Neely’s Prismatic Library.

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“I know of nothing in the book line that equals Neely’s Prismatic Library for elegance and careful selection. It sets a pace that others will not easily equal and none surpass.”—E. A. Robinson.

SOUR SAINTS AND SWEET SINNERS. By Carlos Martyn.

SEVEN SMILES AND A FEW FIBS. By Thomas J. Vivian. With full-page illustrations by well-known artists.

A MODERN PROMETHEUS. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

THE SHACKLES OF FATE. By Max Nordau.

A BACHELOR OF PARIS. By John W. Harding. With over 50 illustrations by William Hofacher.

MONTRESOR. By Loota.

REVERIES OF A SPINSTER. By Helen Davies.

THE ART MELODIOUS. By Louis Lombard.

THE HONOR OF A PRINCESS. By F. Kimball Scribner.

OBSERVATIONS OF A BACHELOR. By Louis Lombard.

KINGS IN ADVERSITY. By E. S. Van Zile.

NOBLE BLOOD AND A WEST POINT PARALLEL. By Captain King.

TRUMPETER FRED. By Captain King. Illustrated.

FATHER STAFFORD. By Anthony Hope.

THE KING IN YELLOW. By R. W. Chambers.

IN THE QUARTER. By R. W. Chambers.

A PROFESSIONAL LOVER. By Gyp.

BIJOU’S COURTSHIPS. By Gyp. Illustrated.

A CONSPIRACY OF THE CARBONARI. By Louise Muhlbach.

SOAP BUBBLES. By Dr. Max Nordau.

F. TENNYSON NEELY, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK, LONDON.

Copyrighted in the United States and Great Britain in MDCCCXCVII by F. Tennyson Neely.

All rights reserved.

[3]

CHAPTER I.

Almost within a stone’s throw of the antique structure that for a full century has been known to New Yorkers as St. Mark’s Church stands a mansion that has had, like Eden, its glory and its fall. Once it was the home of aristocracy and wealth. To-day it is an eating-place for those whose lot is poverty and whose faith is democratic.

At the moment at which our story opens, the rooms in which in the old days portly Knickerbockers indulged in stately feasts are crowded with picturesque waifs from the Old World, who have, for a variety of reasons, crossed the Atlantic to air their woes in a freer atmosphere than surrounded them at home. A table-d’hôte dinner, greasy, cheap, and plentiful, is the magnet that has drawn from the East Side many of its most daring spirits, men with great grievances and enormous appetites. While emphasizing the former and appeasing the latter, these men grow[4] loquacious and blow white clouds of cigarette smoke toward the ceilings; and the dinner nears its end.

It is with a group of four foreign malcontents that we must seat ourselves in spirit, for they have a mighty matter under discussion, and in their conversation lies the explanation of certain startling episodes that occurred in the metropolis last year, the details of which have not been made known hitherto either to the public or to the police.

“You feel sure, Posadowski,” a frowzy-headed, full-bearded man was saying in the purest Rexanian, a dialect spoken by only a few hundred East-siders, “you feel sure that you have the dates exactly as they should be?”

“I will read you the letter, Rukacs, and you can make your own calculations,” answered Posadowski, a better-groomed man than his companions, nearing middle age, but with a fresh complexion and a clear, gray eye that could look like ice or gleam with fire, as the spirit of the man ordained. His companions bent toward him eagerly, as he took from his pocket a letter bearing a foreign postmark. Lighting a fresh cigarette, Posadowski read, in a low voice, the following epistle:

“Dear Brother: Strange things have happened in Rexania. The crown prince has left here in disguise. Three men only know this, the king, the prime minister, and myself. If they knew that I held their secret, this would be my last letter—eh, my friends? But they will never suspect me—the best servant in the palace—of communicating with such rebellious rascals as you, Posadowski[5] and Rukacs and the rest of you. The king was bitterly opposed to Prince Carlo’s journey. But Carlo is no longer a boy. He is a clever, active-minded, studious man, who might have been one of us if he had not been born a crown prince. He has great influence over Prime Minister Fejeravy, and persuaded him to plead with the king. Carlo has set out for America, and travels incognito. I have risked my life to tell you that he will reach New York on the Wiendam, under the title of Count Szalaki. He has promised to return as soon as he has crossed the continent and visited Chicago and San Francisco. The fact is that the prince is anxious to see for himself how a country looks that is governed

