortunate, the
most envied young woman on the island. Hers would be the inexpressible
joy of examining at her leisure all the wonderful clothes worn or
possessed by the Queen. She realized this; but neither she nor any
other woman on the island guessed, or, by the wildest flight, could
have imagined, how many and how various were the garments packed by
the English maid into the trunks which lay in the steamer's hold.

Kalliope was never beaten by her grandfather with osier rods. She
devoted herself utterly to the service of the Queen. The only fault
that could be found with her was that her devotion was too complete,
her service too untiring. At meals she stood behind the Queen's chair.
During the day she followed the Queen from room to room. She would
stand silent in a corner for an hour waiting while her mistress read
or talked. There was no escaping from the girl. At night she slept on
the floor at the end of the Queen's bed, wrapped in a rug, her head
pillowed on her own arm. She was quick to learn what was wanted, and
acquired, after a while, an uncanny power of anticipating the Queen's
wishes.




CHAPTER IX


Next morning the work of unloading the ship began. It went on at high
pressure for three days. On the fourth it slackened. Before the end of
the week everything was landed.

The donkey engine on the _Ida's_ fore-deck clanked and snorted. Down
in the hold the sweating sailors toiled. Packing-cases, great and
small, huge bales and brass-studded trunks were hoisted high, swung
clear of the ship's bulwarks and lowered, with much rattling of chains
and gear, into the waiting boats. The ship's lifeboats and the five
largest of the island boats plied to and fro between the steamer
and the shore. On the palace steps, islanders--men, women and
children--waited to take charge of the cargoes which the boats
brought. Captain Wilson was in command on board the _Ida_. On shore
Mr. Phillips directed the unpacking. He had the cases and bales hauled
up the flagstaff terrace. There they were prised or cut open. Tables,
chairs, carpets, beds, bedding, every article of household furniture
were unpacked and carried into the rooms of the palace. The islanders
worked willingly. Only when they set down a load in its appointed
place, a tall mirror perhaps or a wardrobe, they stood in a group
around it, admiring, wondering. Often Mr. Phillips had to pursue
them, drag them, push them, to induce them to return for some new
burden.

Smith, the steward, worked with amazing energy. Very early on the
first day of the unloading, Phillips found him in the large hall of
the palace. He was sweeping up the hearth. He had already gathered and
burnt the litter of torn papers which lay on the floor. It was a
natural act in a good servant; but it seemed to Phillips a waste of
energy. Smith apologized at once.

"Yes, sir, as you say, sir, it'll be time enough to clean up when we
get things a bit settled. Perhaps I oughtn't to have done it, sir. But
it seemed to me as how I'd like to clear away the mess, sir, when her
Majesty would be passing through the room."

Phillips was annoyed. The torn papers had interested him. He intended
to have collected them all. But Smith, with ill-directed zeal, had
burnt them. Not a scrap was left, except the torn envelope which
Phillips had in his pocket.

Afterwards Smith proved most useful. He acted as interpreter on shore
or aboard whenever an interpreter was wanted. He was active in the
opening of packing-cases, careful and skilful in handling glass and
china. He planned store-rooms for the provisions which came ashore,
arranged the wine in cool cellars, had linen packed away securely.

The Queen ran eagerly from room to room. The arrival of each piece of
furniture was a fresh joy to her. She kidnapped small parties of women
from among Phillips' workers and set them to laying carpets or
hanging curtains, explaining what had to be done by means of vivid
gestures. She moved things which seemed comfortably settled from room
to room. Whenever she came across Smith or met Phillips she talked
excitedly about colour schemes. She spent a good deal of time in
rescuing the brown babies from peril. The mothers, determined to miss
no chance of handling strange and wonderful things, laid their infants
down in all sorts of odd places, behind doors or in corners at tops of
staircases. The Queen tripped over them occasionally, went all the
time in terror that one of them would be crushed by passing feet.

Kalliope was deliriously happy. She was a quick-witted girl. Very
early in the day she grasped the fact that packing-cases never
contained clothes; that trunks might or might not, but generally
did. She learned almost at once four English words from the
sailors--"damned box" and "bloody trunk." Armed with the full
authority of maid in waiting to the Queen, she stood beside the boats
when they arrived. With a gesture of contempt she committed each
"damned box" to the care of the men and the less favoured women. She
took possession of all personal luggage. Only her special friends were
allowed to handle the Queen's trunks. She put herself in command of
four girls, and marched in front of them as they staggered under the
weight of great trunks. She had them carried up to the Queen's rooms.
Then with joyful cries of "Bloody trunk, bloody trunk," she ran
through the palace seeking her mistress and the keys. Kalliope
unpacked all the clothes herself. Not even the most favoured of her
helpers was allowed to touch a garment. It was enough for the others
to gaze.

Mr. Donovan took no part whatever in the unloading of the ship or the
unpacking on the island. He said frankly that he disliked fuss
intensely, and that the weather was far too hot for movement of any
kind. He added to Captain Wilson--it seemed necessary to excuse
himself to Captain Wilson--that the action of his heart always became
more disordered if he mixed himself up with people who suffered from
activity. The deck of the _Ida_ was no place for him. The cabins were
stuffy and the clamour of the donkey engine made him restless. He went
ashore. Smith, who was a wonderfully sympathetic man, led him to a
high balcony, well shaded, pleasantly airy. There Mr. Donovan
established himself on a deck chair. He smoked a great deal and slept
a little. He drank the cocktails which Smith found time to prepare for
him. He ate the food Smith brought up to him. He found Salissa a
pleasant island and looked forward to great peace, when the _Ida_, her
cargo unloaded, should sail away. He had only one real trouble. Not
even Smith could find ice on Salissa. Mr. Donovan sighed over his own
want of foresight. The patent freezer had been packed in the very
bottom of the hold.

Early in the third day the Queen tired of unpacking and arranging
furniture. The excitement of running to and fro through the rooms of
the palace faded. The merriment which came of seeing kitchen chairs
placed in her bedroom palled. She began to feel that Mr. Phillips
would never fully understand the beauty and value of a colour scheme.
Her clothes were all safely gathered, unpacked and stored away in
fragrant heaps. She wanted rest from the ceaseless laughter of the
islanders and the noise of pattering bare feet.

"Kalliope," she said, "we'll go for a row."

Kalliope smiled joyously. "Go row," she repeated. She had not the
faintest idea what the thing meant, but life was for her a passing
from one rapturous experience to another. "Go row" was no doubt some
untried pleasure. She stood smiling, waiting further enlightenment.

The Queen made the motions of a rower with her arms. Kalliope,
pathetically eager to understand, repeated, "Go row, go row."

The Queen led her to a window and pointed to one of the island boats
which had just left the steamer. She went through the pantomime of
rowing again. She touched her own breast with her forefinger, then
Kalliope's. The girl understood. She ran from the room, through
passages, down steps. She reached the landing place.

"Go row," she cried.

Then, condescending to the language of her people, she spoke to the
men who sat in one of the smaller island boats. In obedience to her
command they stepped on shore. They gave their coats and their
coloured sashes to the girl. She piled them in the stern, a cushion
for her mistress. She took the oars. The Queen came down the steps,
carrying in her arms one of the brown babies. She had tripped over it
at the end of the passage leading from her room. She sat on the
cushion prepared for her with the baby on her knees. Kalliope rowed
out across the harbour.

That night the Queen slept for the first time in her new palace. A bed
had been arranged for her, and she was eager to leave the small close
cabin on the ship. The great room she had chosen for herself attracted
her. She thought of the cool night air blowing in through the window,
of the wide balcony on which she could sit awhile till sleepiness came
over her. No other room in the palace was ready for use. Nor did Mr.
Donovan seem anxious to go ashore.

Mr. Phillips was a lover. He was also a young man. He reverenced the
lady who was mistress of his heart and queen. He also, as is the way
of lovers very much in love, suffered from a conviction that she ought
to be guarded and protected. It seemed to him wrong that she, with no
other companion than Kalliope, should sleep in a great lonely house on
an island where strange people lived. Thus young men, the best of
them, show contempt for the courage and ability of the women they
admire. The Queen herself laughed at his fears. Mr. Donovan rebuked
him.

"Your notions about girls," he said, "are European. You take it from
me, young man, that an American girl knows how to take care of
herself. Daisy can go without a leading rein. She can take hold on any
situation likely to arise."

No situation was in the least likely to arise. It was impossible to
suspect the gentle islanders of wishing any harm to their new queen.
There were no wild animals, no animals at all, except a dog or two and
some small cattle.

Phillips was a lover and therefore a prey to anxiety; but he was a
healthy young man and had worked hard all day. He turned into his
berth and went to sleep at once. Very early in the morning, about
three o'clock, he awoke. Nor, for all his twistings and turnings,
would sleep come to him again. His imagination, picturing a hundred
impossible dangers for the Queen, tormented him. Suddenly he
remembered the torn envelope which lay in his pocket. He puzzled
himself to find some explanation of its being on the island, in the
palace. Some one must have brought it there. Some one sitting in the
great hall had read the letter that envelope contained. Some one with
assuredly no right to be there, some one--the inference seemed
inevitable--with evil in his heart had entered the palace and dwelt
there.

Phillips could stand his imaginings no more. He got up, dressed
himself and went on deck.

The man who kept--or was supposed to keep--the anchor watch lay fast
asleep, coiled up under the shadow of the bridge. The ship was silent
save for the lapping of the water against her sides. The island lay, a
grey mystery in the half light of earliest dawn. The light increased,
and Phillips, standing in the shadow of the deck-house, could fix his
eyes on the windows of the room where the Queen lay. He heard,
suddenly, the splash of oars, dipped very gently in the water. He
looked round and saw a boat, one of the island boats, moving from the
ship's side. There was one man in her, Smith the steward. Phillips
reasoned quickly. Smith must have left his cabin stealthily, must have
come on deck, must have dropped on board the boat and cast her loose
without making a sound. What was he doing? What did he want?

Phillips, deep in the shadow of the deck-house, stood and watched. The
boat moved more quickly as she drew further from the steamer. She
headed for the sandy beach below the village. A man stood on the shore
awaiting her. The light grew brighter every moment. Phillips
recognized the waiting man--Stephanos the elder. His long white beard
and stately figure were not easily mistaken. The boat grounded and
Stephanos stepped on board. Smith pushed off, and rowing rapidly now,
coasted the shore of the bay, keeping close inland. The boat was hard
to see, for she moved in the shadow of the cliffs. Suddenly she
disappeared altogether. Phillips waited and watched. In half an hour
the boat appeared again, plainly visible now. She came from the mouth
of a great cave, a darker space in the grey face of the cliff. Smith
pulled hard. In a few minutes he had landed Stephanos and was on his
way back to the steamer.

Phillips met him as he climbed the side and came on board.

"You're out early this morning, Smith," he said.

