Chapter 11: In the Regent’s Study

Stanief was writing, writing steadily, placidly, his pen rustling faintly as it slipped across the paper. The ruddy glow of the open fire was tangled and reflected among the many-faceted knickknacks that littered the desk, caught and tossed back from a dozen shining surfaces, and mockingly echoed by deep-tinted walls and draperies. Most ruddily, most vividly, the light seemed to gather around the writer, as if its quivering pink radiance were a warning or a shield.

It was like another presence in the room, that fire, to the man behind the curtain. He watched it also as he crept stealthily forward, clutching more tightly the object in his hand. A man of the people, shabby, gaunt, unkempt, he stole out into the Regent’s study, stepping cautiously on the gleaming floor or on the treacherously soft rugs which slipped beneath his unaccustomed feet. From the velvet hangings he gained the shelter of a tall Vernis-Martin cabinet and crouched in the shadow, shaking from head to foot with nervous tremors.

Stanief worked on undisturbed; once he paused to choose another pen, and the intruder cowered to the floor in abject fear. But the writing was resumed without alarm. After a few moments the man again moved forward, this time on his hands and knees, until he reached the end of a high-sided leather couch. There he halted again. Coming here with a purpose so bold, the habit of a lifetime yet prompted him to hold his soiled garments away from the gilded and perfumed upholstery with a vague sense of apology.

There never was a clock that ticked so loudly, so insistently as the timepiece above the hearth, a clock that set its beats so exactly to the beat of a man’s hurrying pulse. Once the man on the floor touched his chest curiously, as if to be quite certain whether it was his heart, or indeed the swaying pendulum which sounded through the quiet place. Reassured, he moved on.

The glowing firelight wavered giddily across Stanief’s bent head, seeking in vain for a hint of brown in the fine black hair, which had a slight ripple and a tendency to lie in tiny curls where it touched the neck. The man noted this dully. If one struck there? Or lower, between the broad shoulders—

Stanief leaned back and selected a cigarette from the tray on the writing-table. His drowsy lashes fell meditatively as he reached for a match, a half-smile curved his lips. The man by the chair darted forward and struck once, from behind.

The knife crashed ringing to the floor as Stanief’s quicker movement met his assailant’s. The man cried out sharply as the strong white hands closed on his wrists and the superior strength forced him to his knees beside the desk.

“Clumsily attempted,” commented the level voice. “Have you any more weapons, mon ami?”

“Excellency, Royal Highness, pardon—I have no French.”

Stanief shrugged his shoulders and lapsed into the language of the country.

“I asked you if you had other weapons, but it does not matter.”

He deliberately transferred both captive wrists to the grasp of his right hand and with his left opened a drawer of the desk. The man made no effort to free himself. Generations of serfdom had reasserted themselves; he might have killed from behind, but before the patrician’s glance and voice resistance did not even occur to him. He submitted passively when Stanief produced a pair of handcuffs and snapped them in place.

“Stand up, and farther off,” came the contemptuous command. “I am not accustomed to doing my own police work. You need not try to escape; the guard is within call. I might have had you arrested half an hour ago when I first saw you.”

“Royal Highness, how—why—”

Stanief answered the stupefied gaze, coldly amused.

“Because it interested me to watch your attempt. I keep a mirror on my desk, not being without experience. Who sent you to kill me?”

“Royal Highness, my brother was hung last week.”

“As you this week. Well?”

The man winced.

“Royal Highness, we wanted freedom. They tell us that while your Royal Highness lives it can not be; the country is too firmly held and too content. So we strive to act in time.”

He spoke as one reciting a lesson, monotonously, with effort. His type was familiar, lacking even the poor excuse of originality.

“Your brother was executed for an attempt to kill me?”

“Serenity, he worked in the palace kitchen and put poison in a cup of chocolate.”

“I remember. He was tried; I had nothing to do with his case.” He paused, considering; and the other stared at him in mute fascination. “Before I ring to have you removed, have you anything to say?”

“Gracious Highness, pardon!”

Stanief regarded him with scornful amazement.

“Pardon? You are mad, mon ami. Do you fancy me a child or a woman to set you free after this performance? Why should I pardon you? You do not interest me in the least. Go face your trial; my share in the incident is ended,” and Stanief turned away.

“Royal Highness, mercy—I am afraid! Not that—I will—”

“What?”

“Buy,” he offered desperately. “Royalty, not to sell my comrades—who are we in your sight—there is some one else, some one of the court who wishes your death.”