"This," thought Lionel, as he waited for her return, "is a queer business, a very queer business indeed. Here we have the indispensable ingredients for an adventure--night, a pretty actress, and an impecunious young man who has played the n.o.ble 'Ero. What happens? The lady sweeps the 'Ero off in a chariot, takes him to her dressing-room, behaves with surprising propriety (quite like an ordinary mortal, in fact), and proceeds to tell him a tale worthy of a writer of feuilletons. What does it mean? What is the idea, the general scheme?

The tale must be lies,--pure, unvarnished buncombe, in the language of the vulgar. It is too much to swallow a kidnaping, a tour through, let me see ... Germany, Austria, Rumania, and, h'm ... h'm ... Bulgaria and Rumelia; a bashi-bazouk in Constantinople, a forced marriage--I suppose that's bound to come--and all the rest.... No, my delightful charmer, this really is a little bit too much ... your emotional faculties and the life of the footlights have led you astray...."

But he shook his head, dissatisfied. The simple explanation that she was telling lies was too simple. It explained nothing. The remembrance of her delicious personality sent incredulity to the right-about. Her gracious presence, dignified, commanding, womanly; her brilliant eyes, shining with purity, sympathy and truth; her force of character that revealed itself in every tone and gesture; her pretty hands ... these and a hundred other witnesses battled in her favor. "Besides," he thought, striving to weigh all evidence impartially, "what possible object could she have in lying to me--to me of all people? She knows I am poor and useless for purposes of blackmail. She is too ethereal a creature for a vulgar intrigue--of that I am as sure as that I am neither mad nor dreaming. No; the bare hard facts go to prove that she is telling the truth. Again, why should she lie to the 'Ero who has saved her life? Surely the 'Ero may bring that forward with justice.--'Not guilty, my lord!'" he said aloud, acquitting the fair defendant with a convinced enthusiasm, for he was really glad to believe the new G.o.ddess a G.o.ddess indeed. Then for a moment doubt returned: "But this room--this girl--the whole adventure is so fantastic, the tale so unlikely, that I can hardly ... Lionel, enough! It may be true, and the evidence is in her favor. Be content to wait on events. At least, it is a variation from the normal--an agreeable break in the monotony of Mrs.

Barker and the world. Let me seize the moment, enjoy my brief hour, and allow the future to take care of itself. At worst, I can be no loser at the game ... no ... unless I fall in love with her.... But that must not happen ... it _must_ not happen.... Still, I could wish she had no husband!"

The wish being vain, if not immoral, he laughed wryly at himself and picked up a book that he found lying on the mantelpiece. It was a little volume of light verse, and it whiled away the time until his hostess reappeared. This was about half an hour after her exit. She entered, radiant with triumph.

"Has it seemed long?" she asked, pulling back the curtain and drawing out a chair.

"An eternity," he answered smoothly enough, rising and closing the door.

"And now the rest of your wonderful story, if you are not too tired."

"Not at all," she said; "but it sounds odd to hear you call it 'wonderful.' To me, who lived it, it seemed inevitable and ordinary: even now it hardly seems wonderful. But this is waste of time. I must try to hurry the crisis.... Let me see, where did I stop?... Ah! I remember now....

"Well, I lived two years a prisoner, and time dulled my pain. Escape was hopeless, and I tried to be as cheerful as I could. No news reached me of the outer world--I did not even know whether my father and sister were alive. That was hard, but I, too, learned hardness from experience.

"One morning Lukos came to my room as usual, but not in his usual spirits. I rallied him on his dulness (oh! we were good friends, in spite of the anomalous position; that is really the least surprising feature of the story!), but he did not respond. When at last he walked toward the window and had stood, gloomily at gaze, for several minutes, I felt alarmed. He had never been in such a mood before. 'Lukos,' I said gently, 'what is the matter?'

"In a moment he was at my feet, pouring forth a torrent of words. 'Heart of my heart!' he cried in tones that would have racked a devil; 'can you ask! You know that I love you, for my eyes and soul have spoken. I bought you as merchandise, with little care; I have learned to love you as a woman should be loved, with all the strength of my being, the force of my spirit, the frenzy of a madman that rejoices in his madness!

For you I would do anything--I would tear the sultan from his throne--I would seize every mosque in the empire to found a new religion, the worship of yourself! I am your master, and yet the meanest of your slaves! You can stir me with a quiver of your eyelashes--'

"'Yet you will not set me free,' I said, pitying, but justly reproachful.

