XIV
MARCO DOES NOT ANSWER
By the time he turned the corner of the stairs, the beautiful
lady had risen from her seat in the back room and walked into the
dining-room at the front. A heavily-built, dark-bearded man was
standing inside the door as if waiting for her.
``I could do nothing with him,'' she said at once, in her soft
voice, speaking quite prettily and gently, as if what she said
was the most natural thing in the world. ``I managed the little
trick of the sprained foot really well, and got him into the
house. He is an amiable boy with perfect manners, and I thought
it might be easy to surprise him into saying more than he knew he
was saying. You can generally do that with 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 herm 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 took this house for three
months, and we shall leave it to-night without mentioning the
fact to any
one. If we choose to leave you in the wine-cellar, you will wait
there until somebody begins to notice that no one goes in and
out, and chances to mention it to the landlord--which few people
would take the trouble to do. Did you come here from Moscow?''
``I know nothing,'' said Marco.
``You might remain in the good little black cellar an
unpleasantly long time before you were found,'' the man went on,
quite coolly. ``Do you remember the peasants who came to see
your father two nights before you left?''
``I know nothing,'' said Marco.
``By the time it was discovered that the house was empty and
people came in to make sure, you might be too weak to call out
and attract their attention. Did you go to Budapest from Vienna,
and were you there for three months?'' asked the inquisitor.
``I know nothing,'' said Marco.
``You are too good for the little black cellar,'' put in the
Lovely Person. ``I like you. Don't go into it!''
``I know nothing,'' Marco answered, but the eyes which were like
Loristan's gave her just such a look as Loristan would have given
her, and she felt it. It made her uncomfortable.
``I don't believe you were ever ill-treated or beaten,'' she
said. ``I tell you, the little black cellar will be a hard
thing. Don't go there!''
And this time Marco said nothing, but looked at her still as if
he were some great young noble who was very proud.
He knew that every word the bearded man had spoken was true. To
cry out would be of no use. If they went away and left him
behind them, there was no knowing how many days would pass before
the people of the neighborhood would begin to suspect that the
place had been deserted, or how long it would be before it
occurred to some one to give warning to the owner. And in the
meantime, neither his father nor Lazarus nor The Rat would have
the faintest reason for guessing where he was. And he would be
sitting alone in the dark in the wine-cellar. He did not know in
the least what to do about this thing. He only knew that silence
was still the order.
``It is a jet-black little hole,'' the man said. ``You might
crack your throat in it, and no one would hear. Did men come to
talk with your father in the middle of the night when you were in
Vienna?''
``I know nothing,'' said Marco.
``He won't tell,'' said the Lovely Person. ``I am sorry for this
boy.''
``He may tell after he has sat in the good little black
wine-cellar for a few hours,'' said the man with the pointed
beard. ``Come with me!''
He put his powerful hand on Marco's shoulder and pushed him
before him. Marco made no struggle. He remembered what his
father had said about the game not being a game. It wasn't a
game now, but somehow he had a strong haughty feeling of not
being afraid.
He was taken through the hallway, toward the rear, and down the
commonplace flagged steps which led to the basement. Then he was
marched through a narrow, ill-lighted, flagged passage to a door
in the wall. The door was not locked and stood a trifle ajar.
His companion pushed it farther open and showed part of a wine-
cellar which was so dark that it was only the shelves nearest the
door that Marco could faintly see. His captor pushed him in and
shut the door. It was as black a hole as he had described.
Marco stood still in the midst of darkness like black velvet.
His guard turned the key.
``The peasants who came to your father in Moscow spoke Samavian
and were big men. Do you remember them?'' he asked from outside.
``I know nothing,'' answered Marco.
``You are a young fool,'' the voice replied. ``And I believe you
know even more than we thought. Your father will be greatly
troubled when you do not come home. I will come back to see you
in a few hours, if it is possible. I will tell you, however,
that I have had disturbing news which might make it necessary for
us to leave the house in a hurry. I might not have time to come
down here again before leaving.''
Marco stood with his back against a bit of wall and remained
silent.
There was stillness for a few minutes, and then there was to be
heard the sound of footsteps marching away.