by its people. Poor fellow! I have long felt sorry for him. Upon his firmness at his father’s death will depend the maintenance of the Rexanian monarchy, and I feel sure that he is only half-hearted in his assumed regard for royalty. But I dare not waste more time on this hasty letter. I am obliged to spend nearly all my time quieting suspicions that I fear I may have aroused in this palatial hotbed of treachery and intrigue. Nevertheless, my brothers, reflect on this: fate has placed a great opportunity in your power. The king is old and failing. If the crown prince is not at hand when the king dies—well, there will be no more kings in Rexania. The people love the prince; but if he is not here when the sceptre falls from his father’s hand he will never be crowned. It is in your control—the future of Rexania. I and my fellow-republicans—we are very quiet at present—leave it to you to make Rexania free. If the king dies and the crown[6] prince is not here, no power on earth can prevent the republic. My love and devotion to you all. Courage! We trust to you.”

The faces of the conspirators had turned pale as Posadowski had slowly and impressively emphasized the pregnant sentences of the revolutionist who defied death at the king’s right hand.

“He is magnificent,” exclaimed Posnovitch, the oldest member of the quartette, a gigantic man, with picturesque gray locks.

“Yes. How little we have to fear, compared with a spy who knows the king’s secret thoughts and who lives under Fejeravy’s eye,” remarked Rukacs. “But tell me, Posadowski, have you a plan of action in your mind?”

“There is only one thing to do,” said Ludovics, a small, black-whiskered man with feverish eyes and nervous manner. “Count—Count Szalaki, I think, was the name he took, was it not?—must not leave this country alive.”

“Hush!” whispered Posadowski, imperatively, as a waiter refilled their coffee-cups. “You were always reckless, Ludovics. There may be a way open to us that does not require bloodshed. The crown prince, we are told, is not a monarchist at heart.”

“Don’t be deceived by that fact—if it is a fact,” returned Ludovics, hotly. “He won’t abdicate. Whatever may be his inner convictions, he has an hereditary liking for a throne, and I’m sure that his visit to this country will destroy all fondness that he may have begotten, in his imagination, for republics.”

[7]

His companions looked at the speaker suspiciously. Was he growing reactionary in his views? was the question that came into their minds.

“Don’t mistake me,” he continued, noting their look of consternation. “I am as good a republican as walks the earth, but I don’t think a surface view of this country will have an influence upon the crown prince tending toward a great renunciation on his part. He will return to Rexania more determined than he is at present to rule. I tell you, my brothers, the prince must be destroyed, if he won’t be converted.”

There was silence for a time. Finally, Posnovitch beckoned to a waiter and ordered brandy for the quartette.

“Posadowski, what do you propose?” asked Rukacs, smiling as he glanced confidingly at the real leader of the group.

The clear-eyed Rexanian gazed thoughtfully at his companions. “Our steps must be guided by circumstances,” he remarked, guardedly. “The Wiendam is due here on the 7th. It is now the 5th. One of us must make it his duty to shadow the prince and keep informed of his every movement.”

“You’re the man to do it, Posadowski,” exclaimed Posnovitch, with conviction. “You have become more Americanized than the rest of us, and won’t create suspicion. Will you accept the responsibility?”

Posadowski sat silent for a time, puffing cigarette smoke thoughtfully and looking at his companions, who were watching him eagerly.

“Perhaps you are right, Posnovitch. I see no reason why I should not take the prince[8] in tow. But let me impress several things upon you all. Listen. We must arrange a plan whereby I can summon you here at an hour’s notice. I have in mind a scheme that will require firmness on our part, but is not attended with any great danger. Not that any of you fear that. We all got used to it in the revolutionary days, ten years ago. Rexania was not a bed of roses at that time, was it, Rukacs? But to the point. That brandy has made me sentimental, and I’m tempted to dwell on the past rather than the future. Now, my brothers, if you really wish to leave this matter to me for the time being, I will do my best to satisfy you all. Our aim is simply this: to keep the crown prince in this country—which means, of course, within our immediate vicinity—until the king dies. An interregnum of even one day would be fatal to monarchy in Rexania. To-morrow night I will tell you all the details of my plan. Meanwhile, let us be seen together as little as possible. Posnovitch,

come to me in the morning. I have a journey that I want you to make into Westchester County. And be careful of the brandy to-night. You must have a clear head to-morrow to carry out your part of the plan. Do you understand me?”

“Well enough to keep sober,” answered the elderly giant, good-naturedly.

