Chapter Twenty Six. Place and Power.

The grey-faced London magistrate had remanded the prisoners in custody for seven days, and the papers that evening gave a brief account of the proceedings under the heading: “Smart Capture of Alleged Jewel-Thieves.”

During the return journey to Worthing Claire remained almost silent at Leucha’s side. The girl, whose gallant lover had thus been snatched from her so cruelly, was beside herself in utter dejection and brokenness of heart. Surely they were a downcast pair, seated in the corners of an empty first-class carriage on the way back to the seaside town which possessed no further charm for them.

To Claire the plot was now revealed as clear as day. She had, however, never dreamed that Hinckeldeym and Stuhlmann would descend to such depths of villainy as this. Their spies had been at work, without a doubt. She had been watched, and the watchers, whoever they were, had evidently established the identity of the two men to whom she owed so very much. And then Hinckeldeym, with that brutal unscrupulousness that distinguished him, had conceived the hellish plot to create a fresh scandal regarding the jewel thief Guy Bourne and herself.

The man who had risked his life for hers had now lost his liberty solely on her account. It was cruel, unjust, inhuman! Night and day she had prayed to her Maker for peace and for protection from the thousand pitfalls that beset her path in that great complex world of which she was almost as ignorant as little Ignatia herself. Yet it seemed as though, on the contrary, she was slowly drifting on and on to a ruin that was irreparable and complete.

She felt herself doubting, but instantly her strong faith reasserted itself. Yes, God would hear her; she was sure He would. She was a miserable sinner, like all other women, even though she were queen of an earthly kingdom. He would forgive her; He would also forgive those two men who stood charged with the crime of theft. God was just, and in Him she still placed her implicit trust. In silence, as the train rushed southward, she again appealed to Him for His comfort and His guidance.

Her bounden duty was to try and save the men who had been her friends, even at risk to herself. Their friendliness with her had been their own betrayal. Had they disappeared from Paris with her jewels they would still have been at liberty.

Yet what could she do? how could she act?

Twenty years’ penal servitude was the sentence which Leucha declared would be given her father if tried in England, while upon Bourne the sentence would not be less than fifteen years, having in view his list of previous convictions. In Germany, with the present-day prejudice against the English, they would probably be given even heavier sentences, for, according to Mr Gore-Palmer, an attempt was to be made to make an example of them.

Ah! if the world only knew how kind, how generous those two criminals had been to her, a friendless, unhappy woman, who knew no more of the world than a child in her teens, would it really judge them harshly, she wondered. Or would they receive from the public that deep-felt compassion which she herself had shown them?

Many good qualities are, alas! nowadays dead in the human heart; but happily chivalry towards a lonely woman is still, even in this twentieth century, one of the traits of the Englishman’s character, be he gentleman or costermonger.

Alone in her room that night, she knelt beside the bed where little Ignatia was sleeping so peacefully, and besought the Almighty to protect her and her child from this last and foulest plot of her enemies, and to comfort those who had been her friends. Long and earnestly she remained in prayer, her hands clasped, her face uplifted, her white lips moving in humble, fervent appeal to God.

Then when she rose up she pushed back the mass of fair hair from her brow, and paced the room for a long time, pondering deeply, but discerning no way out of the difficulties and perils that now beset her. The two accused men would be condemned, while upon her would be heaped the greatest shame that could be cast upon a woman.

Suddenly she halted at the window, and leaning forward, looked out upon the flashing light far away across the dark, lonely sea. Beyond that far-off horizon, mysterious in the obscurity of night, lay the Continent, with her own Kingdom within. Though freedom was so delightful, without Court etiquette and without Court shams, yet her duty to her people was, she recollected, to be beside her husband; her duty to her child was to live that life to which she, as an Imperial Archduchess, had been born, no matter how irksome it might be to her.

Should she risk all and return to Treysa? The very suggestion caused her to hold her breath. Her face was pale and pensive in her silent, lofty, uncomplaining despair.

Would her husband receive her? Or would he, at the instigation of old Hinckeldeym and his creatures, hound her out of the Kingdom as what the liars at Court had falsely declared her to be?

Again she implored the direction of the Almighty, sinking humbly upon her knees before the crucifix she had placed at the head of her bed, remaining there for fully a quarter of an hour.

Then when she rose again there was a calm, determined look on her pale, hard-set face.

Yes; her patience and womanhood could endure no longer. She would take Leucha and go fearlessly to Treysa, to face her false friends and ruthless enemies. They would start to-morrow. Not a moment was to be lost. And instead of retiring to bed, she spent the greater part of the night in packing her trunks in readiness for the journey which was to decide her fate.

The summer’s evening was breathless and stifling in Treysa. Attired in Henriette’s coat and skirt, and wearing her thick lace veil, Claire alighted from the dusty wagon-lit that had brought her from Cologne, and stood upon the great, well-remembered platform unrecognised.