When the last distant echo died all was quite silent, and Marco
drew a long breath. Unbelievable as it may appear, it was in one
sense almost a breath of relief. In the rush of strange feeling
which had swept over him when he found himself facing the
astounding situation up-stairs, it had not been easy to realize
what his thoughts really were; there were so many of them and
they came so fast. How could he quite believe the evidence of
his eyes and ears? A few minutes, only a few minutes, had
changed his prettily grateful and kindly acquaintance into a
subtle and cunning creature whose love for Samavia had been part
of a plot to harm it and to harm his father.
What did she and her companion want to do--what could they do if
they knew the things they were trying to force him to tell?
Marco braced his back against the wall stoutly.
``What will it be best to think about first?''
This he said because one of the most absorbingly fascinating
things he and his father talked about together was the power of
the thoughts which human beings allow to pass through their
minds--the strange strength of them. When they talked of this,
Marco felt as if he were listening to some marvelous Eastern
story of magic which was true. In Loristan's travels, he had
visited the far Oriental countries, and he had seen and learned
many things which seemed marvels, and they had taught him deep
thinking. He had known, and reasoned through days with men who
believed that when they desired a thing, clear and exalted
thought would bring it to them. He had discovered why they
believed this, and had learned to understand their profound
arguments.
What he himself believed, he had taught Marco quite simply from
his childhood. It was this: he himself--Marco, with the strong
boy-body, the thick mat of black hair, and the patched clothes--
was the magician. He held and waved his wand himself--and his
wand was his own Thought. When special privation or anxiety
beset them, it was their rule to say, ``What will it be best to
think about first?'' which was Marco's reason for saying it to
himself now as he stood in the darkness which was like black
velvet.
He waited a few minutes for the right thing to come to him.
``I will think of the very old hermit who lived on the ledge of
the mountains in India and who let my father talk to him through
all one night,'' he said at last. This had been a wonderful
story and one of his favorites. Loristan had traveled far to see
this ancient Buddhist, and what he had seen and heard during that
one night had made changes in his life. The part of the story
which came back to Marco now was these words:
``Let pass through thy mind, my son, only the image thou wouldst
desire to see a truth. Meditate only upon the wish of thy heart,
seeing first that it can injure no man and is not ignoble. Then
will it take earthly form and draw near to thee. This is the law
of that which creates.''
``I am not afraid,'' Marco said aloud. ``I shall not be afraid.
In some way I shall get out.''
This was the image he wanted most to keep steadily in his mind
--that nothing could make him afraid, and that in some way he
would get out of the wine-cellar.
He thought of this for some minutes, and said the words over
several times. He felt more like himself when he had done it.
``When my eyes are accustomed to the darkness, I shall see if
there is any little glimmer of light anywhere,'' he said next.
He waited with patience, and it seemed for some time that he saw
no glimmer at all. He put out his hands on either side of him,
and found that, on the side of the wall against which he stood,
there seemed to be no shelves. Perhaps the cellar had been used
for other purposes than the storing of wine, and, if that was
true, there might be somewhere some opening for ventilation. The
air was not bad, but then the door had not been shut tightly when
the man opened it.
``I am not afraid,'' he repeated. ``I shall not be afraid. In
some way I shall get out.''
He would not allow himself to stop and think about his father
waiting for his return. He knew that would only rouse his
emotions and weaken his courage. He began to feel his way
carefully along the wall. It reached farther than he had thought
it would.
The cellar was not so very small. He crept round it gradually,
and, when he had crept round it, he made his way across it,
keeping his hands extended before him and setting down each foot
cautiously. Then he sat down on the stone floor and thought
again, and what he thought was of the things the old Buddhist had
told his father, and that there was a way out of this place for
him, and he should somehow find it, and, before too long a time
had passed, be walking in the street again.
It was while he was thinking in this way that he felt a startling
thing. It seemed almost as if something touched him. It made
him jump, though the touch was so light and soft that it was
scarcely a touch at all, in fact he could not be sure that he had
not imagined it. He stood up and leaned against the wall again.
Perhaps the suddenness of his movement placed him at some angle
he had not reached before, or perhaps his eyes had become more
completely accustomed to the darkness, for, as he turned his head
to listen, he made a discovery: above the door there was a place
where the velvet blackness was not so dense. There was something
like a slit in the wall, though, as it did not open upon daylight
but upon the dark passage, it was not light it admitted so much
as a lesser shade of darkness. But even that was better than
nothing, and Marco drew another long breath.