“And so good-night, my brothers,” said Posadowski, as he arose to leave the room. To each of them he gave his hand, and before he turned to go bent down to them and in solemn tones cried, feelingly, “God bless Rexania and make her free!”

[9]

CHAPTER II.

“I consider him,” said Mrs. Strong, wife of Gerald Strong the banker, “I consider him, Kate, the handsomest and most attractive man I have ever met. Everybody on the steamer was charmed with him. Even your father, who is not impressionable, was fascinated by Count Szalaki.”

“His name sounds like the toothache,” remarked Kate Strong, gazing at her mother with an unbending countenance. They were seated in the drawing-room of one of the most luxurious homes in upper Fifth Avenue, half an hour before the time set for dinner.

Kate Strong resembled her mother in face and figure. They were tall, graceful women, with clear-cut, patrician features. The difference in their ages was not strongly marked. Mrs. Strong often remarked playfully that she and her daughter had grown up together. But, while Mrs. Strong’s hair had begun to turn white beneath the touch of advancing years, the golden glory of youth still rested upon Kate’s head. Furthermore, there was a great contrast in the habitual expression that animated their respective faces. There were firm, almost harsh, lines around Mrs. Strong’s mouth that told of a strong will and indicated a set purpose in life. Kate’s face, beautiful in contour and dazzling in the freshness of its tints, betrayed a[10] rebellious, restless nature that had not yet found in existence an ambition that fully satisfied her soul. The mother’s lips seemed fashioned for command, the daughter’s for something they had not yet tasted.

“You are so flippant, Kate,” remarked Mrs. Strong, reprovingly. “I am sure that when you see the count you will not feel inclined to joke about anything connected with him—not even his name.”

“He seems to have hypnotized you, mamma. Tell me about him. Is he very high in rank?”

Mrs. Strong smiled at her daughter’s show of interest. It pleased her.

“We really don’t know, Kate, just how prominent he is in Rexania. It’s a queer country, you know. They’re always having outbreaks there, and the kings and nobles have to go armed most of the time. But your father says that the count, although he is very reticent about his country and its affairs, seems to be on intimate terms with all the crowned heads of Europe.”

At this moment, Ned Strong, a youth a few years older than Kate, entered the room, carefully attired in evening dress.

“I suppose, mamma, that your friend the count will be late. It’s a way those foreigners have. There’s no snap about them: is there, Kate?”

The girl looked up admiringly at her tall, handsome brother, whose manly, vibrant voice indicated an energetic temperament that possessed large dynamic possibilities for good or evil.

“That’s the reason I like them,” she exclaimed, inconsistently. “They don’t seem[11] to feel that they were put into the world to do something. They are clever. They made their ancestors do their work.”

Ned Strong glanced at his mother quizzically.

“I wish,” he said earnestly, “that we could get Kate to have a few firm convictions. What she is in favor of one day she is sure to be opposed to the next. It is so hard to tell what she really thinks.”

Kate smiled amusedly. “Forgive me, Ned,” she implored. “I’m sorry I don’t please you. But I’ll make you a promise. If you are really anxious to know what I think of Count Szalaki, I’ll tell you to-night after he has gone. But here’s papa. He knows more about Count Szalaki than mamma does.”

“Yes, father,” put in Ned, rising as Gerald Strong, a portly, clean-shaven, gray-haired man, entered the drawing-room. “Tell us about the count. Is there anything to him besides his title?”

“Yes, Ned, I think there is,” answered Mr. Strong, seating himself and looking at his watch. “He’s got manners and good looks, speaks several languages, and seems to have read a good deal. But he’s awfully green about this country. He really seemed to think that Chicago was more of a place than New York. He’ll get over that, of course. I wanted to have him meet some of our people to-night, but he begged me to receive him en famille. He seems to dread notoriety.”

“That looks suspicious,” commented Kate.

“I am astonished, Kate,” exclaimed Mrs. Strong. “One would think that you could[12] not trust your father and myself to travel alone for fear that we should be imposed upon. Count Szalaki wants to see the country, not to be interviewed by reporters.”

“By the way,” remarked Ned, looking at his father, “are there many Rexanians in New York?”

“A few hundred, I believe, on the East Side,” answered Mr. Strong, who had taken a practical interest in politics during the revival of reform movements. “Most of them came over here about ten years ago, when the present king banished a large number of revolutionists. I have heard that they make good citizens, but are inclined to talk anarchy when under the influence of beer.”

“Did you talk politics with the count?”