"Yes, sir, pretty early, sir. There's a lot to be done in the day. I
thought as how, if I went ashore, sir, I might get a couple of eggs
for Mr. Donovan's breakfast. He likes a fresh egg."

"Seagulls' eggs," said Phillips.

Smith looked up quickly. For an instant there was a sharp gleam of
suspicion in his eyes. Then he dropped them again.

"No, sir; hens' eggs. There's hens on the island, sir."

"Got any?" said Phillips.

"Two, sir, only two."

He took them from his pocket as he spoke and held them out for
inspection. He had certainly got two eggs. Phillips was puzzled. Men
seldom search for hens' eggs--they never find them--in sea caves.

"Just enough for Mr. Donovan's breakfast, sir."

"Do you happen to know, Smith"--Phillips asked his question
abruptly--"whether any one has been living in the palace lately? Last
year, for instance, or at any time since the last king was murdered
there?"

"Murdered, sir, how horrible! Was it long ago, sir?"

The assassination of King Otto had been mentioned, even discussed, a
dozen times while Smith was waiting at table. Very good servants--and
Smith was one of the best--are able, it is believed, to abstract their
minds from the conversation of their masters, will actually hear
nothing of what is said in their presence. Yet it seemed to Phillips
as if Smith were overdoing his pose of ignorance.

"It was years ago, I believe. What I want to know is whether any one
has been living in the palace since."

"Don't know, sir, I'm sure. Never been here before till I arrived with
you, sir. Would you care for me to make inquiries? Some of the natives
would be sure to know."

"Ask that patriarch," said Phillips, "Stephanos or whatever he's
called. Ask him next time you take him out for a row at six o'clock in
the morning."

He knew that he had startled Smith once when he referred to the
seagulls' eggs. He hoped to take him off his guard this time by
showing that he had watched the whole of the morning row. But this
time Smith was not to be caught. He made no sign whatever that
anything unexpected had been said. He was not looking at Phillips. His
eyes were fixed on the palace.

"I beg pardon, sir," he said after a slight pause, "but perhaps we
ought to leave the deck, to go below. Seems to me, sir, that the
Queen is going to bathe. She mightn't like it, sir, if she thought we
were here watching her."

The Queen was descending steps clad in a scarlet bathing dress. It is
not likely that she would have resented the presence of spectators on
the deck of a steamer nearly half a mile distant. Nor, indeed, is it
likely that Kalliope would have been seriously embarrassed, though she
saw no sense in wearing clothes of any kind when she intended to
bathe. But Mr. Phillips was a young man and modest. One fleeting
glimpse of Kalliope poised ready for her plunge was sufficient for
him. He turned and left the deck. Smith was already busy with his
cooking.




CHAPTER X


The peculiarity of Smith's proceedings highly stimulated the curiosity
of Mr. Phillips. The envelope in his pocket helped him to the belief
that he held the clue of an exciting mystery. He pondered the matter
while he shaved. He was dull company at breakfast because he could not
get it out of his head. He made up his mind at last to confide his
vague suspicions to Mr. Donovan. This was a difficult decision to
arrive at. He would have much preferred to unravel his mystery
himself, to go to the Queen with evidence completely sufficient to
condemn a whole band of conspirators. But he saw no chance of getting
any further in his investigations. Smith's morning expedition remained
obstinately unconnected with the torn envelope. A sense of loyalty to
his employers combined with devotion to the Queen decided him to tell
Mr. Donovan all he knew.

The work of unloading the _Ida_ went on briskly all the morning. Mr.
Donovan sat, remote from the turmoil, on his balcony. Mr. Phillips,
seeking a moment when Smith was busy elsewhere, climbed to the
balcony. Mr. Donovan welcomed him.

"Sit right down," he said. "There's another chair knocking about
somewhere. Take a cigar."

Mr. Phillips hauled a deck chair from the sunshine into the shade and
stood leaning over the back of it.

"This island," said Mr. Donovan, "seems likely to be restful. Once
we're through with the job of landing our trunks we shall be able to
settle down and just stay put. I don't say but it's pleasant for a man
like me who's worked some in his time to sit here and watch other
people sweating----"

He waved his hand towards the islanders, who staggered up the steps
under their loads. He included with a sweeping gesture two boats which
had just left the ship's side. The day was exceedingly hot. All these
men were certainly sweating. The clanking and rattling of the donkey
engines were plainly audible across the water. The engineman was
probably sweating too. Captain Wilson, standing erect in the full
blaze of the sun on the steamer's fore-deck, cannot possibly have been
cool. Mr. Donovan sighed with satisfaction.

"I don't deny that it's pleasant," he said, "kind of aggravates the
sense of restfulness; but for real calm give me a country where nobody
works at all. That's what I am looking forward to. That's why I reckon
this island is going to suit me."

"Mr. Donovan," said Phillips, "there's a matter I want to speak to you
about. I daresay there's nothing in it; but I can't help feeling----"

Mr. Phillips' hand went to his breast pocket. He clutched the torn
envelope.

"Here's something I picked up the day before yesterday," he said.

Smith stepped suddenly between him and Mr. Donovan. Smith was a hard
worker, and a loud shouter when shouting was desirable. He was also,
as Phillips knew, a quiet mover when he chose. He held a tray in his
hand with two glasses on it. He handed one to Mr. Donovan and the
other to Phillips.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but there's some cases of books come
ashore, sir. I thought you'd like to arrange about them yourself, sir,
seeing as how I don't understand libraries."

He spoke to Phillips. He did not expect Mr. Donovan to arrange
anything.

"You're young, Phillips," said Mr. Donovan. "According to the prophets
and other wise men it's a good thing to be young. I'm getting on for
sixty, but there are compensations. I don't feel called on to see
after things. I don't have to toil any. Smith!"

"Yes, sir."

"There exist in the U. S. A. more than two hundred formulæ for the
compounding of cocktails. They vary from the simple dry Martini to the
more poetic Angel's Smile. How many of them do you know, Smith?"

"About eight, sir, eight or ten."

"Few men, except professional bar-tenders, know more," said Mr.
Donovan. "But you can learn. I see before you, Smith, years of
artistic endeavour. Eight from two hundred leave a hundred and
ninety-two. I think I have a book containing the formulæ. It was
compiled by one of our leading citizens after a term of residence in a
dry State. I shall give you the book, Smith. My digestion remains
unimpaired up to date. I shall sample the results of your labours."

Mr. Phillips swallowed his cocktail and went away without saying any
more about the torn envelope. He had no intention of telling his story
in the presence of Smith.

He tried again an hour later. He calculated on not being interrupted
this time. Smith had gone off to the steamer. From time to time he had
to go to the steamer to act as interpreter there. Captain Wilson
seemed curiously incapable of making himself understood by the
islanders.

"That you again, Mr. Phillips," said Donovan. "Sit down. Take a cigar
and sit down."

"There's something I want to speak to you about, sir," said Phillips.

"If you must speak," said Donovan, "I hope you'll sort of murmur. That
engine has stopped clanking for a moment and Smith isn't shouting any
at those poor devils of islanders. 'Silence,' says the poet, Oliver
Wendell Holmes, 'like a poultice came to heal the wound of sound.'
It's a kind of advanced sample of what this island's going to be."

This was not encouraging to Mr. Phillips. He hesitated. Far away,
under the shadow of the cliffs, a small boat moved slowly. In it was
the Queen, seated in the stern with a huge box of chocolates in her
lap. Kalliope rowed, her mouth full of chocolates. Phillips could not
see the box or Kalliope's mouth. The boat was too far away for that.
But he knew the chocolates were there. Early in the day the Queen had
come to him and demanded candies. She had come at a fortunate moment.
He was in the act of opening a large case, sent out, so the label
declared, by Fuller, and Kalliope had carried down to the boat a huge
box of chocolates. It was the sight of that boat--perhaps, too, the
thought of the chocolates--which spurred Mr. Phillips to tell his tale
in spite of all discouragement. Is there anything which is more
eloquent of innocent helplessness, anything which makes a stronger
appeal to the protective instinct of a man, than the vision of two
girls eating chocolates?

"The day I first landed, sir," he said, "I found this."

He handed the torn envelope to Mr. Donovan.

"The postmark, sir," he said, "is London, December 15, 1913. Now how
do you think it got here?"

Donovan looked at the envelope curiously. He turned it over, felt the
texture of it with his fingers. At last he spoke.

"Mr. Phillips," he said, "I may be wrong in my interpretation of
facts. I don't know that any recognized minister of religion would
support me; but it's my belief that if Eve hadn't stirred that serpent
up, kind of annoyed him by poking round, the creature would have lain
quiet enough and there'd have been no trouble about the apple. That's
the nature of snakes. I've seen quite a few and I know. Now this
island is about the nearest thing to a real restful paradise that I've
bumped into since I first started my pilgrimage through this vale of
tears. I don't say there's no snakes in it. There may be. But my
notion is to let those snakes lie unless they start in molesting me."

"But," said Mr. Phillips, "there must have been somebody in the house
here, somebody who had no right to be in it. Otherwise how would that
envelope with the London postmark----"

"The British nation," said Donovan, "is at the present moment exciting
itself quite a bit about the effect of the Movies--what you call
cinemas your side--on the minds of the young. What your leading
reformers say is that it upsets the budding intellect of the rising
generation to present life to it as life is not. As a general rule I'm
not much taken up with eminent reformers. They're a class of citizens
I don't admire, though I admit they have their uses in supplying
loftiness of view and generally keeping up the more serious kinds of
charm practised by the female sex. But in the matter of the effect of
movies on the young mind those reformers may be right. It seems to me
you've gathered in some foolish notions about life, Mr. Phillips.
Desperate villains dropping envelopes and generally scattering clues
along their tracks would be interesting things, a darned sight more
interesting than eminent reformers. Only there aren't any. They don't
exist outside of novels and picture houses."

Mr. Donovan held out the torn envelope. Phillips took it and stuffed
it into his pocket again. He was unconvinced. Cinema exhibitions are
responsible for many vain imaginings, no doubt; but his envelope was a
fact. He had found it. The postmark was plain and clear. He moved over
to the edge of the balcony and gazed out across the sunlit bay. It
seemed impossible then and there to tell the story of Smith's morning
expedition. Mr. Donovan's logical rationalism was invincible.

"If you happen to come on that book about cocktails," said Donovan,
"just give it to Smith. It's somewhere. In giving the order for the
library for this island, I specially mentioned that book along with
complete illustrated editions of all standard American and European
authors."

Phillips turned and left the balcony. It was, after all, absurd to
worry and puzzle over his envelope. It could have no meaning. Some
stray tourist perhaps, sight-seeing far from all beaten tracks, had
made his way into the house. Tourists are notorious for leaving paper
behind them. As for Smith and his boating at dawn--could Smith
possibly have gone to search for breakfast eggs in a sea cave?

