30 Suspense and Thriller Masterpieces. Гилберт Кит Честертон

who knew of the diamond's existence.

      While pondering these matters, Juve had unconsciously wandered away from the salon and now found himself in the ante-room on the ground floor. Here he came face to face with Mme. Heberlauf, who was accompanied by a white-haired old man whom she at once introduced.

      "Count de Juff, let me present the Dean of the Court, the Burgomaster of Rung Cassel … "

      "The deuce!" thought Juve, "a bore, by the look of him!"

      Escape was hopeless, the Burgomaster seized the detective by the arm and announced:

      "I am the author of a work in 25 volumes on "The History of the Dark Continent." Now I hear that you have just returned from a journey of exploration in Africa and … "

      The old historian dragged Juve into the Palace gardens and the latter thought:

      "Hang it, I couldn't have pitched on a worse introduction, I don't know the first thing about Africa."

      But the author of the 25 volumes quickly set him at ease. For he began by admitting that he himself had never set foot out of Glotzbourg.

      Under these circumstances Juve recovered his nerve and glibly discussed the peculiarities of the African fauna.

      An hour later the two men were still talking, but this time it was Juve who was anxious to keep the conversation going. The good Burgomaster had drifted into gossip about the affairs of the Kingdom; suddenly he turned to the detective with a question:

      "Do you believe in this story about a visit to Paris?"

      Juve hesitated and then made an ambiguous reply.

      The Burgomaster continued:

      "Personally, I don't. You see, my windows look toward the large octagonal wing in which are the apartments of the King. Now, for the past week I have noticed strange lights moving about in these supposedly empty rooms, and I have a notion that our dear King Frederick-Christian is very far from being in Paris. In fact, I think he is held a prisoner in his own Palace!

      "Ah, Monsieur, you cannot imagine the intrigues which are being hatched against that noble heart; the black wickedness of the soul of Prince Gudulfin, hidden under the exterior of his seductive person!"

      Juve was impressed. He was inclined to give some credence to the suppositions of the Burgomaster. For, after all, his search in Paris for the King had been without result and he had had the presentiment that his trip to Hesse-Weimar would throw some light upon the strange disappearance of the monarch.

      So, while the old man was talking, Juve carefully noted in his mind the minutest architectural details of the octagonal tower which stood out clearly against the sky.

      Chapter 15 THE MYSTERIOUS PRISON

      "Good Lord! How my head aches! It feels as though it were made of lead!… I have a fire in my veins and such a thirst! Here and now I make a firm resolution never to give way again to such dissipation. Never again will I drink champagne in such quantities. But, where the deuce am I?… It's still pitch dark!… Ah, I remember … it's outrageous! Help! Help!"

      King Frederick-Christian had wakened. At first he experienced the usual unpleasant sensations which follow a night of heavy drinking and then, as his memory returned, he was afraid, horribly afraid.

      He recalled his arrival at Susy d'Orsel's apartment in company with the young companion he had picked up at Raxim's and the subsequent supper, and then he broke into a cold sweat as his mind flashed to the picture of Fandor's return with the inanimate body of his mistress in his arms—dead. Yes, she was undoubtedly dead!

      And afterwards, what had happened?

      His companion had declared himself to be the journalist, Jerome Fandor, and had called him by name—Frederick-Christian. Furthermore, he had cried:

      "It was you who killed Susy d'Orsel. It was you who threw her out of the window!"

      What had happened after that? His mind was a complete blank.

      Had these events occurred recently, or a long time ago? His headache and thirst were proof that they could not have been far distant.

      "Where am I? Evidently not at the Royal Palace!"

      When he first wakened he was lying flat on his back; now he sat up and groped about with his hands. The ground beneath him was cold and hard … a floor of earth. So they had put him in a vault? in a cellar?

      The air he breathed was heavy and warm, and the walls of his cell felt damp to the touch. Could he be in prison? That was hardly possible, in such a short time. Besides, he was innocent! As he sat listening, he detected a faint and faraway rumbling sound. It seemed to come from above his head.

      As his senses became more fully aroused, an indefinable terror struck to his heart. At all costs he must take some action. He rose suddenly to his feet but before he reached his full height his head struck the roof. The blow was so violent that he fell back again in a fainting condition.

      It was not until many hours afterward that he regained his senses sufficiently to make another attempt. This time he proceeded with more caution.

      "I am the victim of some gang," he thought. "This Jerome Fandor is probably the leader of a band of cutthroats who, after killing Susy d'Orsel, took advantage of my intoxication to make me unconscious with some narcotic, and then dragged me to the place I am now in."

      The King now began to explore the place on his hands and knees, his ears keenly alive to the slightest sound. He crawled around trying to discover the extent and nature of his prison.

      The floor appeared to be of hard earth with occasional stretches of cement. The walls were smooth, but whether of stone or metal he could not determine. The height of the ceiling at the point where he lay was not over three feet, but gradually rose, vault-like, until he was able to stand fully upright. Was he buried alive in some kind of tomb? The idea terrified him and he began to shout for help. After many fruitless efforts and completely exhausted, he dropped to the ground overcome with the horror of his situation.

      The distant rumbling sound now became louder from time to time, and at moments shook the walls of his prison, then died away to a faint murmur.

      Frederick-Christian now tried to collect his thoughts upon the situation and bring some sort of order to his mind.

      Susy d'Orsel was dead …

      The King had felt no deep love for the girl. Still, he had been fond of her in a way and her sudden death affected him deeply.

      He himself was a prisoner. But a prisoner of whom? Evidently of those who had killed his mistress. Again, in all probability, they did not contemplate killing him since they had had the opportunity to do so and he was still alive and unharmed. This being so, they would not let him die of hunger and thirst.

      His watch had stopped and he had no way of measuring the lapse of time; but his attention was called to the fact that the rumbling noises were happening at greater intervals.

      "The pulse-beats of a man are separated by intervals of a second," he thought, "and by counting my pulse I can determine the interval between the rumbling, and thus gain some idea of the passing hours."

      He was about to put this plan into practice when a sudden cry escaped him:

      "Good God!"

      In the blackness of his cell a thin shaft of light appeared.

      The King sprang toward it, but found the light too feeble for him to distinguish surrounding objects by. It entered the cell through a small fissure in one of the walls, and after a few minutes was suddenly withdrawn. Frederick-Christian stumbled forward in the darkness and, after taking a few steps, his feet struck some object lying on the ground. Stooping down, he groped with his hands until they touched something that drew from him an exclamation of joy … he had found a pile of bottles. He seized one and opened it with a corkscrew which lay near by.

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