the sun had peeped above the island to the eastward and was throwing its caressing rays across the sound. the storm that had chastised the waters and grumbled its way inland had left a smiling daybreak in its track. the crown prince of rexania still tossed in feverish sleep upon his bed upstairs as posadowski and posnovitch, who had obtained a short but thorough rest, stood behind the old manor house, looking out upon the golden shimmer that gilded the tossing waters of the sound.

“there is only one way to deal with ludovics,” said posadowski, emphatically. “there is a great risk in sending him back to the city, but i dare not keep him here. he’s a murderous little man when in liquor, and our force is not large enough to keep a close watch upon him. now, my plan is this. when the prince awakens, i will persuade him to write a note giving you authority to get his belongings at the hotel. he wouldn’t be thoroughly comfortable here in evening dress. i will also put ludovics in your charge. you must take him to the city and on your way down intimate that if he returns here he will be locked up, and if he plays us false in the city there are fourteen men each one of whom will swear to have his life. do you understand me, posnovitch? good! go and call him.”

[53]

a few moments later ludovics, pale and limp, felt the cool, morning air kissing his fevered cheeks. he stood before posadowski trembling, repentant, and not quite clear in his mind. he vaguely realized that he had done something mutinous, but just what it was he could not remember.

“ludovics,” said posadowski, sternly, “for the sake of the cause you love, it is best that you should accompany posnovitch to the city. don’t return here until you get an order from me. understand?”

the small man trembled with nervousness, and his eyes filled with tears.

“forgive me,” he whispered. “i forget what i did that annoyed you. i will hereafter do as you wish. come, posnovitch,” he continued, meekly, “i am ready to go with you.”

“there is no hurry,” remarked posadowski, more gently than he had spoken before. “posnovitch will have to wait here until i get a note for him from the crown prince.”

ludovics’ eyes gleamed as the name of the man he had attempted to brain with a bottle reached his ear. he gazed about him restlessly for a moment, and then said, earnestly:

“yes, posadowski, you are right. it is better that i should go back to new york.”

at three o’clock in the afternoon of this day, the city editor of the trumpet sent for a reporter named norman benedict, a discreet but energetic and ambitious youth, whose record in the office was high.

“benedict,” said the editor, “i want you to read this cable despatch. i will give you your orders afterward.”

[54]

he handed the reporter a proof of the despatch from rexopolis that gerald strong on the following morning was to read to his family at the breakfast table.

“you can keep the proof for reference,” said the city editor, as the young man glanced up from the despatch. “now, i want you to get among the rexanians on the east side and interview those who are willing to talk. they may be close-mouthed, but they are a thirsty crowd, and by spending a little money on them you will be able to set their tongues a-wagging. get your copy in early. i want to make as good a showing as possible on the city end of this rexanian business.”

half an hour later, norman benedict was puffing a cigarette in the restaurant near st. mark’s church, in which the reader first made the acquaintance of the rexanian conspirators. it was not yet four o’clock, and the café was well-nigh deserted. in one corner of the room, however, sat ludovics, sipping brandy and smoking cigars. he felt lonely, and an indistinct impression was upon him that somebody, somehow, had done him a great wrong. he had depended upon liquor to clear his brain and to restore him to a thorough comprehension of what had befallen him, but his constitution was not equal to a full reaction, and the more brandy he drank the more acute became his sense of wrong and his certainty as to the source and character of the injustice that had been done him. there were two ideas in his mind to which he clung tenaciously, and which, by persistent nourishing, had become to his distorted consciousness facts of great moment:[55] he had been ill-treated by a king, and that king was entertaining a few favored guests, with wild revelry, somewhere up in westchester county.

“pardon me,” said benedict, who suspected that ludovics was a rexanian, partially because of his presence in the restaurant, but in a larger degree on account of the little man’s peculiar cast of countenance—“pardon me, but can you tell me where i can find somebody who is well acquainted with the city of rexopolis?”

the reporter had crossed the café and seated himself at the table at which ludovics preserved his wrongs in brandy. the disgraced conspirator glared at the youth suspiciously. benedict’s frank, smiling face disarmed distrust.

“before you answer,” went on the reporter, “permit me to order some fresh cigars, and—and—you are drinking?”

“brandy,” answered ludovics, gratefully, for his supply of cash was beginning to get low.