He glanced once more at the bay before he returned to his work. The
Queen's boat was no longer in sight. The girls had landed perhaps in
some quiet creek, or the Queen had taken a fancy to cross the bay and
explore the village where her subjects lived.

Kalliope rowed easily and was well content to go on rowing all day.
She was almost perfectly happy. Fuller's sweets were a revelation of
unimagined delight to her, and she could gaze without interruption at
the Queen. There was little in the world left for her heart to desire.

The girls rowed round the shore of the bay. The shadow of the white
cliffs was grateful. The Queen delighted to drag her hands through the
cool water. The sound of its lapping against the steep rocks soothed
her. She liked to peer into the blue depths. When she looked up it was
pleasant to meet Kalliope's soft brown eyes and to see the ready smile
broaden on the girl's lips. Now and then, laughing, she leaned forward
and pressed a chocolate into Kalliope's mouth. The Queen's fingers
were often wet with salt water, but that did not spoil the flavour of
the sweets for Kalliope.

The boat slipped past high sheer cliffs, past little coves, on whose
sand men's feet had surely never trodden, past the mouths of great
caves, gloomy, mysterious, from the depths of which came a hollow
murmuring of water. The caves had a strange fascination for the
Queen. Her eyes followed their steep walls up to the arches of their
high dripping roofs, tried to pierce the dim and darkening shades
within, gazed down through the water at round boulders and flat
shelves of rock, seen magnified and strangely blue in the depths. At
first she was half fearful and would not allow the boat to be taken
near the mouths of the caves she passed. At the mouth of one cave
Kalliope shouted suddenly. Echoes answered her from within, repeating
her shout and repeating it till the cries seemed to come from far off,
from the very centre of the island. Opposite another cave Kalliope
shouted again and banged her oars against the gunwhale of the boat. A
flock of grey birds, some kind of rock pigeons, flew out, making a
sound of rushing with their wings. The Queen became, little by little,
less fearful and more curious.

They came at last to a cavern with a wide entrance. The daylight shone
far inside. The water was blue far into the depths, not purple or
black as it seemed to be just inside the narrower caves. The Queen
signed to Kalliope. The boat turned, slipped into the wide entrance,
rose and fell upon the swelling water under the high roof. Kalliope
rowed on. For awhile she rowed with her oars full stretch on their
rowlocks. Then the walls narrowed more and more till she must ship her
oars. The boat glided on slowly from the impulse of her last stroke.
The walls narrowed still. Kalliope stood up. Pushing against one wall
and then the other with an oar grasped midway in her hands she drove
the boat forward. Suddenly the space widened. The roof was higher,
almost out of sight. The boat passed into a huge cavern very dimly
lit. The Queen gasped, sat open-mouthed in breathless silence for a
moment; then looking round she saw that the cavern was lit by several
thin shafts of pale-blue light. More than one of the caves whose
entrance the boat had passed led into this great cavern. Kalliope,
laughing, plunged an oar into the waters. It shone silver like some
long fish. The Queen gazed at it. She plunged her own arm in and saw
it turn silver too.

The water was still deep and seemed scarcely to shallow at all as the
boat moved forward into the depths of the cavern. Suddenly the Queen
saw before her a steep beach covered with large, round stones. The
boat grounded. Kalliope leaped on shore. She held her hand out to the
Queen. The two girls stood together on the beach. Kalliope, still
holding her Queen's hand, led the way upwards, away from the boat and
the water. Her bare feet moved lightly over the stones which shifted
and rolled under the Queen's shoes, making a hollow sound. Echoes
multiplied the sound until the air was full of hollow mutterings,
like the smothered reports of very distant guns. Kalliope led on.
To her the way was familiar. The dim light and hollow noises were
commonplace. At last she stopped and with a little cry pointed
forward.

The Queen looked. Her eyes were well accustomed now to the dim light.
She saw.

There in the depths of the mysterious cavern, it would not have
surprised the girl to see strange things. She would scarcely have been
astonished if Kalliope had pointed to a group of mermaids combing damp
hair with long curved shells. Old Triton with his wreathed horn would
have been in place, almost an expected vision, if he had sat on a
throne of rock, sea carved, with panting dolphins at his feet. The
Queen saw no such beings. What she did see called from her a little
cry of surprise, made her cling suddenly to Kalliope's arm.

"Oh!" she said. "Oh, Kalliope, what are they?"

"Damn boxes," said Kalliope.

Before the eyes of the Queen, stretching along the back of the cave,
was a long row of large galvanized iron tanks, strongly made, with
heavily studded seams, each with a great copper tap. They were ranged
in a most orderly line, like some grey monsters carefully drilled.
They were all exactly the same width, the same height, and the copper
spouts exactly matched each other.

"Damned boxes," said Kalliope cheerfully.

Any one looking at them might almost have agreed with her. They were
not precisely boxes. They were cisterns, tanks, but they gave the
impression of being damnable and damned.

"But," said the Queen, "what are they for? What's the meaning of
them? How did they get here? Who brought them?"

Kalliope did not understand the questions, but guessed at what her
mistress asked. She had been learning English for three days only. She
had been quick to pick up certain words from the Queen, words in
frequent use between them. But in face of questionings like these the
vocabulary of millinery and hair dressing failed her hopelessly. She
fell back on what she had picked up from the sailors' lips and from
her brothers who were already enriching the island language with
English slang.

"Blighters," she said, "mucky ship--go row, go row--damn boxes."

In spite of the pale light and the sinister mystery of the tanks
in front of her the Queen laughed aloud. The pursuing echoes
made Kalliope's English irresistibly absurd. Then she pondered.
Men--whether "blighters" in Kalliope's mouth conveyed reproach or
were simply a synonym for men she did not know--men in a ship--"mucky"
described the ship as little probably as "damn boxes" described the
packing-cases of furniture or "bloody" her trunks of clothes. Men
in a ship had brought the tanks, had rowed them--"go row" was plain
enough--ashore in boats.

"But who," said the Queen, "and why?"

Kalliope was beaten. Who and why were too much for her, as indeed they
have been for people far wiser than she. Are not all theology and all
philosophy attempts, and for the most part vain attempts, to deal
with just those two words, who and why?

"Blighters," said Kalliope, and the echoes repeated her words with
emphasis, "blighters, blighters, blighters," till the Queen came to
believe it.

Then Kalliope, memory wakened in her, grew suddenly hopeful. She began
to hum a tune, very softly at first, making more than one false start;
but getting it nearly right at last. The Queen recognized it. She had
heard it a hundred times in old days at prayers in the chapel of her
college. It was a hymn tune. The words came back to her at once.
"Glorious things of thee are spoken, Zion, city of our God." She took
Kalliope by the arm and led her back to the boat.

"Come away," she said, "quick, quick. I'm going mad."

Kalliope entered into the spirit of a new game. She ran down across
the rolling pebbles.

"Go row," she said. "Quick, quick."

The boat, Kalliope pushing, dragging, rowing, burst from the cavern,
fled beyond the shadow of the cliffs, glided into the blaze of
sunshine and the sparkling water of the outer bay. The Queen lay back
in the stern and laughed. Kalliope, resting on her oars, laughed too.
The Queen's laughter passed into an uncontrollable fit. Tears rolled
down her cheeks. Her sides were sore. She gasped for breath. The
thought of that row of portentously solemn grey tanks was irresistibly
comic. They looked like stranded codfish with their tongues out. They
looked like a series of caricatures of an American politician, a
square-headed ponderous man, who had once dined with her father. He
had the same appearance of imbecile gravity, the same enormous
pomposity. The copper spouts were so many exaggerated versions of his
nose.

Her imagination flew to a vision of the men who had brought the tanks
and cisterns there in a "mucky ship." She seemed to see them, thin
scarecrows of men, crawling over the rusty sides of some battered
tramp steamer; mournful men with brown faces and skinny arms, singing
their hymn with sharp cracked voices while they laboured at their
utterly preposterous task. Laughter conquered the Queen. She lay back
helpless in the merciless grip of uncontrollable merriment. Kalliope
could not laugh so much. The joke was beyond her. She sat with a
wavering half-smile on her lips watching the Queen. The box of
chocolates lay in the bottom of the boat. Kalliope stretched her foot
out, touched the box, pushed it gently towards the Queen. It seemed to
her waste of a golden opportunity to leave the box, no more than half
empty, at their feet. The movement broke the spell of the Queen's
laughter. She picked up the box, pushed chocolates into Kalliope's
mouth, filled her own with them.




CHAPTER XI


I find it necessary to remind myself from time to time that the Queen
of Salissa is a young girl, in mind and experience little more than a
child. If I think of her as a woman or allow myself to credit her with
any common sense, that blight which falls on the middle-aged, her
actions become unintelligible.

She ought, no doubt, to have gone straight to her father and told him
about the cisterns in the cave. That was the sane thing to do. Donovan
was a man of clear understanding and wide knowledge. He would have--I
do not know precisely what he would have done, but it would have been
something entirely sensible. The Queen dreaded nothing so much as
that. She found herself for the first time in her life in touch with a
mystery, surrounded by things fascinatingly incomprehensible. Her
island held a secret, was the scene--there could be no doubt about
it--of a deep, dark, perhaps dangerous plot. She was thrilled. The
more she thought of the cavern and the mysterious tanks, the more
delightful the thrills became.

She made a confidant of Phillips, choosing instinctively the only
person on the island likely to be in full sympathy with her. Phillips
was older than she was. He was twenty-eight; but he was a simple,
straightforward young man with his boyish taste for adventure
unspoiled. He was also deeply in love with the Queen.

I have found it very difficult to get either from the Queen or from
Phillips a complete and coherent account of what happened between the
discovery of the cisterns and the day when the _Ida_ sailed, taking
Phillips away from the island. I gather that they were both the
victims of a bad attack of detective fever. They have talked to me
quite freely and cheerfully of the "Island Mystery." That was the
Queen's phrase. About a much more important matter the Queen will not
speak at all, and Phillips cannot be induced to dwell on details. I
have been obliged to depend mainly on Kalliope for information, and
even now Kalliope does not speak English well.

"We have three clues," said the Queen hopefully, "three really good
clues. We ought to be able to unearth the mystery. Detectives hardly
ever have so many."

Phillips named the three clues, ticking them off on his fingers.

"First, the torn envelope; second, Smith's expedition to the cave
before dawn----"

"Before dawn," said the Queen with rapture.

"Third, the cisterns in the cave. Let's go and see the cisterns."

"No," said the Queen. "The great thing is not to be carried away by
passion. We must be cold, purely intellectual. We must be thoroughly
systematic. We'll begin with the torn envelope. It happened first."