"'No,' he groaned. 'I love you so much that I will not climb the heights of renunciation. I love you enough to respect your defenselessness, but I _can not_ let you go to be, perhaps, another's. Oh, lady of my soul, can you not be merciful? Can you not unbend from your divinity and love me? Star of the West, can you not illumine an eastern desert, for I love you--I love you!'"

"Mountebank!" said Lionel with a fine contempt. He disliked Lukos.

"He had a poetic nature," pouted the lady. "Besides, we Occidentals, colder in spirit, less imaginative, must make allowances for exotic pa.s.sion. I confess that his words moved me. But I took his hand and said, 'It is impossible, my friend.'"

"Ah!" said Lionel, taking fresh courage and a cigarette.

"My words," she continued, "seemed to carry conviction. I felt a hot tear fall on my hand, and there was silence. The next moment he stood up and salaamed gravely. 'Lady of my dreams,' he said, 'you have conquered.

I will let you go ... at a price!'

"'What is the price?' I asked fearfully. He looked like a martyr.

"'My life,' he replied. 'I can give you up, but I can not live without you. You are free, but I must die.'"

"d.a.m.ned actor!" burst out Lionel, in the depths of despair, for he foresaw the end. "I beg your pardon--I beg your pardon--but----"

"He really _meant_ it," said the lady with some petulance. "Please control yourself while I finish. Of course I could not think of allowing him to kill himself, so I reasoned with him. It was useless, for he was resolved. I even offered, at last, to resign my freedom and remain with him on the old terms: again he refused. 'No,' he said; 'it can not be, Dispenser of Delight. I have suffered too much. You must marry me or bid good-by to Turkey.'"

"So you married him?" said Lionel gloomily. He had forgotten all his earlier doubts.

"Yes. I could not bear to think of his suicide, for I liked him very well. Besides, I had grown less sentimental during my two years of 'life,' and believed I should find more happiness in such a union than in many that are supposed to be made for 'love.' But I must admit that romance found, and still finds, a corner in my heart. The primitive idea of marriage by capture is even now immensely popular. You see, the figure of Lukos, pa.s.sionate, brave, reckless, fiery, ready to kill himself----"

"Oh, say he was a demiG.o.d," interrupted Lionel with bitterness, "and let us pa.s.s on."

"All these Byronic attributes," said the lady calmly, "combined to whip my reluctant liking into a pa.s.sable resemblance to love.... Well, I let him go--as far as the door. As he was opening it I made my decision and whispered '_Lukos!_' He turned, looking like a magnificent tiger, crouching for a spring. A light gleamed from his eyes, rivaling the flash of his jeweled sword-hilt. With a bound----"

"Quite so--quite so!" said Lionel uncomfortably: the idea of being audience to such a love-scene was most repugnant. "I see--I see ... of course he would be immensely pleased--in fact, quite another man. Well, you married him----?"

"The next day," said the lady. "The Patriarch of Jerusalem, who happened to be visiting the city at the time, made us one. And then I settled down to what I imagined would be a peaceful and happy life.

"And it was happy. Of course I now had as much freedom as I wished, and in a short while moved in the best European society in Constantinople.

No hint of my story got abroad: it was understood that I had met Lukos in London. I wrote to my sister, telling the whole story and enjoining secrecy. She replied affectionately, giving me at the same time the news of my father's death, three months earlier. She suggested a visit, but various trifling incidents--such as influenza and a craze for Christian Science--continually postponed it until it was too late. Lukos and I also promised ourselves a trip to England, but that, too, never came about.... My little Lionel----"

The listener bounded in his chair. Then, recollecting himself, he apologized.

"--My little Lionel was born a year after our marriage. He lived three weeks.... At the moment, I was stricken; but in a very short time I felt that he was fortunate. The end came thus--

"A month later Lukos entered my room one afternoon with a grave face.

'My wife,' he said, 'you must be brave. We leave Constantinople to-night.'

"'Why?' I asked.

"He explained hurriedly. It seemed that for months past the sultan had been intriguing with a foreign power against Great Britain. Lukos had got wind of the negotiations and knew the policy was fatal. He recognized that the interests of Turkey were bound up with those of England. He resolved to foil the sultan's plans. Two courses were open to him--a revolution and a new dynasty, or a disclosure of the plan to England. Averse from plunging his country into civil war, he resolved to try the latter first. After a.s.siduous bribing he secured a draft of a secret treaty between the Porte and the other Power, but within twenty-four hours suspicion fell on him. He was warned that arrest was imminent. Flight was imperative.

