“Now wait! The Lord knows it’s bad enough, but don’t think it sillier than it is. The money I have would go a long way in this small, impoverished country. Then, with an American ruler, it would be easier—it ought to be—for the country to borrow in America or England. Then there’s the political angle. Muravia is surrounded by four countries, any one of which is strong enough to annex it if it wants. Even Albania, now that it is a protégé of Italy’s. Muravia has stayed independent so far only because of the jealousy among its stronger neighbors and because it hasn’t a seaport. But with the balance shifting—with Greece, Italy, and Albania allied against Yugoslavia for control of the Balkans—it’s only a matter of time before something will happen here, as it now stands.
“But with an American ruler—and if loans in America and England were arranged, so we had their capital invested here—there would be a change in the situation. Muravia would be in a stronger position, would have at least some slight claim on the friendship of stronger powers. That would be enough to make the neighbors cautious.
“Albania, shortly after the war, thought of the same thing, and offered its crown to one of the wealthy American Bonapartes. He didn’t want it. He was an older man and had already made his career. I did want my chance when it came. There were”—some of the embarrassment that had left him during his talking returned—“there were kings back in the Grantham lines. We trace our descent from James the Fourth, of Scotland. I wanted—it was nice to think of carrying the line back to a crown.
“We weren’t planning a violent revolution. Einarson holds the army. We simply had to use the army to force the Deputies—those who were not already with us—to change the form of government and elect me king. My descent would make it easier than if the candidate were one who hadn’t royal blood in him. It would give me a certain standing in spite—in spite of my being young, and—and the people really want a king, especially the peasants. They don’t think they’re really entitled to call themselves a nation without one. A president means nothing to them—he’s simply an ordinary man like themselves. So, you see, I—It was—Go ahead, laugh! You’ve heard enough to know how silly it is!” His voice was high-pitched, screechy. “Laugh! Why don’t you laugh?”
“What for?” I asked. “It’s crazy, God knows, but not silly. Your judgment was gummy, but your nerve’s all right. You’ve been talking as if this were all dead and buried. Has it flopped?”
“No, it hasn’t,” he said slowly, frowning, “but I keep thinking it has. Mahmoud’s death shouldn’t change the situation, yet I’ve a feeling it’s all over.”
“Much of your money sunk?”
“I don’t mind that. But—well—suppose the American newspapers get hold of the story, and they probably will. You know how ridiculous they could make it. And then the others who’ll know about it—my mother and uncle and the trust company. I won’t pretend I’m not ashamed to face them. And then—” His face got red and shiny. “And then Valeska—Miss Radnjak—her father was to have led the revolution. He did lead it—until he was murdered. She is—I never could be good enough for her.” He said this in a peculiarly idiotic tone of awe. “But I’ve hoped that perhaps by carrying on her father’s work, and if I had something besides mere money to offer her—if I had done something—made a place for myself—perhaps she’d—you know.”
I said: “Uh-huh.”
“What shall I do?” he asked earnestly. “I can’t run away. I’ve got to see it through for her, and to keep my own self-respect. But I’ve got that feeling that it’s all over. You offered to help me. Help me. Tell me what I ought to do!”
“You’ll do what I tell you—if I promise to bring you through with a clean face?” I asked, just as if steering millionaire descendants of Scotch kings through Balkan plots were an old story to me, merely part of the day’s work.
“Yes!”
“What’s the next thing on the revolutionary program?”
“There’s a meeting tonight. I’m to bring you.”
“What time?”
“Midnight.”
“I’ll meet you here at eleven-thirty. How much am I supposed to know?”
“I was to tell you about the plot, and to offer you whatever inducements were necessary to bring you in. There was no definite arrangement as to how much or how little I was to tell you.”
VIII
An Enlightening Interview
At nine-thirty that night a cab set me down in front of the address the Minister of Police’s secretary had given in her note. It was a small two-story house in a badly paved street on the city’s eastern edge. A middle-aged woman in very clean, stiffly starched, ill-fitting clothes opened the door for me. Before I could speak, Romaine Frankl, in a sleeveless pink satin gown, floated into sight behind the woman, smiling, holding out a small hand to me.
“I didn’t know you’d come,” she said.
“Why?” I asked, with a great show of surprise at the notion that any man would ignore an invitation from her, while the servant closed the door and took my coat and hat.
We were standing in a dull-rose-papered room, finished and carpeted with oriental richness. There was one discordant note in the room—an immense leather chair.
“We’ll go upstairs,” the girl said, and addressed the servant with words that meant nothing to me, except the name Marya. “Or would you”—she turned to me and English again—“prefer beer to wine?”
I said I wouldn’t, and we went upstairs, the girl climbing ahead of me with her effortless appearance of being carried. She took me into a black, white, and gray room that was very daintily furnished with as few pieces as possible, its otherwise perfect feminine atmosphere spoiled by the