They retired to a shady corner of the balcony outside the Queen's
rooms and studied the torn envelope for two hours. They were
analytical, keenly and minutely observant, coldly cautious in forming
conclusions. They tried every method of detection known to detective
science. They held the envelope up to the light in order to discover a
watermark. They examined the texture of the paper, the ink and the
postage stamp, carefully through a powerful magnifying glass. They
scraped one corner of the envelope with the blade of a penknife. They
took four photographs, two of the front and two of the back, with the
Queen's hand camera. They talked a good deal about fingerprints.

Phillips had a logical mind and a capacity for synthetic induction.
The Queen was perhaps the more careful observer. She had certainly the
more brilliant imagination. After two hours' work they summed up their
conclusions, making careful notes with the Queen's fountain pen on the
blank pages at the end of a large diary.

"A man or men----" said Phillips.

The Queen wrote down "A man or men" in the diary.

"Has," said Phillips, "or have, been present on the island of Salissa
at some date between December 15, 1913, and April 30, 1914. The said
man or men was or were during part of that period in occupation of the
royal palace."

"Royal palace," said the Queen, writing rapidly.

"This man--or men, of course--was in correspondence with some person
at present unknown, resident in the city of London."

"That's very important," said the Queen. "Anything more?"

"No," he said, "that's all I've got."

The Queen handed over the diary. It was Phillips' turn to write.

"I observed," she said, "that the envelope is of the kind used by
business men, an office envelope; also that the stamp is put on
crooked."

Phillips looked at the stamp. It was put on crooked.

"From this I infer," said the Queen, "either that the man in
London----What did you call him?"

"Person at present unknown," said Phillips.

"Either that the person at present unknown was (a) habitually careless
about details, or that (b) though usually careful he was in a hurry
when he despatched this letter."

"By Jove!" said Phillips, "but, I say, mightn't somebody else, an
office boy or some one, have put on the stamp?"

"Not on a letter of this kind," said the Queen. "The writer wouldn't
have trusted any one else."

"It's frightfully clever of you," said Phillips, "to have thought of
all that."

"It does not lead to anything very definite yet," said the Queen. "But
you'll find it will all fit together--like a jigsaw puzzle you
know--when we get to work on the other two clues. We can't expect to
solve a mystery of this sort straight off. We've only been at it two
hours."

Kalliope stood all the time at the far end of the balcony watching the
Queen. She knew nothing about the investigation of the island mystery
which was going on under her eyes. But she was a young woman who had
lived a simple and natural life. In some things she was far wiser than
her mistress. She seems to have realized that the Queen and Phillips
were making, without knowing it, considerable progress into the heart
of another, much more enthralling, mystery. As a chaperone Kalliope
was negligible.

"The next clue," said the Queen, "is Smith. We must shadow him."

"Day and night," said Phillips.

"And Stephanos. Stephanos was with him when he went to the cavern that
morning."

"Stephanos is in it up to the neck," said Phillips. They shadowed
Smith for the rest of that day. They stole on tip-toe about the house
and burst suddenly into rooms where Smith was at work, coming upon him
unexpectedly. They hid in cupboards and behind curtains in rooms which
Smith was likely to enter. They left letters, written in cipher, and
marked coins in prominent places where Smith could hardly fail to see
them. Kalliope conceived that an elaborate game of hide-and-seek was
being played. She joined in, enthusiastically but unintelligently,
concealing herself in various parts of the house without regard to
Smith's habits. Once she remained obstinately hidden for more than an
hour under the Queen's bed.

The results were most unsatisfactory. Smith spent his day sweeping
floors, making beds, cooking food and compounding cocktails for Mr.
Donovan. His few leisure moments were spent in polishing silver. He
was totally uninterested in cipher documents and never looked at
marked coins.

Smith still slept on the steamer, so it fell to Phillips to keep guard
over him at night. He adopted the ingenious, though not very novel
plan of pasting a strip of paper across the door of Smith's cabin. In
the morning, very early, he went to look at the door. The paper was
intact.

So far as could be discovered Smith led a dull, laborious but innocent
life, working hard all day and sleeping sound at night. But the time
spent in shadowing him was not wholly wasted. The Queen and Mr.
Phillips enjoyed themselves thoroughly. So did Kalliope. So, I have no
doubt, did Smith.

"I do call this sleuth work jolly," said the Queen. "Let's try old
Stephanos."

They gave a whole day to Stephanos the Elder. During the early hours
he sat outside the door of his cottage, rolling cigarettes in thin
brown paper and smoking them. When the Queen came near him he stood
up and bowed gravely. When she passed he sat down again. At noon he
went indoors and dined. The Queen sent Kalliope across the harbour to
the palace with a note to Smith. She returned with a large basket. The
Queen and Phillips picnicked on the beach.

Early in the afternoon Stephanos walked through the vineyards which
lay behind the village and sat down under a mulberry tree. The Queen
stalked him. She made her approach in a most approved fashion,
creeping through some low bushes with the utmost caution. She was even
careful to advance against the wind in case Stephanos should have an
unusually acute sense of smell. Phillips and Kalliope watched her from
a hiding-place near the village. When she got within twenty yards of
the old man, he rose to his feet, laid his hand on his heart and bowed
to the Queen with dignified courtesy. If he felt any surprise at
seeing the Queen crawling along the ground on her stomach he did not
show it. His face expressed paternal but quite respectful benignity.
The Queen returned from this expedition very much heated, with her
hair dishevelled. Kalliope spent some time trying to rub the dirt off
the front of her frock.

An hour later Stephanos climbed slowly to the high plateau of the
island and sat down on the edge of a cliff. This time Phillips stalked
him, making his way up the steep gully which led to a part of the
cliff behind the old man's seat. Stephanos sat gazing at the sea,
apparently unconscious that any one was near him. But when Phillips
emerged from his gully the old man was there waiting for him, bowing
with placid politeness just as he had bowed to the Queen.

The complete failure of this sleuth work would have been a
disappointment to many people. The Queen and Phillips remained
perfectly cheerful and laughed happily at their own misfortunes.

Kalliope regarded them with some wonder. The ways of highly civilized
people were strange to her. She became slightly contemptuous of
Phillips and wondered that the Queen tolerated him so long. Kalliope
had a lover of her own, a young man much more direct and rapid than
Phillips was. She was of opinion that a very diffident lover was
unsatisfactory. He wasted time. It seemed to her foolish to spend
hours talking and consulting in the corner of a balcony, playing
hide-and-seek about a house, and a whole day climbing over an island,
when it was quite easy to kiss and be happy at once. She longed to
express her sympathy, condole with the Queen over Phillips' insulting
apathy. It was, perhaps, fortunate that Kalliope's English was wholly
insufficient for such confidences.

Before the next day was over Kalliope thought better of Phillips.

The envelope yielded little useful information. The shadowing of Smith
and Stephanos was entirely useless. But neither the Queen nor Phillips
lost heart. They were as eager as ever to solve the mystery. There
remained the third clue, the cisterns in the cave.

The Queen, Phillips and Kalliope started early next day. They went in
the small island boat which Kalliope rowed. Smith was on the palace
steps to see them off. He had with him a large basket packed with
food.

"Thank you, Smith," said the Queen. "I expect we'll be back for
luncheon, but we may not. One never knows. We meant to be back
yesterday, but----"

"Yes, your Majesty," said Smith. "Not knowing where you thought of
going, I packed the basket."

"Oh, not far," said the Queen. "Still, we may not be back."

Smith stood respectful as a footman who has closed his mistress'
carriage door until the boat pushed off. Then he sat down on the steps
below the flagstaff and lit a pipe. It was, perhaps, an idle morning
with Smith. He seemed in no hurry to go back to his work. He sat
smoking and watched the boat as she crossed the harbour. He saw her
reach the mouth of the cave and disappear into its depths. Soon
afterwards another boat put off from the beach below the village.
Smith watched it too. There was one man on board. It also headed for
the mouth of the cave. Smith knocked the ashes out of his pipe, stood
up and went into the palace.

Kalliope poled the boat through the narrow part of the cave, rowed
her briskly across the lagoon within and beached her on the steep
slope beyond. Phillips leaped ashore and held out his hand to the
Queen. They stumbled a little on the round stones. It is very
difficult to walk steadily over stones which roll under the feet. The
Queen laid her hand on Phillips' arm. She went more securely with this
support, so she held to it, leaning a good deal of her weight on it.

"There!" she said. "Look at them. Aren't they the most ridiculous
things you ever saw?"

No doubt the tanks, with their grey fronts and great spouts sticking
out of them, had an absurd appearance. They reminded Phillips of the
prehistoric monsters which artists sometimes draw in our comic papers.
They had the same look of stupid largeness. There was the same
suggestion of gaping malevolence. In the cool blue light of the cave
they looked grotesquely inappropriate. Phillips' first impulse was to
laugh aloud. But he was a young man with a conscience. It was his duty
to examine the cisterns, to find out if possible what they were, not
to make fun of them.

He walked up to the nearest one and turned on the tap. Nothing came
out. He tried the next one with the same result. He walked along the
whole line of tanks and turned on every tap. The tanks were apparently
empty. Mr. Phillips picked up a stone and struck each tank several
times. The sound was hollow. If there had been any doubt about that
the echoes would have convinced him. There was a fusillade of hollow
tappings.

Phillips, placing his foot on the tap of one of the tanks, climbed up.

"Well," said the Queen from below. "What have you found?"

"They're very large," said Phillips. "They go back a long way. They'd
hold gallons and gallons of whatever they're supposed to hold, and
there are round lids with handles to lift them off by."

"Oh," said the Queen. "I would like to see. I think I could get up."

Phillips thought so too. He stretched out a helping hand. The Queen
put her foot on a tap and grasped the hand. Phillips pulled. The Queen
sprang upwards, holding the hand tight. She reached the top of the
tank breathless and sat down. Phillips still held her hand.

It is doubtful whether the Queen ever realized the full size of those
tanks, or even saw the lids which Mr. Phillips had mentioned. The
light was very dim. The situation, in spite of the grotesque
appearance of the tanks, was exceedingly romantic. Long stalactites
hung, faintly gleaming, from the roof. The water, strangely blue,
mourned against the stones of the beach, sighed through the deep
recesses of the cave. The world and all common things seemed very
remote.

Ten minutes later the Queen suddenly started. She wriggled rapidly
along the edge of the tanks until she sat five or six yards away from
Phillips.

"Oh," she cried, "there's Kalliope!"

They had left Kalliope at the boat, but she had not stayed there. She
was standing in front of the tanks looking up at the Queen and
Phillips. She stood quite still. It was impossible to know how long
she had been there.

"Damn Kalliope!" said Mr. Phillips fiercely.

Kalliope smiled quietly. She showed no signs of embarrassment. She did
not pretend to be looking in any other direction. She had been kissed
herself more than once by her own lover, and had found it pleasant. It
did not strike her as in any way odd that the Queen should like kisses
too.

"Help me down, quick," said the Queen.

She did not wait for the help she asked. Disdaining even the foothold
of the tap she slid over the edge of the tank and came down with a
crash on the rolling stones at Kalliope's feet. Phillips followed her
with a single bound.