"'Disguise yourself as a _pustchik_ (water-carrier) and go on board our yacht at once,' he said. Then, drawing a bundle of Cook's vouchers from his pocket, 'Take these in case anything happens. And this, too--it is the treaty. If anything happens to me, do not wait: fly to England and take the treaty to the English Foreign Office. I can not go with you now--there are duties to be done first--but I hope to join you. If I do not come by eleven o'clock, weigh anchor. I shall have died for my country. You will do this for the sake of Turkey?'

"My eyes filled with tears, but I knew that I could serve him best by obedience. 'Yes, Lukos,' I said, and his eyes spoke his grat.i.tude. We embraced and parted.

"I reached the yacht safely and found that steam was up already. The afternoon and evening pa.s.sed like a heavy dream. At half past ten Lukos had not come. A quarter to eleven, and I was still alone. At eleven o'clock I wept (for I had grown to love him well), but I was true to my promise and ordered the captain to start. We reached Brindisi in due course, and there I determined to go overland to England, sending the yacht back in the hope that it might still be useful to my husband if by any chance he escaped. I did this, and in a very short time found myself in London."

"And took a taxi to the F. O.?" said Lionel with interest. Really, it was a most exciting story.

"No," said the lady. "The day I reached town a note was left at my hotel--I had been dogged! It was written in Turkish and ran, 'The day the British government receives your communication, that day your husband dies.' There was neither address nor signature. It proved that I and my schemes were known, but--it proved that my husband was still alive.

"This gave me hope. With the treaty as a lever I might yet free Lukos. I have been working to that end for six months--ever since I came to England. It is a slow business, this diplomacy, but I am beginning to have strong hopes. And now I think it is almost the time to strike."

"But you must be careful," said Lionel anxiously. "With such a doc.u.ment----"

She smiled faintly.

"Twice already they have made attempts." She opened a drawer in an escritoire near at hand. Within lay a small but serviceable revolver.

"See! I always go armed. Of course it is useless to approach the police--that would sign Lukos' death-warrant at once.

"But to return and finish my tale.... As soon as possible I wrote to my sister. I did not go to her, not wishing to involve her in my perils. I explained as much of the situation as I could, hinted at high politics, and begged her not to see me till I gave the word. She was puzzled, but obeyed. She wrote back a loving letter, the most important feature of which was the news that my share of my father's estate (eight hundred a year) could be drawn on at Coutts'. Already a handsome sum was to my credit, for I had not required any money while Lukos and I were together. So with this sum and Lukos' notes at my disposal I was in no need of money. But I soon found that I needed a hobby to keep me from thinking too much, and that brings me rapidly to the stage.

"'A hobby' under such circ.u.mstances must sound curious: really, it is mere common sense. The paths of diplomacy I discovered were very steep, the movement of the wheels was very slow. When I had done everything possible and could think of nothing else, I had a great deal of time on my hands. Painting and music were not to my taste; acting was, for I had always had, like most young people, a liking for the stage. Also, like most young people, I believed I had the dramatic instinct. I got to know a manager--with money things are easy--and he gave me a small part, a few lines, in a new play. There was nothing in that, but what followed was really my one piece of luck. In return for a consideration he allowed me to understudy the lead, never dreaming my capacity would be tested. A fortnight later my princ.i.p.al slipped on a fruit-skin and broke her leg. (The incident gave rise to a correspondence on the Banana Fall in one of the cheaper papers.) I played the part that night, and, unlike most young people, my belief in myself was justified. I was a success.

The manager, rejoicing that he need not look for a new princ.i.p.al, plumed himself on his discernment, and 'boomed' me for all he was worth.

"Well, I was a success; but naturally I had to pay the price. In this case the price was my sister's affection. From the first she had objected to my going on the stage: it was a case of conscientious prejudice, and that is one of the stubbornest things on earth. She had written daily letters of appeal, and all my arguments were useless. I do not wish to dwell on this ... enough to say that there grew an estrangement ... now, we do not even write...."

"Strange," said Lionel thoughtfully, "how even the best can be obstinate. I hope that time may----"

"That reminds me!" said the lady briskly, shaking off her sadness and glancing at the clock, "I shall be on again shortly. Will you do something for me? Thank you--I was sure you would. At a quarter to eleven go out and get me a cab or a taxi. Now, it is important that we should not be seen leaving the theater together--there will probably be spies. Oh, yes! I know it sounds absurd, but in this you must be guided by me. Get the cab and drive back by devious ways to the stage-door.