the collation served for his mistress's birthday-supper, the wines were from the finest vineyards of Vouvray, Champagne, Burgundy and Sauterne, and the kisses, taken as forfeits behind a screen after midnight, had enough spice in them for all the women to feel that they had been deliciously wicked, but not enough so to cause later regrets. Roger got to bed at four in the morning having enjoyed every moment of it, and without giving another thought to Natalia.
Six hours later he called at the Russian Embassy to take her out riding. She was in excellent spirits and made no mention at all of the previous night, so he was much relieved to think that his assumption that she would go to bed early had been right, and that she had no suspicion of his having failed to keep his rendezvous. As he always entertained her with an account of his doings he told her that he had been out to the French Embassy to Madame de Pons' birthday party, but he said nothing of its intimate nature, of the Marquis's absence or of his own belated return to his inn.
Her only comment was that she supposed that Madame de Pons had given herself out to be twenty-five, but she must be twenty-eight if she was a day; which made Roger laugh inwardly, as he knew Angelique to be thirty- one; but he would not have dreamed of giving his friend away and simply replied that her age had not been mentioned.
At midnight he was at his usual post outside the postern door. The dim light of welcome was showing, so in he went, and up the iron-trellis work to his twelfth clandestine meeting with Natalia. It was three weeks exactly since he had first tiptoed into her room yet neither had reason to complain of any falling off in the other's ardour. But it was nearing the longest day of the year, and the dawn came very early now, so at half-past three he kissed her farewell and climbed over her balcony down into the garden.
The place was as utterly still as usual and for a moment he stood' there drawing the cool night air deep into his lungs, while admiring a clear half-moon that was now low on the horizon; then he opened the postern door, stepped out into the street and put his hand in his pocket for the key to lock it.
Suddenly a group of figures detached themselves from the deep shadow cast by the wall and ran at him. In a second he saw that he was opposed to four ragged ruffians armed with cudgels and a tall, masked man who wore a sword. Blessing the habit he had fallen into of carrying his cutlass on these midnight expeditions he sprang back and drew it.
The tall man was urging the others on. His figure and voice gave away the fact that he was Count Erik Yagerhorn. Roger knew then that this was no chance hold-up by a gang of robbers who would let him go if he gave up his purse. He had been ambushed by an enemy who meant him grievous injury; and five to one were too heavy odds for him to have much prospect of fighting his way out of the ring that had so swiftly formed about him. His only chance of escape lay in using all his wits without an instant's delay.
As he side-stepped his nearest attacker the thought came to him that if he could get back through the postern Natalia would rouse the Embassy servants to come to his assistance. He could say that he had been attacked in the street, and finding the door open, had taken refuge there. She would know that he was clever enough to think of some such excuse to save her from being compromised. But on his dodging the first rush one of the rogues had slipped behind him, and now stood between him and the door. Ducking one blow he parried another; then ran at the man who barred his path to the postern and the safety that he hoped lay behind it.
On running forward his glance was caught for a second by something white ten feet above the wall. It was the moonlight glinting on a pale face. Up on the balcony, wrapped in a dark cloak and leaning forward in an intent attitude, silently watching the fracas below, stood Natalia Andreovna.
Instantly it flashed into Roger's mind that she must, after all, have known that he had failed to keep his rendezvous the previous night, and had assumed that his failure to do so meant that he had been unfaithful to her. In the same second he realised that Count Yagerhorn would never have dared to ambush him beneath her window without her consent. She must have deliberately invited the Finn to take his revenge.
Roger's cutlass bit into the shoulder of the man in front of the door. He let out a yell of pain. Like a distorted echo there came from the balcony above a low laugh.
Filled with rage and revulsion Roger realised that the beautiful green-eyed Russian was thinking of herself as a Roman Empress who, believing that her lover had deceived her, had had him thrown to the lions and was now deriving a vicious excitement from the prospect of seeing him torn to pieces.
Three of the men closed in on him. Grimly he realised now, that there was no escape. Striking out right and left he began to fight for his life.
CHAPTER XI
THE INEXPERIENCED SPY
ROGER had never before used a cutlass in earnest, and at the many fencing-schools he had attended he had always disdained the sabre; but he found that in his present emergency the short, thick-bladed weapon was likely to serve him better than a sword. Had it been a case of steel to steel he would have chosen a rapier every time, but a blow from a heavy cudgel might easily snap a thin blade; moreover, if driven home by a thrust of any force into the muscle of an antagonist it was liable to become gripped there and prove difficult to pull out.
As he recovered from the stroke with which he had wounded the man in front of the door, a big fellow in a leather jerkin made a swing at his head. He ducked, and struck sideways at the man's body. The blow was a glancing one, and the leather turned it, but the man backed away with a grunt.
Swivelling round, Roger was only just in time to parry a swipe from a thick-set ruffian, and using the agility which was one of his principal assets in a fight, landed him a sharp lack on the knee. But he was too late to avoid the fourth man's cudgel. It descended with a dull thud on the back of his left shoulder-blade, knocking him forward, so that he stumbled and nearly fell.
His sudden lurch saved him from the big fellow's second stroke. It missed his head by a bare inch, cleaving the empty air behind him. Regaining his balance he struck upward at the tall man's chin. The blade cut into it, crunching on the jaw bone. With a moan the man dropped his cudgel and staggered back, his hands pressed to his bleeding face.
For a moment Roger thought that his prospects looked a little brighter. He had put two of his five attackers out of the game, temporarily at least. If only he could deal equally effectively with their leader the others might lose heart and take to their heels. But Count Yagerhorn was behaving warily, and stood well out of reach behind his men.
It seemed, too, that the Count was still quite confident of the outcome of the affair. He had not even bothered to draw his sword, and was standing there smacking his boot impatiently with a riding-crop from the end of which snaked a long lash.
As Roger glimpsed it his gorge almost choked him with rage. Evidently Natalia Andreovna had ordered him a whipping. The gutter-carls had been hired to disarm and overcome him, then the Finn meant to give him a thrashing in front of her; Rage, disgust and hatred seethed in Roger's brain, but the desire to be revenged only flickered in and out of it; he was far too hard-pressed to give more than an instant's thought to anything other than avoiding and dealing blows.
The man who had struck him on the back and the thickset ruffian rushed at him simultaneously. The first, a thin, lanky fellow, was coming in on his right. Roger sliced at his long arm as it came down, hoping to sever it at the wrist; but the other man got in first. His cudgel took Roger on the upper part of the left arm. The pain was so intense that for a moment he thought it had been broken. The blow swung him half round and his cutlass, instead of meeting flesh, buried itself in the lanky man's cudgel.
For a moment the two of them swayed violently back and forth in a nightmare tug-of-war, as each tried to wrench free his weapon. The thickset man brought down his cudgel again, but Roger dodged the blow and kicked him in the stomach. With a gasp of agony he fell backwards, doubled up and rolled in the gutter. But, as Roger delivered the kick, his other antagonist jerked him sideways. In his endeavour to keep a hold on his cutlass he lost his balance and pitched forward on to his knees. Cutlass and cudgel were still locked together. The lanky rough pulled with all his weight on the latter, dragging Roger a few yards along the roadway.
Suddenly Count Yagerhorn came into action. His whip hissed through the air, striking Roger full across the shoulders and curling round his body. With a cry of pain he let go the hilt of his cutlass. Throwing up his arms to protect his head he attempted to stagger to his feet. But the man in the doorway, who had been crouching there staunching the blood from the wound in his shoulder, now ran forward and kicked him in the ribs. The kick sent him sprawling on his hands and knees. The Count's lash bit deep into his flesh a second time.
