to his lacerated heart.
Sometimes D’Arnot accompanied him on his visits to the De Coude home, for he had long known both Olga and the count. Occasionally De Coude dropped in, but the multitudinous affairs of his official position and the never-ending demands of politics kept him from home usually until late at night.
Rokoff spied upon Tarzan almost constantly, waiting for the time that he should call at the De Coude palace at night, but in this he was doomed to disappointment. On several occasions Tarzan accompanied the countess to her home after the opera, but he invariably left her at the entrance—much to the disgust of the lady’s devoted brother.
Finding that it seemed impossible to trap Tarzan through any voluntary act of his own, Rokoff and Paulvitch put their heads together to hatch a plan that would trap the ape-man in all the circumstantial evidence of a compromising position.
For days they watched the papers as well as the movements of De Coude and Tarzan. At length they were rewarded. A morning paper made brief mention of a smoker that was to be given on the following evening by the German minister. De Coude’s name was among those of the invited guests. If he attended this meant that he would be absent from his home until after midnight.
On the night of the banquet Paulvitch waited at the curb before the residence of the German minister, where he could scan the face of each guest that arrived. He had not long to wait before De Coude descended from his car and passed him. That was enough. Paulvitch hastened back to his quarters, where Rokoff awaited him. There they waited until after eleven, then Paulvitch took down the receiver of their telephone. He called a number.
“The apartments of Lieutenant D’Arnot?” he asked, when he had obtained his connection.
“A message for Monsieur Tarzan, if he will be so kind as to step to the telephone.”
For a minute there was silence.
“Monsieur Tarzan?”
“Ah, yes, monsieur, this is Francois—in the service of the Countess de Coude. Possibly monsieur does poor Francois the honor to recall him—yes?
“Yes, monsieur. I have a message, an urgent message from the countess. She asks that you hasten to her at once—she is in trouble, monsieur.
“No, monsieur, poor Francois does not know. Shall I tell madame that monsieur will be here shortly?
“Thank you, monsieur. The good God will bless you.”
Paulvitch hung up the receiver and turned to grin at Rokoff.
“It will take him thirty minutes to get there. If you reach the German minister’s in fifteen, De Coude should arrive at his home in about forty-five minutes. It all depends upon whether the fool will remain fifteen minutes after he finds that a trick has been played upon him; but unless I am mistaken Olga will be loath to let him go in so short a time as that. Here is the note for De Coude. Hasten!”
Paulvitch lost no time in reaching the German minister’s. At the door he handed the note to a footman. “This is for the Count de Coude. It is very urgent. You must see that it is placed in his hands at once,” and he dropped a piece of silver into the willing hand of the servant. Then he returned to his quarters.
A moment later De Coude was apologizing to his host as he tore open the envelope. What he read left his face white and his hand trembling.
Monsieur Le Count De Coude:
One who wishes to save the honor of your name takes this means to warn you that the sanctity of your home is this minute in jeopardy.
A certain man who for months has been a constant visitor there during your absence is now with your wife. If you go at once to your countess’ boudoir you will find them together.
A Friend.
Twenty minutes after Paulvitch had called Tarzan, Rokoff obtained a connection with Olga’s private line. Her maid answered the telephone which was in the countess’ boudoir.
“But madame has retired,” said the maid, in answer to Rokoff’s request to speak with her.
“This is a very urgent message for the countess’ ears alone,” replied Rokoff. “Tell her that she must arise and slip something about her and come to the telephone. I shall call up again in five minutes.” Then he hung up his receiver. A moment later Paulvitch entered.
“The count has the message?” asked Rokoff.
“He should be on his way to his home by now,” replied Paulvitch.
“Good! My lady will be sitting in her boudoir, very much in negligee, about now. In a minute the faithful Jacques will escort Monsieur Tarzan into her presence without announcing him. It will take a few minutes for explanations. Olga will look very alluring in the filmy creation that is her night-dress, and the clinging robe which but half conceals the charms that the former does not conceal at all. Olga will be surprised, but not displeased.
“If there is a drop of red blood in the man the count will break in upon a very pretty love scene in about fifteen minutes from now. I think we have planned marvelously, my dear Alexis. Let us go out and drink to the very good health of Monsieur Tarzan in some of old Plancon’s unparalleled absinth; not forgetting that the Count de Coude is one of the best swordsmen in Paris, and by far the best shot in all France.”
When Tarzan reached Olga’s, Jacques was awaiting him at the entrance.
“This way, Monsieur,” he said, and led the way up the broad, marble staircase. In another moment he had opened a door, and, drawing aside a heavy curtain, obsequiously bowed Tarzan into a dimly lighted apartment. Then Jacques vanished.
Across the room from him Tarzan saw Olga seated before a little desk on which stood her telephone. She was tapping impatiently upon the polished surface of the desk. She had not heard him enter.
“Olga,” he said, “what is wrong?”
She turned toward him with a little cry of alarm.
“Jean!” she cried. “What are you doing here? Who admitted you? What does it mean?”
Tarzan was thunderstruck, but in an instant he realized a part of the truth.
“Then you did not send for me, Olga?”
“Send for you at this time of night? Mon Dieu! Jean, do you think that I am quite mad?”
“Francois telephoned me to come at once; that you were in trouble and wanted me.”
“Francois? Who in the world is Francois?”
“He said that he was in your service. He spoke as though I should recall the fact.”
“There is no one by that name in my employ. Some one has played a joke upon you, Jean,” and Olga laughed.
“I fear that it may be a most sinister ‘joke,’ Olga,” he replied. “There is more back of it than humor.”
“What do you mean? You do not think that—”
“Where is the count?” he interrupted.
“At the German ambassador’s.”
“This is another move by your estimable brother. Tomorrow the count will hear of it. He will question the servants. Everything will point to—to what Rokoff wishes the count to think.”
“The scoundrel!” cried Olga. She had arisen, and come close to Tarzan, where she stood looking up into his face. She was very frightened. In her eyes was an expression that the hunter sees in those of a poor, terrified doe—puzzled—questioning. She trembled, and to steady herself raised her hands to his broad shoulders. “What shall we do, Jean?” she whispered. “It is terrible. Tomorrow all Paris will read of it—he will see to that.”
Her look, her attitude, her words were eloquent of the age-old appeal of defenseless woman to her natural protector—man. Tarzan took one of the warm little hands that lay on his breast in his