The Port of Missing Men.

by Meredith Nicholson.

THE SHINING ROAD

Come, sweetheart, let us ride away beyond the city's bound, And seek what pleasant lands across the distant hills are found.

There is a golden light that shines beyond the verge of dawn, And there are happy highways leading on and always on; So, sweetheart, let us mount and ride, with never a backward glance, To find the pleasant shelter of the Valley of Romance.

Before us, down the golden road, floats dust from charging steeds, Where two adventurous companies clash loud in mighty deeds; And from the tower that stands alert like some tall, beckoning pine, E'en now, my heart, I see afar the lights of welcome shine!

So loose the rein and cheer the steed and let us race away To seek the lands that lie beyond the Borders of To-day.

Draw rein and rest a moment here in this cool vale of peace; The race half-run, the goal half-won, half won the sure release!

To right and left are flowery fields, and brooks go singing down To mock the sober folk who still are prisoned in the town.

Now to the trail again, dear heart; my arm and blade are true, And on some plain ere night descend I'll break a lance for you!

O sweetheart, it is good to find the pathway shining clear!

The road is broad, the hope is sure, and you are near and dear!

So loose the rein and cheer the steed and let us race away To seek the lands that lie beyond the borders of To-day.

Oh, we shall hear at last, my heart, a cheering welcome cried As o'er a clattering drawbridge through the Gate of Dreams we ride!

CHAPTER I

"EVENTS, EVENTS"

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Wherein he puts alms for oblivion.

--_Troilus and Cressida._

"The knowledge that you're alive gives me no pleasure," growled the grim old Austrian premier.

"Thank you!" laughed John Armitage, to whom he had spoken. "You have lost none of your old amiability; but for a renowned diplomat, you are remarkably frank. When I called on you in Paris, a year ago, I was able to render you--I believe you admitted it--a slight service."

Count Ferdinand von Stroebel bowed slightly, but did not take his eyes from the young man who sat opposite him in his rooms at the Hotel Monte Rosa in Geneva. On the table between them stood an open despatch box, and about it lay a number of packets of papers which the old gentleman, with characteristic caution, had removed to his own side of the table before admitting his caller. He was a burly old man, with ma.s.sive shoulders and a great head thickly covered with iron-gray hair.

He trusted no one, and this accounted for his presence in Geneva in March, of the year 1903, whither he had gone to receive the report of the secret agents whom he had lately despatched to Paris on an errand of peculiar delicacy. The agents had failed in their mission, and Von Stroebel was not tolerant of failure. Perhaps if he had known that within a week the tapers would burn about his bier in Saint Stephen's Cathedral, at Vienna, while his life and public services would be estimated in varying degrees of admiration or execration by the newspapers of Europe, he might not have dealt so harshly with his hard-worked spies.

It was not often that the light in the old man's eyes was as gentle as now. He had sent his secret agents away and was to return to Vienna on the following day. The young man whom he now entertained in his apartments received his whole attention. He picked up the card which lay on the table and scrutinized it critically, while his eyes lighted with sudden humor.

The card was a gentleman's _carte de visite_, and bore the name John Armitage.

"I believe this is the same alias you were using when I saw you in Paris.

Where did you get it?" demanded the minister.

"I rather liked the sound of it, so I had the cards made," replied the young man. "Besides, it's English, and I pa.s.s readily for an Englishman.

I have quite got used to it."

"Which is not particularly creditable; but it's probably just as well so."

He drew closer to the table, and his keen old eyes snapped with the intentness of his thought. The hands he clasped on the table were those of age, and it was pathetically evident that he folded them to hide their slight palsy.

"I hope you are quite well," said Armitage kindly.

"I am not. I am anything but well. I am an old man, and I have had no rest for twenty years."

"It is the penalty of greatness. It is Austria's good fortune that you have devoted yourself to the affairs of government. I have read--only to-day, in the _Contemporary Review_--an admirable tribute to your sagacity in handling the Servian affair. Your work was masterly. I followed it from the beginning with deepest interest."

The old gentleman bowed half-unconsciously, for his thoughts were far away, as the vague stare in his small, shrewd eyes indicated.

"But you are here for rest--one comes to Geneva at this season for nothing else."

"What brings you here?" asked the old man with sudden energy. "If the papers you gave me in Paris are forgeries and you are waiting--"

"Yes; a.s.suming that, what should I be waiting for?"

"If you are waiting for events--for events! If you expect something to happen!"

Armitage laughed at the old gentleman's earnest manner, asked if he might smoke, and lighted a cigarette.

"Waiting doesn't suit me. I thought you understood that. I was not born for the waiting list. You see, I have strong hands--and my wits are--let us say--average!"

Von Stroebel clasped his own hands together more firmly and bent toward Armitage searchingly.

"Is it true"--he turned again and glanced about--"is it positively true that the Archduke Karl is dead?"

"Yes; quite true. There is absolutely no doubt of it," said Armitage, meeting the old man's eyes steadily.

"The report that he is still living somewhere in North America is persistent. We hear it frequently in Vienna; I have heard it since you told me that story and gave me those papers in Paris last year."

"I am aware of that," replied John Armitage; "but I told you the truth.

He died in a Canadian lumber camp. We were in the north hunting--you may recall that he was fond of that sort of thing."

"Yes, I remember; there was nothing else he did so well," growled Von Stroebel.

"And the packet I gave you--"

The old man nodded.

"--that packet contained the Archduke Karl's sworn arraignment of his wife. It is of great importance, indeed, to Francis, his worthless son, or supposed son, who may present himself for coronation one of these days!"

"Not with Karl appearing in all parts of the world, never quite dead, never quite alive--and his son Frederick Augustus lurking with him in the shadows. Who knows whether they are dead?"

"I am the only person on earth in a position to make that clear," said John Armitage.

"Then you should give me the doc.u.ments."