Kalliope pointed with her finger to a boat, another boat, which had
just grounded on the beach. Stephanos the Elder stepped from it and
bowed low to the Queen, bowed so low that his long beard almost
touched the ground.

"Well, I'm blest!" said Phillips.

"My!" said the Queen, "isn't it lucky I saw Kalliope just when I did?
Fancy if that old fellow had caught us! I don't so much mind about
Kalliope, though of course it was awful. But I never could have looked
the old man in the face if he had seen us."

Later on, while they sat at luncheon on the sand of a little cove
near the entrance of the cave, the Queen suddenly burst into a peal of
merry laughter.

"Say," she said, "he stalked us rather better than we stalked him
yesterday, didn't he?"

Next day the _Ida_, with Phillips on board, set sail for England.




CHAPTER XII

     "GRAND HOTEL DES CHAMPS D'ÉLYSÈES, PARIS,
                         _June 4, 1914_.

     "My dear Gorman,--

     "I arrive at the excellent Beaufort's Hotel the day after
     to-morrow. I hope that you will dine with me that evening at
     8 p.m. There are matters of importance. Corinne accompanies
     me. She is adorable as ever, in good form and full of peas.
     We have had a time of a life, rattling, since I saw you.
     Now--alas and damn--there are matters of importance. The
     Emperor--but I can write no more--Corinne awaits me. We go
     to paint Paris blue, she and I, once again. Then--damn and
     alas--London and the virtuous life of your English middling
     class.

                         "KONRAD KARL."

Gorman did not hesitate for a moment. He made up his mind to accept
the invitation even if he had to miss the most important division
which Parliament enjoyed during its whole session. The prospect of
seeing Konrad Karl and Madame Ypsilante practising middle-class virtue
in Beaufort's Hotel was by itself sufficiently attractive. The
promise of important affairs for discussion was another lure. Gorman
loves important affairs, especially those of other people. But the
mention of the Emperor interested him most. The introduction of his
name made it certain that the important affairs were those of Salissa.
And Gorman had always been anxious to understand in what way the
Emperor was mixed up with Megalia and how he came to exercise an
influence over that independent state.

Gorman was dressing for dinner--was, in fact, buttoning his
collar--when his landlord entered his room and handed him a card.
Gorman looked at it.

     "FRIEDRICH GOLDSTURMER,
       _Dealer in Jewels and Precious Stones,
         Old Bond Street._"

Written across the corner of the card were the words: "Business
important and urgent."

Gorman glanced at his watch. He had no time to spare if he meant to be
at Beaufort's at eight. Punctuality was no doubt one of the
middle-class virtues which the King and Madame Ypsilante were at that
moment practising. Gorman hesitated. The landlord, who had once been a
butler, stood waiting.

"Tell him," said Gorman, "to call to-morrow at eleven."

"Beg pardon, sir," said the landlord, "but the gentleman says his
business is most pressing."

Gorman reflected. If Goldsturmer had given the landlord five
shillings--and this seemed likely--the business must be very pressing
indeed; and King Konrad Karl could not yet have become an absolute
slave to the virtue of punctuality.

"Show him in here," said Gorman; "that will save time."

Goldsturmer slipped into the room and stood meekly near the door.

"Sit down," said Gorman. "Sit on the bed if you can't find a chair,
and tell me what you want with me, as quickly as you can."

"It's very kind of you," said Goldsturmer, "to receive me at this
hour. Nothing but the very pressing nature of my business--but I will
get to the point. You will doubtless remember a certain rope of
pearls. Let me see, it must have been in March----"

"I don't remember any rope of pearls," said Gorman. "I take no
interest in pearls."

"No? Still I hoped you might recollect those pearls. They were the
finest I ever had in my hands."

Goldsturmer spoke in a tone of pained regret. It seemed to him a sad
thing that there should be any man in the world who took no interest
in pearls.

"Madame Ypsilante bought them," said Goldsturmer.

"There's no use coming to me," said Gorman, "if you've failed to get
your money. I've nothing to do with the lady."

Goldsturmer smiled.

"She paid," he said. "Otherwise she would not have got the pearls.
There was another lady who might have bought them, an American, a Miss
Donovan."

"But Madame got them," said Gorman.

"Yes. But perhaps Miss Donovan might have them now, through me, at the
original price."

Gorman began to be interested.

"Madame tired of them?" he asked. "Wants to sell?"

"Tired of them!" said Goldsturmer. "No. For any one who loves pearls
that would be impossible. But desires to sell. Yes."

"Well," said Gorman. "That's her affair and yours. I don't see that I
have anything to do with it."

"Before I agree to buy," said Goldsturmer, "I should like to be sure
that the American lady, Miss Donovan, still wishes for the pearls. I
do not want to lock up my capital. I cannot afford to lock up so large
a sum. I must be assured of a purchaser before I buy from Madame
Ypsilante. It is not every one who can pay for such pearls. Ah! if you
had seen them! They are suited for the wearing of a queen. Only a
queen should have them."

Miss Donovan was, of course, a queen. Gorman wondered whether
Goldsturmer knew that. He looked at the little Jew sharply.
Goldsturmer's face wore a far-away dreamy expression. He seemed to be
thinking of his pearls draped round the neck of an Empress, a Czarina
or some other lady of very high estate who would wear them worthily.

"Only a queen," he murmured, "should wear those pearls."

"Madame Ypsilante is the next best thing to a queen," said Gorman.

A faint smile flickered across Goldsturmer's mouth.

"I would rather," he said, "that a real queen, a queen by right of
law, wore them. Tell me, Mr. Gorman, is Miss Donovan still willing to
buy them?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Gorman. "I haven't seen her for weeks.
She's yachting in the Mediterranean with her father. If I were you I'd
give up Miss Donovan and look out for a queen."

"Thank you," said Goldsturmer. "But if I give up Miss Donovan I think
I shall not buy the pearls from Madame Ypsilante. There are, alas, few
queens."

Gorman was not, after all, more than five minutes late for dinner. The
King was waiting for him, but without any sign of impatience. Madame
Ypsilante entered the room a minute or two later.

She was wearing a purple velvet dress which struck Gorman as a very
regal garment. Round her neck was a magnificent rope of pearls. Gorman
had no doubt that they were those of which Goldsturmer had spoken.
They were finer than any he had ever seen. It was easy to believe that
there was no other such necklace in the world and that only a queen
should wear them. But they suited Madame Ypsilante. She would, so far
as her appearance went, have made a very fine queen.

During dinner the conversation was about Paris. The King spoke of
pleasant adventures there, of the life he and Madame had lived, of the
delight of having money to spend, really enough of it, in a city like
Paris. He told his stories well, his vehemently idiomatic English
emphasizing his points. He became lyrical in his appreciation of the
joys of life. When dessert was on the table and port took the place of
champagne he lapsed into a philosophic mood.

"The damned gods of life," he said, "are blind of one eye. They are
lame and they limp. They are left-handed. They give the oof, the
dollars, the shekels, and do not give the power to enjoy. The
Americans--your Donovan, for example. What does he know of pleasure?
The English of your middling classes. What is Paris to them? They have
money but no more. Those left-handed gods have given a useless gift.
On me and on Corinne they have bestowed the power, the knowledge, the
skill to enjoy; and we, damn it all, have no money."

The King sighed deeply. Madame Ypsilante had tears in her eyes. She
was in full sympathy with the King's new mood. Gorman was astonished.
The price which Mr. Donovan had paid for the crown of Salissa was a
large one. Even after ten thousand pounds had been spent on Madame
Ypsilante's pearls there was a sum left which it would be difficult to
spend in a few weeks.

"Surely," he said, "you haven't got rid of all the money yet? You
can't have spent it in the time. I didn't think you could be hard up
again so soon. Even when I heard that Madame wanted to sell her
pearls----"

"Sell my pearls!" said Madame. "But never! Never, never!!"

There were no tears in her eyes then. The mood of self-pity induced by
the King's reflections on left-handed gods had passed away. She looked
fierce as a tigress when she shot out her next question to Gorman.

"Who has said that I wish to sell my pearls? Who has said it? I
demand. I insist: Tell me his name and I will at once kill him. I
shall pluck out his heart and dogs shall eat it."

Gorman did not care whether Goldsturmer's heart was eaten by dogs or
not. He did want to understand how it came that the astute Jew
expected to have the pearls offered to him. It was plain that Madame
Ypsilante did not want to sell them and that she had not suggested the
sale.

"It was Goldsturmer," said Gorman, "who told me. He seemed to think
that Miss Donovan might buy them."

Madame at once knocked down two wine-glasses and a vase of flowers.

"That cursed offspring of the litter of filthy Jews who make Hamburg
stink! Tell him that I will pull out his hair, his teeth, his eyes,
but that never, never will that American miss touch one of my pearls.
I will not sell, will not, will not."

The King looked round. He satisfied himself that the waiters had left
the room.

"Alas," he said, "alas, my poor Corinne! But consider. There is an
English proverb: the horse needs must trot along, trot smart, when it
is the devil who drives."

"He is the devil, that Emperor," said Madame. "But not for any Emperor
will I part with one single pearl."

"Look here," said Gorman. "There's evidently been some mistake about
Goldsturmer and the pearls. I don't profess to understand what's
happening, but if I'm to help you in any way----"

"You are to help damnably," said the King. "Are you not our friend?"

"In that case," said Gorman, "before I go a step further into the
matter I must know what on earth the Emperor has got to do with
Madame's pearls."

"The Emperor," said Madame Ypsilante, "is a devil."

"Take another glass of port," said the King. "No? Then light a
cigar. If you will light a cigar and fill for yourself a glass of
brandy--also for Corinne--I will tell you about the Emperor."

Gorman filled Madame's glass and his own. He was particular about
Madame's. Brandy had a soothing influence on her. He did not like her
habit of throwing things about in moments of excitement. He also lit a
cigar.

"I will make my breast clean of the whole affair," said the King.
"Then you will understand and help us. The Emperor has spilt cold
water all over Salissa--that is over the sale of the island to the
American."

"The Emperor must have very little to do," said Gorman, "if he has
time to waste in fussing about a wretched little island like Salissa.
How did he hear about the sale?"

"I think," said the King, "that Steinwitz must have permitted the cat
to jump out of the bag. Steinwitz smelt rats, of that I am sure."

"I daresay you're right," said Gorman. "I rather thought Steinwitz was
nosing around. But why does the Emperor mind? That's what I'm trying
to get at."

The King shrugged his shoulders.

"Who knows?" he said. "_Real Politik_, perhaps. What you call----How
do you call _Real Politik_?"

"Haven't got a word for it," said Gorman. "For the matter of that we
haven't got the thing. We manage along all right with sham politics,
Ireland and Insurance Acts and the rest of it. If real politics lead
to trouble over places like Salissa I prefer our home-made imitation.
But _Real Politik_ or not, the thing's done; so what's the good of the
Emperor talking?"