“very good!” cried benedict. “waiter, bring out a pint of your choicest cognac and half a dozen of your very best cigars.”

ludovics smiled cordially. he liked this open-handed youth.

“you are from rexania?” asked benedict, as he lighted a cigar and gazed earnestly at ludovics’ flushed face.

“rexania!” cried the latter, hysterically. “rexania! of course i’m from rexania. and, let me tell you, young man, i’m going back to rexania. did you say the king wouldn’t let me? you lie, young man, you lie! he can’t help it. how can a dead king[56] keep a live man out of his fatherland? tell me that, will you?”

ludovics paused and glanced around the deserted room suspiciously. then he again turned his eyes to the sympathetic face of his companion. he vaguely felt that he should stop sipping liquor and keep his reckless tongue quiet, but he was in a mood that craved expression, and benedict’s cordial manner was very soothing to the overwrought rexanian. the reporter had been successful in his profession from his power of allaying suspicion and inspiring confidence.

“but, my friend,” suggested benedict, quietly, “the king is not yet dead—though very ill.”

ludovics looked almost sober as he flashed an eager and inquiring glance at the young man.

“how do you know that? have you heard from rexopolis?”

benedict did not reply for a moment. he was carefully weighing a bold step. should he show this man the proof of the cable despatch he carried with him? “he will be too drunk in an hour to sell the news to another paper, even if he knew the ropes well enough when sober,” reflected benedict, as he took the proof-slip from his coat and handed it to ludovics.

the effect of the despatch on the rexanian astonished the reporter. the little man uttered a shout of triumph and then glanced anxiously around the room. seizing his brandy-glass, he drained it to the bottom. such glimmerings of common sense as had marked his conversation up to this point deserted[57] him on the instant. his disordered mind fell back upon the idea that he had been wronged by a king, and that that king was holding high carnival up in westchester county.

“young man,” he said, impressively, a wild gleam in his restless eyes, “i don’t know who you are, but i’d trust you with my life. listen!” he leaned forward across the table and placed a clammy hand on benedict’s arm. “listen! i’ve been drinking too much: haven’t i? don’t lie to me. i can see it in your face. i’m drunk, and you show it. that’s queer, isn’t it? but i could tell you something that would make you drunk and me sober. i’ll try it. bend nearer to me. they don’t know in rexania where the crown prince is. the king is dying. damn him! let him die. look here, boy, i’d kill all kings! wouldn’t you?”

the intoxicated rexanian gazed suspiciously at benedict.

“of course i would,” answered the reporter, heartily. a conviction had come upon him that the little drunkard had something in his mind that was not altogether an alcoholic hallucination.

“i knew you would,” cried ludovics, in delight. “you’re not made of dough, like—like—well, never mind their names. but look here, boy, i need your help. there’s a king up in westchester—do you hear me—who tried to take my life.”

benedict began to fear that he had been wasting time and money to no purpose on this madcap foreigner, when the latter noting, with drunken slyness, the change of expression[58] on the youth’s face, felt that his pride had been hurt.

“you doubt my word, boy,” he cried, angrily. “i don’t know who you are, or what you mean by trying to find out what i mean. but i’m telling you the truth. we’ve got the crown prince of rexania up in westchester, and—and——” a look of horror crossed ludovics’ face as he realized what he had done. he trembled violently, and the tears poured down his cheeks.

“let me have some more brandy,” he implored, in a weak voice, but before the waiter could get it for him he had fallen forward on to the table and into a deep stupor.

norman benedict arose, and, giving the waiter a bill, directed him to see to it that the rexanian was cared for until the next day, when he would look in upon him. then he hastily left the restaurant and strode eagerly away. whether he had received a newspaper “tip” of great value or only the dregs of a drunkard’s mind he was not sure. but there had been something in the words and manner of the brandy-soaked rexanian that strongly impressed benedict with the idea that he could not afford wholly to neglect the hint that had been thrown out. the despatch from rexopolis said that the crown prince had not been seen for weeks. benedict turned cold at the tremendous possibilities suggested by the thoughts that crowded through his brain.

“i’ll abandon the interviews and run my risk,” he finally decided. “my first step is to find out if there are any rexanians living in westchester county. that ought to be easy. i’ll try the office first.”