``That is only the beginning. I shall find a way out,'' he said.
``I SHALL.''
He remembered reading a story of a man who, being shut by
accident in a safety vault, passed through such terrors before
his release that he believed he had spent two days and nights in
the place when he had been there only a few hours.
``His thoughts did that. I must remember. I will sit down again
and begin thinking of all the pictures in the cabinet rooms of
the Art History Museum in Vienna. It will take some time, and
then there are the others,'' he said.
It was a good plan. While he could keep his mind upon the game
which had helped him to pass so many dull hours, he could think
of nothing else, as it required close attention--and perhaps, as
the day went on, his captors would begin to feel that it was not
safe to run the risk of doing a thing as desperate as this would
be. They might think better of it before they left the house at
least. In any case, he had learned enough from Loristan to
realize that only harm could come from letting one's mind run
wild.
``A mind is either an engine with broken and flying gear, or a
giant power under control,'' was the thing they knew.
He had walked in imagination through three of the cabinet rooms
and was turning mentally into a fourth, when he found himself
starting again quite violently. This time it was not at a touch
but at a sound. Surely it was a sound. And it was in the cellar
with him. But it was the tiniest possible noise, a ghost of a
squeak and a suggestion of a movement. It came from the opposite
side of the cellar, the side where the shelves were. He looked
across in the darkness saw a light which there could be no
mistake about. It WAS a light, two lights indeed, two round
phosphorescent greenish balls. They were two eyes staring at
him. And then he heard another sound. Not a squeak this time,
but something so homely and comfortable that he actually burst
out laughing. It was a cat purring, a nice warm cat! And she
was curled up on one of the lower shelves purring to some
new-born kittens. He knew there were kittens because it was
plain now what the tiny squeak had been, and it was made plainer
by the fact that he heard another much more distinct one and then
another. They had all been asleep when he had come into the
cellar. If the mother had been awake, she had probably been very
much afraid. Afterward she had perhaps come down from her shelf
to investigate, and had passed close to him. The feeling of
relief which came upon him at this queer and simple discovery was
wonderful. It was so natural and comfortable an every-day thing
that it seemed to make spies and criminals unreal, and only
natural things possible. With a mother cat purring away among
her kittens, even a dark wine-cellar was not so black. He got up
and kneeled by the shelf. The greenish eyes did not shine in an
unfriendly way. He could feel that the owner of them was a nice
big cat, and he counted four round little balls of kittens. It
was a curious delight to stroke the soft fur and talk to the
mother cat. She answered with purring, as if she liked the sense
of friendly human nearness. Marco laughed to himself.
``It's queer what a difference it makes!'' he said. ``It is
almost like finding a window.''
The mere presence of these harmless living things was
companionship. He sat down close to the low shelf and listened
to the motherly purring, now and then speaking and putting out
his hand to touch the warm fur. The phosphorescent light in the
green eyes was a comfort in itself.
``We shall get out of this--both of us,'' he said. ``We shall
not be here very long, Puss-cat.''
He was not troubled by the fear of being really hungry for some
time. He was so used to eating scantily from necessity, and to
passing long hours without food during his journeys, that he had
proved to himself that fasting is not, after all, such a
desperate ordeal as most people imagine. If you begin by
expecting to feel famished and by counting the hours between your
meals, you will begin to be ravenous. But he knew better.
The time passed slowly; but he had known it would pass slowly,
and he had made up his mind not to watch it nor ask himself
questions about it. He was not a restless boy, but, like his
father, could stand or sit or lie still. Now and then he could
hear distant rumblings of carts and vans passing in the street.
There was a certain degree of companionship in these also. He
kept his place near the cat and his hand where he could
occasionally touch her. He could lift his eyes now and then to
the place where the dim glimmer of something like light showed
itself.
Perhaps the stillness, perhaps the darkness, perhaps the purring
of the mother cat, probably all three, caused his thoughts to
begin to travel through his mind slowly and more slowly. At last
they ceased and he fell asleep. The mother cat purred for some
time, and then fell asleep herself.