"The Emperor," said the King, "says 'Buy back. Take again your
island. Foot--no, it is foot of a horse--hoof, or boot away the
American. Give him his price and let him go.' And I cannot. It is no
longer possible to give back the oof."

"I quite understand that," said Gorman. "Your six weeks in Paris and
Madame's pearls----"

"The Emperor shall not touch my pearls," said Madame Ypsilante.
"Rather would I swallow them."

"The American," said the King, "will perhaps accept a reduced price.
The island is not an amusing place. Dull, my friend, dull as ditch
mud. By this time he has found out that Salissa is as respectable as
Sunday, as golf, as what you call a seasonable ticket. He will not
want to keep it. He will accept a price, perhaps, if I offer."

"I don't expect he'll accept a price at all," said Gorman, "reduced or
increased. I don't _know_, of course. He may be dead sick of the place
already; but I'll be surprised if he is. You'll find when you ask him
that he'll simply refuse to part with the island."

"But," said the King, "he must. As I have just said to Corinne, when
the devil drives the horse to water it needs must take a drink. The
Emperor has said that Salissa is once more to return to the Crown of
Megalia."

"The Emperor may say that," said Gorman, "but it doesn't at all follow
that Donovan will agree with him."

"But the Emperor----! It is not for Mr. Donovan to agree or disagree
with the Emperor. When the Emperor commands it is a case of knuckles
down. But you do not know the Emperor."

"I do not," said Gorman, "but I'm inclined to think that you take an
exaggerated view of him. After all, what can he do to Donovan or to
you for that matter? Come now, suppose you won't or can't buy back the
island, what happens? What's the alternative? There must be an
alternative of some sort."

"There is--yes, there certainly is an alternative."

The King paused and looked apprehensively at Madame Ypsilante.

"He can't lay hands on you," said Gorman, "if you stick to Paris or
even London. That Emperor isn't particularly popular in either city."

The King, his eyes still fixed on Madame Ypsilante, nodded sideways
towards Gorman. The nod was a very slight one, barely perceptible. It
suggested the need of extreme caution. Gorman is a quick-witted man
and he saw the nod, but he failed altogether to guess what the
alternative was.

Madame Ypsilante noticed the expression of the King's face when he
looked at her. She also saw the nod that was meant for Gorman. She
became uneasy. Her eyes had a hard glitter in them. Gorman at once
refilled her glass. That soothed her a little. She did not break
anything. But she spoke:

"Konrad, at once tell me all that the Emperor said."

"Corinne," said the King, "my beloved Corinne, it will make no
difference to you. The future and the past will be as six to one and
half a dozen to the other. You will always be Corinne. Have no fear,
and--as my friend Gorman would say, do not take off your hair."

"Tell me," said Madame.

"The Emperor," said the King, "has said to me, 'Buy back the island or
else marry the American.' In that way also Salissa would return to the
Crown of Megalia."

Gorman fully expected that Madame Ypsilante would at once have broken
every glass on the table. It would not have surprised him in the least
if she had torn handfuls of hair off the King's head. To his amazement
she laughed. It was a most unpleasant laugh. But it was not the laugh
of a lunatic. It was not even hysterical.

"That imbecile," she said, "that miss!"

Her contempt for the girl left no room for jealousy. Madame Ypsilante
did not seem to care whether the King married or did not.

"I don't think much of that plan," said Gorman. "Your Emperor may be
the everlasting boss you seem to think----"

"In the register of Lloyd's," said the King, "he takes place in the
class A 1st."

"But," said Gorman, "he hasn't much sense if he thinks that a girl
like Miss Donovan can be married off in that way to any one he chooses
to name. I'm not saying anything against your character, sir----"

"My Konrad," said Madame Ypsilante, "is Konrad."

"Exactly," said Gorman. "Those are my points put concisely in two
words. First he's yours and next he's himself. No. I don't think that
you've much chance of buying back the island, but you've no chance at
all of marrying the girl."

"I do not want either the one or the other," said the King. "I do not
care the cursing of a tinker, not a two-a-penny damn if I never put my
eye on the island or the girl. Arrange which you prefer. I place both
into your hands, my dear Gorman. I leave them there. I shall put my
foot on the bill if you buy and the price is moderate. I shall toe the
scratch if you arrange that I lead the American to the altar of Hymen.
Settle, arrange, fix down which you will."

Gorman gasped. He was always ready to give disinterested advice
in the King's affairs. He was even willing to lend a helping hand
in times of difficulty; but he was startled at being asked to act
as plenipotentiary for the sale of a kingdom or the negotiation of
a royal marriage.

"Do you mean to say," he said, "that you expect me to arrange the
whole thing?"

"You have tumbled to the idea with precision," said the King. "You
have caught it on. You are wonderful, my friend. Thus everything
arranges. You go to Salissa and tell the American the wishes of the
Emperor. Corinne and I return to Paris. If a sale is arranged----"

"I will not part with my pearls," said Madame. "Neither for the
Emperor nor for any one."

"Corinne!" said the King reproachfully. "Would I ask it of you? No. If
a sale is arranged I give a bill to the American, a bill of three
months, and for security I place at his disposal--I pledge the revenue
of Megalia for ten years; for a hundred years. If it seems more
desirable that I marry; good, I am ready. The American girl comes to
Paris. I meet her. We marry. The Emperor is satisfied. It is upon you,
my dear Gorman, to fix it down."

"I don't see," said Gorman, "how I can possibly undertake----It's
asking a lot, you know. Besides----"

"You are my friend," said the King. "Can I ask more than too much from
my friend?"

"Besides," said Gorman, "it's no kind of use. Donovan isn't likely to
sell. He certainly wouldn't accept your bill if he did sell. And
marrying the girl is out of the question. What's the good of my
undertaking impossibilities?"

The King stood up. With his cigar between his fingers he raised his
right hand above his head. He laid his left hand upon his shirt front.
It was an impressive and heroic attitude.

"For Gorman, M.P.," he said, "there are in the world no
impossibilities. For his talents all careers are open doors. When
Gorman, M.P., says 'I do it,' the damned thing at once is done. I
offer----But no. I do not offer where I trust----I confer upon
Gorman, M.P., the Order of the Royal Pink Vulture of Megalia, First
Class. You are Knight Commander, my friend. You are also Count Gorman
if you wish."

Madame Ypsilante slipped from her chair and knelt down at Gorman's
feet. She took his right hand and kissed it with every appearance of
fervour.

"You will do it," she said, "for the sake of Konrad Karl. Oh, Sir
Gorman, M.P., you would do it at once if you understood. Poor Konrad!
He is having so much delight with me in Paris. This time only in our
lives it has come to us to have enough money and to be in Paris. It is
cruel--so cruel that the Emperor should say: 'No. Give back the money.
Go from Paris. Be starved. Have no pearls, no joy.' But you will save
us. Say you will save us."

Gorman's position was an exceedingly difficult one. Madame Ypsilante
had firm hold on his hand. She was kissing it at the moment. He was
not at all sure that she would not bite it if he refused her request.

"I'll think the whole thing over," he said. "I don't expect I can do
anything, but I'll look into the matter and let you know."

Madame mouthed his hand in a frenzy of gratitude. She wept copiously.
Gorman could feel drops which he supposed to be tears trickling down
the inside of his sleeve. The King seized his other hand and shook it
heartily.

"It is now as good as done," he said. "Let us drink to success. I ring
the bell. I order champagne, one bottle, two bottles, three, many
bottles in the honour of my friend Sir Gorman who has said: 'Damn it,
I will.'"

Under the influence of the second bottle of champagne the King escaped
from his heroic mood. Gorman began to realize that a certain cunning
lay behind the preposterous proposal he had listened to.

"I shall inform the Emperor," said the King, "that you go to Salissa
to arrange according to his wish. I shall say: 'M.P. Count Sir Gorman
goes. He is a statesman, a financier, a diplomat, a man of uncommon
sense.' The Emperor will then be satisfied."

"He'll probably be very dissatisfied when I come back," said Gorman.

"That will be--let me consider--perhaps eight weeks. In eight weeks
many things may happen. And if not, still Corinne and I will have had
eight weeks in Paris with oof which we can burn. It is something."




CHAPTER XIII


In the end Gorman made up his mind to go to Salissa. I do not suppose
that the King's gift of the Order of the Pink Vulture had much to do
with his decision. Nor do I think that he went out of pure kindness of
heart, in order to give Konrad Karl and Madame Ypsilante eight weeks
of unalloyed delight in Paris. I know that he never had the slightest
intention of trying to persuade Donovan to part with the island,
and--Gorman has not much conscience, but he has some--nothing would
have induced him to suggest a marriage between Miss Daisy and the
disreputable King. He went to Salissa because that island seemed in a
fair way to become a very interesting place.

On the very evening of Gorman's dinner with the King I happened to
meet Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton at another, a much duller dinner
party. Sir Bartholomew was not yet Secretary of State for Balkan
Problems, but he was well known as an authority on the Near East, and
was in constant unofficial touch with the Foreign Office. He is a big
man in his way, and I was rather surprised when he buttonholed me
after the ladies had left the room. I am not a big man in any way.

"Do you happen to know a man called Gorman?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "Michael Gorman. I've met him. In fact, I know him
pretty well."

"Nationalist M.P.?"

"Sits for Upper Offaly," I said. "Can't blame him for that. Four
hundred a year is something these times."

"Bit of a blackguard, I suppose? All those fellows are."

Now, an Irishman can call another Irishman a blackguard without
offence. We know each other intimately and are fond of strong
language, but we do not like being called blackguards by Englishmen.
They do not understand us and never will. Sir Bartholomew's
description of Gorman was in bad taste and I resented it. However,
there was no use trying to explain our point of view. You cannot
explain anything to that kind of Englishman.

"He's a Member of Parliament," I said, "of your own English
Parliament. I believe that all members are honourable gentlemen."

Sir Bartholomew is a wonderful man. He actually took that remark of
mine as a testimonial to Gorman's character. The thing is almost
incredible, but he evidently felt that the word honourable, as
officially used, had a meaning something like that of trustworthy.

"I wonder," said Sir Bartholomew, "if he's a man to whom one could
talk safely on a rather confidential subject?"

"There's always supposed to be a kind of honour among thieves," I
said.

I was still rather nettled by the contemptuous assumption that Gorman
must be a blackguard simply because he is an Irish Nationalist. After
all, Sir Bartholomew's own profession is not a very respectable one.
He is a diplomatist, and diplomacy is simply the name we have agreed
to give to lying about national affairs. I cannot see that Sir
Bartholomew has any right to take up a high moral tone when speaking
of Gorman or any other Member of Parliament, Irish or English.

