Havoc. E. Phillips Oppenheim

more to this people whom I hate. My friend David, I have suffered enough. Their applause I loathe—their covetous eyes as they watch me move about the stage—oh, I could strike them all dead! They come to me, these young Austrian noblemen, as though I were already one of a conquered race. I keep their diamonds but I destroy their messages. Their jewels go to my chorus girls or to arm my people. But no one of them has had a kind word from me save where there has been something to be gained. Even Von Behrling I have fooled with promises. No Austrian shall ever touch my lips—I have sworn it!"

      Bellamy nodded.

      "Yes," he assented, "they call you cold here in the capital! Even in the Palace—"

      She held out her hand.

      "It is finished!" she declared. "I sing no more. I have sent word to the Opera House. I came here to be in hiding for a while. They will search for me everywhere. To-night or to-morrow I leave for England."

      Bellamy stood thoughtfully silent.

      "I am not sure that you are wise," he said. "You take it too much for granted that the end has come."

      "And do you not yourself believe it?" she demanded. He hesitated.

      "As yet there is no proof," he reminded her.

      "Proof!"

      She sat upright in her chair. Her hands thrust him from her, her bosom heaved, a spot of color flared in her cheeks.

      "Proof!" she cried. "What do you suppose, then, that these wolves have plotted for? What else do you suppose could be Austria's share of the feast? Couldn't you hear our fate in the thunder of their voices when that miserable monarch rode back to his captivity? We are doomed—betrayed! You remember the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, a blood-stained page of history for all time. The world would tell you that we have outlived the age of such barbarous doings. It is not true. My friend David, it is not true. It is a more terrible thing, this which is coming. Body and soul we are to perish."

      He came over to her side once more and laid his hand soothingly on hers. It was heart-rending to witness the agony of the woman he loved.

      "Dear Louise," he said, "after all, this is profitless. There may yet be compromises."

      She suffered her hand to remain in his, but the bitterness did not pass out of her face or tone.

      "Compromises!" she repeated. "Do you believe, then, that we are like those ancient races who felt the presence of a conqueror because their hosts were scattered in battle, and who suffered themselves passively to be led into captivity? My country can be conquered in one way, and one way only—not until her sons, ay, and her daughters too, have perished, can these people rule. They will come to an empty and a stricken country—a country red with blood, desolate, with blackened houses and empty cities. The horror of it! Think, my friend David, the horror of it!"

      Bellamy threw his head back with a sudden gesture of impatience.

      "You take too much for granted," he declared. "England, at any rate, is not yet a conquered race. And there is France—Italy, too, if she is wise, will never suffer this thing from her ancient enemy."

      "It is the might of the world which threatens," she murmured. "Your country may defend herself, but here she is powerless. Already it has been proved. Last year you declared yourself our friend—you and even Russia. Of what avail was it? Word came from Berlin and you were powerless."

      Then tragedy broke into the room, tragedy in the shape of a man demented. For fifteen years Bellamy had known Arthur Dorward, but this man was surely a stranger! He was hatless, dishevelled, wild. A dull streak of color had mounted almost to his forehead, his eyes were on fire.

      "Bellamy!" he cried. "Bellamy!"

      Words failed him suddenly. He leaned against the table, breathless, panting heavily.

      "For God's sake, man," Bellamy began—

      "Alone!" Dorward interrupted. "I must see you alone! I have news!"

      Mademoiselle Idiale rose. She touched Bellamy on the shoulder.

      "You will come to me, or telephone," she whispered. "So?"

      Bellamy opened the door and she passed out, with a farewell pressure of his fingers. Then he closed it firmly and came back.

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

ARTHUR DORWARD'S "SCOOP"

       Table of Contents

      "What's wrong, old man?" Bellamy asked quickly.

      Dorward from a side table had seized the bottle of whiskey and a siphon, and was mixing himself a drink with trembling fingers. He tossed it off before he spoke a word. Then he turned around and faced his companion. "Bellamy," he ordered, "lock the door."

      Bellamy obeyed. He had no doubt now but that Dorward had lost his head in the Chancellor's presence—had made some absurd attempt to gain the knowledge which they both craved, and had failed.

      "Bellamy," Dorward exclaimed, speaking hoarsely and still a little out of breath, "I guess I've had the biggest slice of luck that was ever dealt out to a human being. If only I can get safe out of this city, I tell you I've got the greatest scoop that living man ever handled."

      "You don't mean that—"

      Dorward wiped his forehead and interrupted.

      "It's the most amazing thing that ever happened," he declared, "but I've got it here in my pocket, got it in black and white, in the Chancellor's own handwriting."

      "Got what?"

      "Why, what you and I, an hour ago, would have given a million for," Dorward replied.

      Bellamy's expression was one of blank but wondering incredulity.

      "You can't mean this, Dorward!" he exclaimed. "You may have something—just what the Chancellor wants you to print. You're not supposing for an instant that you've got the whole truth?"

      Dorward's smile was the smile of certainty, his face that of a conqueror.

      "Here in my pocket," he declared, striking his chest, "in the Chancellor's own handwriting. I tell you I've got the original verbatim copy of everything that passed and was resolved upon this afternoon between the Czar of Russia, the Emperor of Austria and the Emperor of Germany. I've got it word for word as the Chancellor took it down. I've got their decision. I've got their several undertakings."

      Bellamy for a moment was stricken dumb. He looked toward the door and back into his friend's face aglow with triumph. Then his power of speech returned.

      "Do you mean to say that you stole it?"

      Dorward struck the table with his fist.

      "Not I! I tell you that the Chancellor gave it to me, gave it to me with his own hands, willingly—pressed it upon me. No, don't scoff!" he went on quickly. "Listen! This is a genuine thing. The Chancellor's mad. He was lying in a fit when I left the Palace. It will be in all the evening papers. You will hear the boys shouting it in the streets within a few minutes. Don't interrupt and I'll tell you the whole truth. You can believe me or not, as you like. It makes no odds. I arrived punctually and was shown up into the anteroom. Even from there I could hear loud voices in the inner chamber and I knew that something was up. Presently a little fellow came out to me—a dark-bearded chap with gold-rimmed glasses. He was very polite, introduced himself as the Chancellor's physician, regretted exceedingly that the Chancellor was unwell and could see no one—the excitement and hard work of the last few days had knocked him out. Well, I stood there arguing as pleasantly as I could about it, and then all of a sudden the door of the inner