As easily as he could read their faces could he read the thoughts of those about him.They were thoughts of friendly curiosity, of pity for the exiles; on the part of the policemen who had hastened from a cross street, of pride at their temporary responsibility; on the part of the coachman of the court carriage, of speculation as to the possible amount of his Majesty's tip.The thoughts were as harmless and protecting as the warm sunshine.
And then, suddenly and harshly, like the stroke of a fire bell at midnight, the harmonious chorus of gentle, hospitable thoughts was shattered by one that was discordant, evil, menacing.It was the thought of a man with a brain diseased; and its purpose was murder.
"When they appear at the doorway," spoke the brain of the maniac, "I shall lift the bomb from my pocket.I shall raise it above my head.I shall crash it against the stone steps.It will hurl them and all of these people into eternity and me with them.But Ishall LIVE--a martyr to the Cause.And the Cause will flourish!"Through the unsuspecting crowd, like a football player diving for a tackle, Philip hurled himself upon a little dark man standing close to the open door of the court carriage.From the rear Philip seized him around the waist and locked his arms behind him, elbow to elbow.Philip's face, appearing over the man's shoulder, stared straight into that of the policeman.
"He has a bomb in his right-hand pocket!" yelled Philip."I can hold him while you take it! But, for Heaven's sake, don't drop it!" Philip turned upon the crowd."Run! all of you!" he shouted.
"Run like the devil!"
At that instant the boy King and his Queen Mother, herself still young and beautiful, and cloaked with a dignity and sorrow that her robes of mourning could not intensify, appeared in the doorway.
"Go back, sir!" warned Philip."He means to kill you!"At the words and at sight of the struggling men, the great lady swayed helplessly, her eyes filled with terror.Her son sprang protectingly in front of her.But the danger was past.A second policeman was now holding the maniac by the wrists, forcing his arms above his head; Philip's arms, like a lariat, were wound around his chest; and from his pocket the first policeman gingerly drew forth a round, black object of the size of a glass fire-grenade.He held it high in the air, and waved his free hand warningly.But the warning was unobserved.There was no one remaining to observe it.Leaving the would-be assassin struggling and biting in the grasp of the stalwart policeman, and the other policeman unhappily holding the bomb at arm's length, Philip sought to escape into the Ritz.But the young King broke through the circle of attendants and stopped him.
"I must thank you," said the boy eagerly; "and I wish you to tell me how you came to suspect the man's purpose."Unable to speak the truth, Philip, the would-be writer of fiction, began to improvise fluently.
"To learn their purpose, sir," he said, "is my business.I am of the International Police, and in the secret service of your Majesty.""Then I must know your name," said the King, and added with a dignity that was most becoming, "You will find we are not ungrateful."Philip smiled mysteriously and shook his head.
"I said in your secret service," he repeated."Did even your Majesty know me, my usefulness would be at an end." He pointed toward the two policemen."If you desire to be just, as well as gracious, those are the men to reward."He slipped past the King and through the crowd of hotel officials into the hall and on into the corridor.
The arrest had taken place so quietly and so quickly that through the heavy glass doors no sound had penetrated, and of the fact that they had been so close to a possible tragedy those in the corridor were still ignorant.The members of the Hungarian orchestra were arranging their music; a waiter was serving two men of middle age with sherry; and two distinguished-looking elderly gentlemen seated together on a sofa were talking in leisurely whispers.
One of the two middle-aged men was well known to Philip, who as a reporter had often, in New York, endeavored to interview him on matters concerning the steel trust.His name was Faust.He was a Pennsylvania Dutchman from Pittsburgh, and at one time had been a foreman of the night shift in the same mills he now controlled.
But with a roar and a spectacular flash, not unlike one of his own blast furnaces, he had soared to fame and fortune.He recognized Philip as one of the bright young men of the Republic;but in his own opinion he was far too self-important to betray that fact.
Philip sank into an imitation Louis Quatorze chair beside a fountain in imitation of one in the apartment of the Pompadour, and ordered what he knew would be an execrable imitation of an American cocktail.While waiting for the cocktail and Lady Woodcote's luncheon party, Philip, from where he sat, could not help but overhear the conversation of Faust and of the man with him.The latter was a German with Hebraic features and a pointed beard.In loud tones he was congratulating the American many-time millionaire on having that morning come into possession of a rare and valuable masterpiece, a hitherto unknown and but recently discovered portrait of Philip IV by Velasquez.
Philip sighed enviously.
"Fancy," he thought, "owning a Velasquez! Fancy having it all to yourself! It must be fun to be rich.It certainly is hell to be poor!"The German, who was evidently a picture-dealer, was exclaiming in tones of rapture, and nodding his head with an air of awe and solemnity.