"I'll look up the man to-morrow," said Sir Bartholomew. "I daresay
I'll find him in the House of Commons during the afternoon."

Sir Bartholomew gave me no hint about the nature of his confidential
business. I suppose he did not feel I could be trusted. However,
Gorman told me all about it next day.

Sir Bartholomew came on Gorman in the smoking-room of the House of
Commons. He was wearing, so Gorman assures me, the very best kind of
official manner, that interesting mixture of suavity and pomposity
with which our mandarins approach the public. They hope, in this way,
to induce us to believe that they have benevolent dispositions and
immense ability. I do not know whether any one is ever deceived by
this manner or thinks of a mandarin otherwise than as a fortunate
person who earns a large salary by being stupid. Certainly Gorman was
not in the very least impressed. Being an Irishman, Gorman knows the
official class thoroughly. Ireland is a kind of laboratory for the
culture of the mandarin bacillus.

"May I," said Sir Bartholomew, "intrude on your time, and ask you one
or two questions on a matter of some little importance?"

Gorman had no objection to being asked questions. Whether he would
answer them or not was another matter.

"I think," said Sir Bartholomew, "that you know King Konrad Karl of
Megalia."

That was not a question, so Gorman gave no answer. He merely puffed at
his pipe which was not drawing well and looked at Sir Bartholomew's
round plump face.

"A rather wild young man," said Sir Bartholomew. "Dissipated would
perhaps be too strong a word. What do you think?"

"It is a strongish word," said Gorman.

Sir Bartholomew tried another cast.

"Mr. Donovan is a friend of yours, I think," he said, "and his
daughter?"

"I've met them," said Gorman.

Sir Bartholomew realized that he was not getting on very fast with
Gorman. He relapsed a little from his high official manner and adopted
a confidential tone.

"There has been a certain amount of talk in diplomatic, or shall we
say semi-diplomatic circles, about King Konrad Karl, mere gossip, of
course, but----"

"I never listen to gossip," said Gorman.

This was untrue. Gorman listens to all the gossip he can and enjoys it
thoroughly.

Sir Bartholomew found it necessary to unbend a little more. He
unbuttoned, so to speak, the two bottom buttons of the waistcoat of
pomposity which he wore.

"I was told a story the other day," he said. "Perhaps I'd better not
mention the name of my informant; but there can be no harm in saying
that he is one of the attachés of the Embassy of a great Power, a
friendly Power."

I expect Sir Bartholomew thought this way of talking would impress
Gorman. It impresses most people. Your story has a much better chance
of being believed and repeated if you tell it on the authority of some
one unnamed and vaguely described than it has if you merely say "young
Smith, the cashier in my bank, told me to-day, that...."

"I am alluding," said Sir Bartholomew, "to a report that has reached
us of an escapade of Miss Donovan's. That young lady--very charming
I'm sure--and her father's immensely rich, but--well, you know what
young girls are."

"Got engaged to a Royal Duke?" said Gorman, "or run away with the
chauffeur?"

"Oh no, nothing of that sort. Not at all. The statement with which I'm
concerned is that her father has bought an island and some kind of
title for her from that unfortunate young King of Megalia."

"So long as he paid for it," said Gorman, "I don't see that it's
anybody else's business."

"You don't understand," said Sir Bartholomew. "I haven't made myself
clear. The fact is----" He sank his voice to an awed whisper. "The
young lady is understood to claim sovereign rights over the Island of
Salissa. She calls herself--it's almost incredible, but she calls
herself a queen."

"Well," said Gorman, "why shouldn't she?"

"But, my dear sir! To set up a new independent kingdom! In the
existing state of Balkan affairs, when the Great Powers----But of
course it can be nothing but a girlish joke, a piece of light-hearted
playfulness. She can't mean----"

"Then why worry?" said Gorman. "Why should you and that attaché of the
Embassy of a Friendly Power, the fellow you've been talking about--why
should you and he start fussing?"

"My dear sir! my dear sir! Nothing, I assure you, is further from our
wishes than fuss of any kind. But unfortunately, the Emperor--the
Emperor--I respect and admire him, of course. We all do. But if the
Emperor has a fault it is that he's slightly deficient in humour. He
does not easily see a joke. He's a little--well----"

"Elephantine?" said Gorman.

Sir Bartholomew looked round hurriedly. The Division bell had just
rung. The smoking-room was almost empty. This was fortunate. It would
have been very awkward for a man in Sir Bartholomew's position to be
caught in the act of hearing an Emperor called elephantine.

"The Emperor," said Sir Bartholomew, "has approached the United States
Ambassador on the subject, indirectly, I need scarcely say. He
requests, indeed insists that Salissa shall at once be restored to the
Crown of Megalia. Now our idea is--and I think I know the views of the
Foreign Office on the subject--our idea is that this little matter
ought to be settled unofficially. A word to Mr. Donovan from a friend.
A hint about the present critical condition of European politics. He
might----"

"I don't suppose," said Gorman, "that Donovan cares a damn about
European politics."

Sir Bartholomew's eyebrows went up in shocked surprise.

"It is of the first importance," he said, "of absolutely vital
importance that at the present moment, standing as we do, as all
Europe stands to-day, on the verge of the smouldering crater of a
volcano----"

"This is the House of Commons, of course," said Gorman, "so I suppose
you can talk that kind of language if you like. But we don't usually
do it in the smoking-room."

Sir Bartholomew had not attained to the eminent position he occupied
without learning a few lessons in tact. He changed his tone at once.

"The fact is," he said, "that just at present we all want to avoid
friction with the Emperor."

"Ah," said Gorman, "and your idea is----?"

"Mr. Donovan must be persuaded to give up that island. Pressure could
be put on him, of course, by his own Government and by ours. His
position is preposterous. He can't set his daughter up as a European
sovereign simply by writing a cheque. But we don't want--nobody wants
any publicity or scandal. If Mr. Donovan would agree, privately, to
resign all claim on Salissa----"

"Why not ask him?"

Sir Bartholomew's manner became most ingratiating.

"We feel that the good offices of a mutual friend, some one who
occupies no official position, some one unconnected with the Foreign
Office----In short, Mr. Gorman, would you undertake this rather
delicate mission?"

"Why the devil do you hit on me for the job?"

"Ah," said Sir Bartholomew, smiling, "you see we all know something
about you, Mr. Gorman. Your business ability, your unfailing tact,
your----"

"Taken as read," said Gorman.

Sir Bartholomew cannot possibly have liked Gorman's manner. No public
men discuss serious and confidential matters with this kind of
flippancy. But he had been obliged to meet even more disconcerting
people in the Balkans. He prided himself on being able to negotiate
with men of any manners or none.

"Knowing the work you have done for your party in America," he went
on, "knowing your friendship with the Donovans and your acquaintance
with the King of Megalia, it seemed to us--not to me, you know. I
don't really matter. It seemed to us that you were the best possible
person."

"I see. Well, supposing I undertake the job, what am I to say to
Donovan? He's paid a big price for that island. Is he to get his money
back?"

"Of course, of course. No one expects Mr. Donovan to make any
financial sacrifice."

"Who's going to pay?"

"The King. King Konrad Karl."

"That King," said Gorman, "isn't very good at paying."

"In this case he will have no choice. The Emperor will insist on his
paying."

"The Emperor is a powerful man," said Gorman, "but even he would
hardly be able to make King Konrad Karl fork out what he hasn't got.
You may safely bet your last shilling that most of what Donovan paid
for that island is spent, chucked away, gone scat."

"The Emperor," said Sir Bartholomew, "will be responsible for the
return in full of the purchase price."

"Very well," said Gorman, "and now suppose Donovan won't sell. Suppose
he simply says 'No.'"

"There is an alternative policy," said Sir Bartholomew. "It has
occurred to some of us who are interested in the matter--I am not now
speaking with the authority of any ambassador, certainly not with the
formal approval of our Foreign Office. It has occurred to _me_--I will
put it that way. It has occurred to me that the matter might be
settled quite satisfactorily to all parties, to the Emperor certainly
if----The King of Megalia is, I think, unmarried."

"There's Madame Ypsilante," said Gorman, "a lady----"

"A lady! Pooh! In these cases there is always a lady. But the King is
unmarried. Miss Donovan, so we understand, wishes to be a queen. You
catch my meaning?"

"Perfectly. You want me to arrange a marriage between----"

"My dear Mr. Gorman! I want nothing of the sort. I do not ask you to
arrange anything. I merely say that if such a marriage were to take
place the Emperor would probably be satisfied. I am aware that the
personal character of King Konrad Karl is not such----But he is a
young man. There are possibilities of improvement."

"There's certainly room for it."

"Exactly. And the influence of a good woman is just what is needed. A
young, sweet, innocent girl has a marvellous influence. She appeals to
that best which is present even in the worst of us." Sir Bartholomew
liked this phrase. He repeated it. "That best, that astonishing best,
which is always present even in the worst of us. She might call it
out. She might make a new man of King Konrad Karl."

Gorman looked at Sir Bartholomew with an expression of grave and
interested inquiry.

"You think that if Miss Donovan married the King she would save him
from the clutches of Madame Ypsilante."

"Not a doubt of it. And what a splendid thing that would be! It's just
the sort of an idea which would make a strong appeal to a girl. Women
like the idea of reforming their husbands. Besides, the prospect for
her is in other respects most brilliant. She would be recognized by
the Emperor. She would be received in the most exclusive Courts of
Europe. But I need not expatiate. You understand the position."

"I don't remember any case of an American heiress marrying a king,"
said Gorman.

"Just so. This would be unique, splendid. And I need not say, Mr.
Gorman, that if you see your way to oblige us in this matter your
services will not go unrecognized. If there is any particular way in
which you would like us to show our appreciation you have only to
mention it. The next Honours List----"

"All right," said Gorman, "I'll go. Where is Salissa?"

"In the Cyrenian Sea. It's an island. Quite charming, I believe. I am
sure you will enjoy the trip. Your best plan will be to see Steinwitz
about the matter. Steinwitz is managing director----"

"Quite so. I know him. Cyrenian Sea Steam Navigation Company."

"His ships go there," said Sir Bartholomew. "I have no doubt that he
will arrange for you to make the voyage comfortably. I may mention,
between ourselves, that Steinwitz is interested in the success of the
negotiations."

"Acting for the Emperor?"

"Well, yes. Unofficially. He is in a certain sense the agent of the
Emperor."

"All right," said Gorman. "I'll see him. And if I pull the thing off I
may count on----?"

"You may ask for what you like," said Sir Bartholomew. "You've only
got to drop me a hint. Anything in reason. A knighthood? Or a
baronetcy? I think we could manage a baronetcy. A post in the
Government? A Civil List pension? Your services to literature fully
entitle you----"

"On the whole," said Gorman, "I think I'll ask for Home Rule for
Ireland."

