Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim

if I am.”

      “His Excellency and I,” Dominey observed, “have reached a cul-de-sac in our argument,—the blank wall of good-natured but fundamental disagreement.”

      “Then I shall claim you for a while,” Stephanie declared, taking Dominey’s arm. “Lady Dominey has attracted all the men to her circle, and I am lonely.”

      The Prince bowed.

      “I deny the cul-de-sac,” he said, “but I yield our host! I shall seek my opponent at billiards.”

      He turned away and Stephanie sank into his vacant place.

      “So you and my cousin,” she remarked, as she made room for Dominey to sit by her side, “have come to a disagreement.”

      “Not an unfriendly one,” her host assured her.

      “That I am sure of. Maurice seems, indeed, to have taken a wonderful liking to you. I cannot remember that you ever met before, except for that day or two in Saxony?”

      “That is so. The first time I exchanged any intimate conversation with the Prince was in London. I have the utmost respect and regard for him, but I cannot help feeling that the pleasant intimacy to which he has admitted me is to a large extent owing to the desire of our friends in Berlin. So far as I am concerned I have never met any one, of any nation, whose character I admire more.”

      “Maurice lives his life loftily. He is one of the few great aristocrats I have met who carries his nobility of birth into his simplest thought and action. There is just one thing,” she added, “which would break his heart.”

      “And that?”

      “The subject upon which you two disagree—a war between Germany and this country.”

      “The Prince is an idealist,” Dominey said. “Sometimes I wonder why he was sent here, why they did not send some one of a more intriguing character.”

      She shrugged her shoulders.

      “You agree with that great Frenchman,” she observed, “that no ambassador can remain a gentleman—politically.”

      “Well, I have never been a diplomat, so I cannot say,” Dominey replied.

      “You have many qualifications, I should think,” she observed cuttingly.

      “Such as?”

      “You are absolutely callous, absolutely without heart or sympathy where your work is concerned.”

      “I do not admit it,” he protested.

      “I go back to London to-morrow,” she continued, “a very miserable and unhappy woman. I take with me the letter which should have brought me happiness. The love for which I have sacrificed my life has failed me. Not even the whip of a royal command, not even all that I have to offer, can give me even five seconds of happiness.”

      “All that I have pleaded for,” Dominey reminded her earnestly, “is delay.”

      “And what delay do you think,” she asked, with a sudden note of passion in her tone, “would the Leopold Von Ragastein of six years ago have pleaded for? Delay! He found words then which would have melted an iceberg. He found words the memory of which comes to me sometimes in the night and which mock me. He had no country then save the paradise where lovers walk, no ruler but a queen, and I was she. And now—”

      Dominey felt a strange pang of distress. She saw the unusual softening in his face, and her eyes lit up.

      “Just for a moment,” she broke off, “you were like Leopold. As a rule, you know, you are not like him. I think that you left him somewhere in Africa and came home in his likeness.”

      “Believe that for a little time,” Dominey begged earnestly.

      “What if it were true?” she asked abruptly. “There are times when I do not recognise you. There are words Leopold used to use which I have never heard from your lips. Is not West Africa the sorcerer’s paradise? Perhaps you are an imposter, and the man I love is there still, in trouble—perhaps ill. You play the part of Everard Dominey like a very king of actors. Perhaps before you came here you played the part of Leopold. You are not my Leopold. Love cannot die as you would have me believe.”

      “Now,” he said coolly, “you are coming round to my way of thinking. I have been assuring you, from the very first moment we met at the Carlton, that I was not your Leopold—that I was Everard Dominey.”

      “I shall put you to the test,” she exclaimed suddenly, rising to her feet. “Your arm, if you please.”

      She led him across the hall to where little groups of people were gossiping, playing bridge, and Seaman, the center of a little group of gullible amateur speculators, was lecturing on mines. They stopped to say a word or two here and there, but Stephanie’s fingers never left her companion’s arm. They passed down a corridor hung with a collection of wonderful sporting prints in which she affected some interest, into a small gallery which led into the ballroom. Here they were alone. She laid her hands upon his shoulders and looked up into his eyes. Her lips drew nearer to his.

      “Kiss me—upon the lips, Leopold,” she ordered.

      “There is no Leopold here,” he replied; “you yourself have said it.”

      She came a little nearer. “Upon the lips,” she whispered.

      He held her, stooped down, and their lips met. Then she stood apart from him. Her eyes were for a moment closed, her hands were extended as though to prevent any chance of his approaching her again.

      “Now I know the truth,” she muttered.

      Dominey found an opportunity to draw Seaman away from his little group of investment-seeking friends.

      “My friend,” he said, “trouble grows.”

      “Anything more from Schmidt’s supposed emissary?” Seaman asked quickly.

      “No. I am going to keep away from him this evening, and I advise you to do the same. The trouble is with the Princess.”

      “With the Princess,” declared Seaman. “I think you have blundered. I quite appreciate your general principles of behaving internally and externally as though you were the person whom you pretend to be. It is the very essence of all successful espionage. But you should know when to make exceptions. I see grave objections myself to your obeying the Kaiser’s behest. On the other hand, I see no objection whatever to your treating the Princess in a more human manner, to your visiting her in London, and giving her more ardent proofs of your continued affection.”

      “If I once begin—”

      “Look here,” Seaman interrupted, “the Princess is a woman of the world. She knows what she is doing, and there is a definite tie between you. I tell you frankly that I could not bear to see you playing the idiot for a moment with Lady Dominey, but with the Princess, scruples don’t enter into the question at all. You should by no means make an enemy of her.”

      “Well, I have done it,” Dominey acknowledged. “She has gone off to bed now, and she is leaving early to-morrow morning. She thinks I have borrowed some West African magic, that I have left her lover’s soul out there and come home in his body.”

      “Well, if she does,” Seaman declared, “you are out of your troubles.”

      “Am I!” Dominey replied gloomily. “First of all, she may do a lot of mischief before she goes. And then, supposing by any thousand to one chance the story of this cousin of Schmidt’s should be true, and she should find Dominey out there, still alive? The Princess is not of German birth, you know. She cares nothing for Germany’s future. As a matter of fact, I think, like a great many Hungarians, she prefers England. They say that an Englishman has as many lives as a cat. Supposing that chap Dominey did come to life again and she brings him home? You say yourself that you do not mean to make much use of me until after the war has started. In the parlance of this country of idioms, that will