The douaniers at the frontier had overhauled her baggage; the railway officials had clipped her tickets; the wagon-lit conductor had treated her with the same quiet courtesy that he had shown to her fellow-passengers, and she had passed right into the splendid capital without a single person recognising that the Queen—“their Claire”—had returned among them.

Leucha descended with Ignatia, who at once became excited at hearing her native tongue again; and as they stood awaiting their hand-baggage an agent of police passed them, but even he did not recognise in the neat-waisted figure the brilliant and beautiful soft-eyed woman who was his sovereign.

At first she held her breath, trembling lest she might be recognised, and premature information of her return be conveyed to Hinckeldeym or to the Prefect of Police, who, no doubt, had his orders to refuse her admittance. Yet finding her disguise so absolutely complete, she took courage, and passed out of the station to hail a closed cab.

They were all three utterly tired out after thirty-six hours of rail, crossing by way of Dover and Ostend.

When Leucha and Ignatia had entered the cab she said to the man sharply, in German,—

“Drive to the royal palace.”

The man, who took her for one of the servants, settled himself upon his box and drove up the straight tree-lined avenue to the great entrance gates of the royal park, which were, as usual, closed.

As they approached them, however, her Majesty raised her veil, and waited; while Leucha, with little Ignatia upon her knee, sat wondering. She, “the Ladybird,” the accomplice of the cleverest gang of thieves in Europe, was actually entering a royal palace as intimate friend of its Queen!

The cab halted, the sentries drew up at attention, and the gorgeous porter came forward and put in his head inquisitively.

Next instant he recognised who it was, and started back; then, raising his cocked hat and bowing low, gave orders to the cabman to drive on. Afterwards, utterly amazed, he went to the telephone to apprise the porter up at the palace that her Majesty the Queen had actually returned.

When they drew up at the great marble steps before the palace entrance, the gaudily-dressed porter stood bare-headed with three other men-servants and the two agents of police who were always on duty there.

All bowed low, saluting their Queen in respectful silence as she descended, and Leucha followed her with the little Princess toddling at her side. It was a ceremonious arrival, but not a single word was uttered until Claire passed into the hall, and was about to ascend the grand staircase on her way to the royal private apartments; for she supposed, and quite rightly, that her husband had, on his accession, moved across to the fine suite occupied by his late father.

Bowing slightly to acknowledge the obeisance of the servants, she was about to ascend the broad stairs, when the porter came forward, and said apologetically,—

“Will your Majesty pardon me? I have orders from the Minister Hinckeldeym to say that he is waiting in the blue anteroom, and wishes to see you instantly upon your arrival.”

“Then he knows of my return?” she exclaimed surprised.

“Your Majesty was expected by him since yesterday.” She saw that his spies had telegraphed news of her departure from London.

“And the King is in the palace?”

“Yes, your Majesty; he is in his private cabinet,” responded the man, bowing.

“Then I will go to him. I will see Hinckeldeym afterwards.”

“But, your Majesty, I have strict orders not to allow your Majesty to pass until you have seen his Excellency. See, here he comes!”

And as she turned she saw approaching up the long marble hall a fat man, her arch-enemy, attired in funereal, black.

“Your Majesty!” he said, bowing, while an evil smile played upon his lips. “So you have returned to us at Treysa! Before seeing the King I wish to speak to you in private.”

Deadly and inexorable malice was in his countenance. She turned upon him with a quick fire in her eyes, answering with that hauteur that is inherent in the Hapsbourg blood,—

“Whatever you have to say can surely be said here. You can have nothing concerning me to conceal!” she added meaningly.

“I have something to say that cannot be said before the palace servants,” he exclaimed quickly. “I forbid you to go to the King before I have had an opportunity of explaining certain matters.”

“Oh! you forbid—you?” she cried, turning upon him in resentment at his laconic insolence. “And pray, who are you?—a mere paid puppet of the State, a political adventurer who discerns further advancement by being my enemy! And you forbid?”

“Your Majesty—I—”

“Yes; when addressing me do not forget that I am your Queen,” she said firmly, “and that I know very well how to deal with those who have endeavoured to encompass my ruin. Now go to your fellow-adventurers, Stuhlmann, Hoepfner, and the rest, and give them my message.” Every word of hers seemed to blister where it fell. Then turning to Leucha, she said in English,—

“Remain here with Ignatia. I will return to you presently.”

And while the fat-faced officer of State who had so ingeniously plotted her downfall stood abashed in silence, and confused at her defiance, she swept past him, mounted the stairs haughtily, and turning into the corridor, made her way to the royal apartments.

Outside the door of the King’s private cabinet—that room wherein Hinckeldeym had introduced his spies—she held her breath. She was helpless at once, and desperate. Her hand trembled upon the door knob, and the sentry, recognising her, started, and stood at attention.

With sudden resolve she turned the handle, and next second stood erect in the presence of her husband.