children and young things. But he either knows nothing or has been trained to hold his tongue. He’s not stupid, and he’s of a high spirit. I made a pathetic little scene about Samavia, because I saw he could be worked up. It did work him up. I tried him with the Lost Prince rumor; but, if there is truth in it, he does not or will not know. I tried to make him lose his temper and betray something in defending his father, whom he thinks a god, by the way. But I made a mistake. I saw that. It’s a pity. Boys can sometimes be made to tell anything.” She spoke very quickly under her breath. The man spoke quickly too.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“I sent him up to the drawing-room to look for a book. He will look for a few minutes. Listen. He’s an innocent boy. He sees me only as a gentle angel. Nothing will SHAKE him so much as to hear me tell him the truth suddenly. It will be such a shock to him that perhaps you can do something with him then. He may lose his hold on himself. He’s only a boy.”
“You’re right,” said the bearded man. “And when he finds out he is not free to go, it may alarm him and we may get something worth while.”
“If we could find out what is true, or what Loristan thinks is true, we should have a clue to work from,” she said.
“We have not much time,” the man whispered. “We are ordered to Bosnia at once. Before midnight we must be on the way.”
“Let us go into the other room. He is coming.”
When Marco entered the room, the heavily-built man with the pointed dark beard was standing by the easy-chair.
“I am sorry I could not find the book,” he apologized. “I looked on all the tables.”
“I shall be obliged to go and search for it myself,” said the Lovely Person.
She rose from her chair and stood up smiling. And at her first movement Marco saw that she was not disabled in the least.
“Your foot!” he exclaimed. “It’s better?”
“It wasn’t hurt,” she answered, in her softly pretty voice and with her softly pretty smile. “I only made you think so.”
It was part of her plan to spare him nothing of shock in her sudden transformation. Marco felt his breath leave him for a moment.
“I made you believe I was hurt because I wanted you to come into the house with me,” she added. “I wished to find out certain things I am sure you know.”
“They were things about Samavia,” said the man. “Your father knows them, and you must know something of them at least. It is necessary that we should hear what you can tell us. We shall not allow you to leave the house until you have answered certain questions I shall ask you.”
Then Marco began to understand. He had heard his father speak of political spies, men and women who were paid to trace the people that certain governments or political parties desired to have followed and observed. He knew it was their work to search out secrets, to disguise themselves and live among innocent people as if they were merely ordinary neighbors.
They must be spies who were paid to follow his father because he was a Samavian and a patriot. He did not know that they had taken the house two months before, and had accomplished several things during their apparently innocent stay in it. They had discovered Loristan and had learned to know his outgoings and incomings, and also the outgoings and incomings of Lazarus, Marco, and The Rat. But they meant, if possible, to learn other things. If the boy could be startled and terrified into unconscious revelations, it might prove well worth their while to have played this bit of melodrama before they locked the front door behind them and hastily crossed the Channel, leaving their landlord to discover for himself that the house had been vacated.
In Marco’s mind strange things were happening. They were spies! But that was not all. The Lovely Person had been right when she said that he would receive a shock. His strong young chest swelled. In all his life, he had never come face to face with black treachery before. He could not grasp it. This gentle and friendly being with the grateful soft voice and grateful soft eyes had betrayed—BETRAYED him! It seemed impossible to believe it, and yet the smile on her curved mouth told him that it was true. When he had sprung to help her, she had been playing a trick! When he had been sorry for her pain and had winced at the sound of her low exclamation, she had been deliberately laying a trap to harm him. For a few seconds he was stunned—perhaps, if he had not been his father’s son, he might have been stunned only. But he was more. When the first seconds had passed, there arose slowly within him a sense of something like high, remote disdain. It grew in his deep boy’s eyes as he gazed directly into the pupils of the long soft dark ones. His body felt as if it were growing taller.
“You are very clever,” he said slowly. Then, after a second’s pause, he added, “I was too young to know that there was any one so—clever—in the world.”
The Lovely Person laughed, but she did not laugh easily. She spoke to her companion.
“A grand seigneur!” she said. “As one looks at him, one half believes it is true.”
The man with the beard was looking very angry. His eyes were savage and his dark skin reddened. Marco thought that he looked at him as if he hated him, and was made fierce by the mere sight of him, for some mysterious reason.
“Two days before you left Moscow,” he said, “three men came to see your father. They looked like peasants. They talked to him for more than an hour. They brought with them a roll of parchment. Is that not true?”
“I know nothing,” said Marco.
“Before you went to Moscow, you were in Budapest. You went there from Vienna. You were there for three months, and your father saw many people. Some of them came in the middle of the night.”
“I know nothing,” said Marco.
“You have spent your life in traveling from one country to another,” persisted the man. “You know the European languages as if you were a courier, or the portier in a Viennese hotel. Do you not?”
Marco did not answer.
The Lovely Person began to speak to the man rapidly in Russian.
“A spy and an adventurer Stefan Loristan has always been and always will be,” she said. “We know what he is. The police in every capital in Europe know him as a sharper and a vagabond, as well as a spy. And yet, with all his cleverness, he does not seem to have money. What did he do with the bribe the Maranovitch gave him for betraying what he knew of the old fortress? The boy doesn’t even suspect him. Perhaps it’s true that he knows nothing. Or perhaps it is true that he has been so ill-treated and flogged from his babyhood that he dare not speak. There is a cowed look in his eyes in spite of his childish swagger. He’s been both starved and beaten.”
The outburst was well done. She did not look at Marco as she poured forth her words. She spoke with the abruptness and impetuosity of a person whose feelings had got the better of her. If Marco was sensitive about his father, she felt sure that his youth would make his face reveal something if his tongue did not—if he understood Russian, which was one of the things it would be useful to find out, because it was a fact which would verify many other things.
Marco’s face disappointed her. No change took place in it, and the blood did not rise to the surface of his skin. He listened with an uninterested air, blank and cold and polite. Let them say what they chose.
The man twisted his pointed beard and shrugged his shoulders.
“We have a good little wine-cellar downstairs,” he said. “You are going down into it, and you will probably stay there for some time if you do not make up your mind to answer my questions. You think that nothing can happen to you in a house in a London street where policemen walk up and down. But you are mistaken. If you yelled now, even if any one chanced to hear you, they would only think you were a lad getting a thrashing he deserved. You can yell as much as you like in the black little wine-cellar, and no one will hear at all. We only