"Ah," said Sir Bartholomew, "you Irish! Always witty! Always
sparkling, paradoxical, brilliant! I shall tell the Prime Minister
what you say. He'll enjoy it. What should we do without you Irish?
Life would be dull indeed. What is it the poet says? Wordsworth, I
think. 'Turning to mirth, All things of earth, As only boyhood can.'
You are all boys. That is why we love you. Your freshness. Your
delightful capacity for the absurd. I feel that in choosing you for
this delicate mission we have chosen the right man. Only an Irishman
could hope to succeed in an affair of this kind. Good-bye, Mr. Gorman,
and be sure to let me know in good time what we are to do for you.
I'll charge myself with seeing that your claim is not overlooked."




CHAPTER XIV


"I'm going, of course," said Gorman. "The whole thing is interesting,
quite exciting."

He had just given me a detailed account of his interview with Sir
Bartholomew Bland-Potterton, and a rather picturesque version of the
way King Konrad Karl presented his case.

"Do you expect," I said, "to be able to persuade Donovan to sell?"

"Of course not," said Gorman. "I don't even mean to try."

"Gorman," I said, "I'm accustomed more or less to political morality,
I mean the morality of politicians. I recognize--everybody must
recognize--that you can't be expected to tie yourselves down to the
ordinary standards. But----"

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing much. Only you've accepted a Pink Vulture from Megalia
and a baronetcy from England as a reward for services you don't mean
to render. Now is that quite--quite----?"

Gorman looked at me for a minute without speaking. There was a
peculiar twinkle in his eyes.

"If I were you," he said at last, "I'd go back to Ireland for a while.
Try Dublin. You have been too long over here. You wouldn't say things
like that if you weren't becoming English."

I accepted the rebuke. Gorman was perfectly right. In English public
life it is necessary to profess a respect for decency, to make aprons
of fig leaves. In Ireland we do without these coverings.

"I shouldn't wonder," said Gorman, "if I got some sort of decoration
out of the Emperor too before I'm through with this business. Once
these ribbons and stars begin to drop on a man, they come thick and
fast, kind of attract each other, I suppose. I wonder," he added with
sudden irrelevancy, "what the Emperor's game is. That's what I've been
trying to make out all along. Why is he in it?"

"He wants the Island of Salissa restored to the Crown of Megalia," I
said. "You've been told that often enough."

"Yes, but why? Why? The island isn't worth having. As well as I can
make out it's simply a rock with a little clay sprinkled on top of it.
What can it matter to the Emperor who owns the place? It isn't as if
it were his originally or as if it would become his. It belongs to
Megalia. With all the fuss that's being made you'd think there was a
gold mine there."

The puzzle became more complicated and Gorman's curiosity was further
whetted before he started for Salissa. After leaving my rooms he went
to Cockspur Street and called at the office of the Cyrenian Sea Steam
Navigation Company. Steinwitz was expecting him and received him in
the most friendly manner.

"Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton," said Steinwitz, "rang me up this
morning, and told me that you'd undertaken our little negotiation. I
need scarcely say that we're quite satisfied. We feel----"

"By we," said Gorman, "you mean yourself and the Emperor, I suppose.
Now what I want to know is this: Why is the Emperor so keen on----?"

Steinwitz waved that question away with a motion of his hand.

"I do not discuss the policy of the Emperor," he said.

"You must be the only man in Europe who doesn't," said Gorman.
"However, I don't mind. I suppose the Emperor must have some pretty
strong reasons for wanting to get Donovan out of Salissa, or he
wouldn't offer to pay a fancy price--it was a fancy price, you know."

"King Konrad Karl will pay," said Steinwitz.

"No, he won't. He can't. He hasn't got it. There's a cool ten thousand
gone on a pearl necklace, as well as----"

"Goldsturmer is prepared to buy back the necklace," said Steinwitz. "I
have arranged that."

"Well," said Gorman, "it's your affair, of course. But I wouldn't be
too sure. I don't think Madame Ypsilante will sell at any price."

"Madame Ypsilante will do what she must," said Steinwitz. "The
Emperor----"

"I don't envy the Emperor the job of tackling her," said Gorman. "He
won't find it a bit pleasant. I daresay he doesn't know Madame
Ypsilante. He wouldn't be so cocksure of himself if he did. She's the
kind of woman who throws things about if she's the least irritated. If
the Emperor suggests her selling those jewels there'll be a riot. But
it's no business of mine. If that Emperor of yours really enjoys a rag
with a woman like Madame Ypsilante--I should have thought a man in his
position wouldn't care to be mixed up in the sort of scene there will
certainly be."

Steinwitz stiffened visibly. His hair always stands upright on his
head. It actually bristled while Gorman was speaking.

"I do not," he said, "discuss the Emperor in that way. It is enough
for you to know this. Madame Ypsilante will sell. Goldsturmer will
buy. I myself will settle these matters."

Gorman was enjoying himself greatly. Nothing in the world gives him
more pleasure than intercourse with a man who takes himself seriously.
Steinwitz was a real delight. He was solemnly and ponderously serious
about himself. He was pontifical about the Emperor.

"Goldsturmer," said Gorman, "is a Jew, and the Jews are a cautious
race. However, if you go to him and say 'The Emperor' in an _Open
Sesame_ tone of voice he'll no doubt give in at once."

"Exactly," said Steinwitz gravely.

Gorman collapsed then. Steinwitz' portentous solemnity was too much
for him. Sticking pins into a man or an ape is a pleasant sport. They
have skins of reasonable density. It is dull work pricking a
rhinoceros, even with a rapier.

"About going to Salissa," he said meekly. "Can you manage to send me
there?"

"Certainly," said Steinwitz. "How soon can you start?"

"At once," said Gorman. "I'll buy a tooth-brush on my way to the
steamer. I realize that I must waste no time when conducting business
for the Emperor."

"That is so," said Steinwitz, "but you cannot start before to-morrow.
To-morrow at 9 a.m. the _Ida_ leaves Tilbury. She is the steamer which
Mr. Donovan chartered from us. She returns to the island according to
his orders. If you care to sail on her----"

Steinwitz took up the receiver of the telephone which stood on his
desk.

"Is Captain Wilson in the office?" he called. "Captain Wilson of the
_Ida_. Oh, he's not, but Mr. Phillips is. Very well. Ask Mr. Phillips
to come up and speak to me here. Mr. Phillips," he explained to
Gorman, "is first officer on the _Ida_. I shall give him orders to be
ready for you to-morrow."

There was a brisk tap at the door. Phillips walked in.

"Mr. Phillips," said Steinwitz, "Mr. Gorman will sail with you
to-morrow on the _Ida_. You will see that a cabin is prepared for
him, and tell Captain Wilson, with my compliments, that Mr. Gorman is
to be made as comfortable as possible. If there are any particular
directions you'd like to give, Mr. Gorman----"

"I prefer Irish to Scotch," said Gorman, "but I don't insist on it."

"Irish? Scotch?" said Steinwitz. "Ah, yes, whisky, of course. Make a
note of that, if you please, Mr. Phillips."

"And I detest tinned salmon," said Gorman.

"You need not be uneasy," said Steinwitz. "On our ships no passenger
is ever asked to eat tinned salmon. As the guest of the company----"

"Of the Emperor," said Gorman.

He deliberately winked at Phillips when he mentioned the Emperor.
Phillips has a nice, round, sun-burned face, clear eyes and curly
hair. Gorman felt that it would be easy to make friends with him.
Phillips laughed and then checked himself abruptly. He saw no joke in
a reference to the Emperor, but Gorman's wink appealed to him
strongly. Steinwitz frowned.

"That will do, Mr. Phillips," he said.

He turned to Gorman when the young man left the room.

"You will let me hear from you," he said. "I shall expect a letter.
The _Ida_ will, no doubt, return after she is unloaded. You can give
your letters to Captain Wilson."

"I suppose there's no other way of sending letters?"

"A coasting steamer, perhaps," said Steinwitz, "or a fishing boat
might put in at the island; but the _Ida_ will be your best means of
communicating with me."

"All right," said Gorman. "I'll let you know how things go on. But
don't be too sanguine. Donovan may refuse to sell."

He rose to go as he spoke. Steinwitz made one more remark before the
interview closed.

"One way or other," he said, "I hear very often from the island."

The words were spoken in a colourless tone; but Gorman felt vaguely
that they were a kind of threat. Steinwitz said that he heard
frequently from the island. Gorman thought the statement over.
Evidently Steinwitz had a correspondent there, some one who made use
of the _Ida_, of any coasting steamer which turned up, of the fishing
boats which put in. Steinwitz would not be entirely dependent on
Gorman's account of his mission. He would hear about it from some one
else, would know whether the sale had been pressed on Donovan.

Gorman left the office a little puzzled. The threat suggested by
Steinwitz' last words was veiled but hardly to be mistaken. It
certainly seemed to Gorman that he was to be watched by some one on
the island, his life spied on, his actions reported to this perfectly
absurd German shipowner; by him, no doubt, again reported to the
Emperor. The thing seemed almost too good to be true. Gorman, himself
a clever man, found it difficult to believe that another clever
man--Steinwitz certainly had brains of a sort--could possibly be such
an idiot as to practise melodrama, spies, secret reports and all the
rest of it, quite seriously.

Gorman found himself wondering what on earth Steinwitz expected to
learn from his correspondent in Salissa and what use the information
would be to him when he got it. Would Donovan be threatened with the
implacable wrath of the Emperor? Would he himself, Michael Gorman,
M.P. for Upper Offaly, incur some awful penalty if he did not persuade
Donovan to sell, if he did his best--he certainly meant to do his
best--to prevent a marriage between Miss Donovan and King Konrad Karl?
He chuckled with delight at the prospect and was more than ever glad
that he had promised to go to Salissa.

The voyage turned out to be a very agreeable one. Captain Wilson was
not, indeed, a cheerful companion. He maintained the attitude of stiff
disapproval with which he had all along regarded Salissa and
everything connected with that island. He gave Gorman to understand
that he meant to do his duty to his employers, to obey orders
faithfully, to carry ridiculous things and foolish people to and fro
between Salissa and England; but that he in no way approved of the
waste of a good ship, quantities of coal and the energies of officers
like himself over the silly fad of a wealthy young woman.

Phillips, on the other hand, was friendly from the start. He and
Gorman spent many hours together on the bridge or in the cabin. The
weather was fine and warm. The _Ida_ slipped quietly across the Bay,
found calm days and velvety nights off the coast of Portugal, carried
her good luck with her through the Straits of Gibraltar.

A much duller man than Gorman would not have failed to discover that
Phillips was deeply in love with the young Queen of Salissa. All talk
worked back to her sooner or later. And Phillips became eloquent about
her. With naïve enthusiasm he praised her beauty. He raved about the
sweetness of her disposition. He struggled hard for words which would
describe her incomparable charm.

Gorman says he liked listening to the boy. He himself has never
married, 

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