“I tried to,” answered Mr. Strong, again glancing at his watch, for he was sorely in need of a dinner. “He is a very sensible young man, considering the fact that he has a title and estates in a monarchical country. But he got more out of me than I obtained from him. He asked me a hundred questions—some of them really laughable—about our form of government and my opinion of the ability of a free people to rule themselves.”

“Of course,” remarked Ned, sarcastically, “you gave him to understand that we place entire confidence in the ‘people,’ hoi polloi, demos. You said nothing to him about ‘bosses’?”

Mr. Strong glanced at his son deprecatingly.

“Satire is not your strong point, Ned. Of course I didn’t dwell upon the defects of our system to the count. I rather encouraged him to think that our experiment in[13] self-government had been a thorough success.”

“It certainly has, father—for the bankers,” commented the young man, gazing quizzically at Mr. Strong.

“Isn’t Ned unbearable!” cried Kate, warmly. “Perhaps, Ned, you’ll be willing to tell the count just how this country ought to be governed.”

“I leave that to you, Kate. Don’t you attend Professor Smith’s lectures on representative government? Surely the count can learn more about our institutions from the women of our set than from the men.”

“We have more patriotism,” cried Kate.

“No, you have more leisure,” answered Ned.

“Be quiet, children,” whispered Mrs. Strong, nervously, as the butler appeared at the door and announced:

“Count Szalaki.”

A young man entered the drawing-room hastily, and bent courteously over Mrs. Strong’s outstretched hand.

“He looks like Lord Byron,” whispered Kate to her brother. Then she turned and met the smiling eyes of a youth whose glance was strangely magnetic.

[14]

CHAPTER III.

“You have never been in Europe, then, Miss Strong?”

Count Szalaki turned smilingly to his vis-à-vis as they seated themselves at the dining-table in a room that appeared luxurious even to the eye of the guest. There was a peculiarity in his pronunciation that defies reproduction in cold type. His voice was gentle and carefully modulated, and the English language seemed to do homage to his rank, for it fell from his lips in a musical softness that was extremely pleasing to the ear.

Kate Strong was fascinated, against her will, by the dark gray eyes of the picturesque youth at her side. His black hair curled romantically about a high, white brow, and his mouth, symmetrically curved, indicated an imaginative and generous temperament. His white, even teeth added vastly to the brilliancy of his smile. There was a touch of embarrassment in his manner, now and then, that seemed to exact sympathy from his entertainers.

“Not since I was quite young,” answered Kate, with the air of one who has reached extreme old age.

“My sister,” remarked Ned Strong, as the butler removed his soup-plate—“my sister, Count Szalaki, is a tremendous democrat, you know. She won’t go to Europe, I fear,[15] until every country over there has become a republic.”

“How unfair!” cried Mrs. Strong, glancing deprecatingly at her son.

“Then, Miss Strong, you don’t approve of foreign aristocrats?” asked the count gently, smiling at Kate in a confiding way.

“Indeed I do,” she returned, looking defiantly at Ned. “We should be very dull in our set, you know, without them.”

“But you don’t take them au sérieux?” asked the count, anxious to stand on solid ground.

“Indeed we don’t,” cried Kate. “We marry them, you know.”

Count Szalaki looked at his host in a puzzled way, and Mr. Strong smiled benignantly.

“I think I told you on the steamer, count,” remarked Mr. Strong, “that you would find it easier to understand our political institutions than our American girl, did I not?”

Count Szalaki looked at Kate, an expression of admiration in his eyes that savored not at all of boldness. “I think,” he said, “that I shall take your politics for granted and attempt the solution of the greater puzzle.”

“Take my advice and don’t do it, Count Szalaki,” cried Ned. “Our politics are laughable, but our American girl is—is——”

“Is what, Ned?” asked Kate, with mock cordiality.

“Is dangerous,” answered her brother. “You see, count, you come here several years too late. When I was young,” he continued, smilingly, “that is, about two years ago, we were not under the depressing influence of the New Woman. But now it is different. The New Woman——”

[16]

Count Szalaki’s mobile face bore an expression of bewilderment.

“Pardon me,” he exclaimed. “I am what you call—puzzled. I have not heard that expression heretofore. What do you mean by the New Woman?”

“Don’t speak, Ned,” cried Kate, imploringly. “Let me tell Count Szalaki what the New Woman is.”

“That is better, Ned,” remarked Mr. Strong, diplomatically. “It would be unfair for the count to get your definition first.”