The Traitors. E. Phillips Oppenheim
heard perhaps of a Captain Erlito, who, with a dozen men, held a Nile fort for two days against a thousand dervishes, and for this and other acts of valour has won the Iron Cross. But this at least you do not know. Captain Erlito is the assumed name of Ughtred of Tyrnaus, Prince of Theos.”
The murmur of voices became a roar of acclamation. Then Nicholas of Reist raised his voice at once.
“Listen, men of Theos,” he cried. “Is it your will that I seek out for you Prince Ughtred and offer him the throne of Theos? Think well before you answer. He is a soldier, a brave and honest man, and he is of the royal race of Tyrnaus, who for many generations have been Kings of Theos. He will not sell you to Russia or beckon the hosts of the Sultan across the mountains. Will you have him for your King?”
The square, nay, the city, rang with their passionate answer. Never was anything more unanimous. Nicholas stepped back into the room. His sister faced him with blazing eyes and cheeks dyed red with anger.
“Fool!” she cried, “fool! They would have made you King. They were yours to do what you would with. You have been false to your destiny. I will never forgive you, Nicholas.”
He smiled curiously, and pointed upwards to that deep-engraven legend.
“My time,” he said, “is not yet.”
CHAPTER III
The lift went rumbling up to the topmost storey of the great block of flats, and stopped at last with something of a groan. The gates were opened, and Reist stepped out. He looked about him at the bare walls, the stone floor, and shrugged his shoulders. Erlito was none too well lodged then—soldiering had brought him some brief fame, but little else. Then he suddenly smiled. The incongruity of the thing was ridiculous. His sense of humour, by no means a characteristic trait of the man, was touched. The smile lingered upon his lips. He had come to offer a kingdom to a pauper!
The lift-boy slammed his gates and prepared to descend.
“Captain Erlito’s rooms are at the end of the passage, sir,” he volunteered. “Last door on the left.”
The information was properly rewarded, and the boy’s tolerant contempt for the foreigner, who at his journey’s end seemed afflicted with a curious hesitation, became an extinct thing. He pulled the rope and descended in hot haste, a large silver coin locked in his fingers and a glorious tingling sensation of unbounded wealth in his bosom.
Reist knocked at the door which had been pointed out to him, and waited. There came no answer. He tried again, and became conscious of a confused volume of sounds within, altogether drowning his summons for admission. He listened, perplexed. Light and rapid footsteps, the swishing of a silken skirt, a clear, musical laugh and cry of triumph, a succession of sounds which were wholly meaningless to him. Surely it was some sort of pandemonium. A momentary silence was followed by a chorus of voices. Reist raised his stick and knocked more loudly. A man’s voice travelled out to him like mild thunder.
“Come in!”
Reist opened the door and crossed the threshold. Before him was an explanation of the sounds which he had heard. Only he was, if possible, a little more bewildered than ever.
He was in a high, bare apartment, carpetless, and almost without furniture. Across the middle of the floor was stretched an upright net, and on either side of it were chalk-marked squares. Facing him was a girl with her left foot poised slightly forward, her arm raised, in the act of striking a feathered cork with a small racquet. By her side was a man whom Reist recognized at once. Directly he saw his visitor he stopped the game.
“One moment, Miss Van Decht,” he cried. “I am wanted.”
He crossed the room, swinging his racquet in his hand, and addressed Reist with a pleasant smile.
“We have been making so much noise,” he said, “that I am afraid we did not hear your first knock. I am Captain Erlito. You wished to see me?”
Reist looked him steadily and full in the face. If physique went for anything this man was surely born to be a King. He was well over six feet, splendidly made, and of military appearance. His features were clean-cut in the unmistakable Tyrnaus mould—only his mouth, which, stern though it was, was full of humour, seemed unfamiliar. His eyes were a wonderful deep blue, and his skin bronzed and burned with the Egyptian sun. A momentary bitterness possessed Reist. The people of Theos would care little for the brains which this man might lack. The first glance of him would be sufficient. They would shout him King till they were hoarse.
“You do not remember me, then?” Reist asked, softly.
Erlito stood swinging his racquet lightly in his fingers, and looked into his visitor’s face with pleasant and deferential courtesy.
“Do you know,” he said, “I am very sorry, but I am afraid that I do not. I have a very bad memory for faces. There is something about yours which seems to me familiar, but it comes from a long way back.”
Reist smiled faintly.
“Yes,” he said, “it comes indeed from a long way back. It comes from our boyhood. I hope at least that you have not forgotten my name. I am Nicholas of Reist.”
A radiant smile broke across Erlito’s face. He dropped his racquet and held out both his hands.
“It is little Nick!” he cried. “By all that is wonderful it is little Nick! Remember you? Why, we played soldiers together when we were children. A thousand, thousand welcomes.”
He wrung his visitor’s hands. His eyes were very bright. He was undoubtedly affected.
“I am glad that you have not forgotten those days,” Reist murmured. “As children we were together day by day. Yet it is very long ago, and for you at least,” he continued, “there have been so many great happenings.”
“It is splendid of you to have found me out,” Erlito cried. “I imagined that no one knew even of my existence. And Marie?”
“My sister is quite well,” Reist answered. “I had forgotten for the moment that she too was once your playmate. It is so long ago.”
“She is with you in London? You are living here, perhaps?” Erlito asked. “It is the most hospitable city in the world.”
Reist shook his head.
“There is only one home for us,” he answered. “I do not love strange cities.”
“You mean——”
“Theos!”
Erlito’s face clouded suddenly over. He glanced uneasily behind him. His face became graver, his expression resolved itself into sterner lines. A sudden bitterness found its way into his tone. The mention of Theos had stung him.
“The Republic tolerates aristocrats, then,” he remarked. “You are fortunate.”
Reist drew himself up.
“The Republic,” he answered, proudly, “would never dare to interfere with us. While the people of Theos remain, we of Reist are safe.”
There was a momentary pause. Reist was conscious that his impetuous speech was scarcely a happy one. For it was this man indeed who was the outcast—whose name even had become strange to the people over whom his forefathers had ruled. Erlito showed no resentment, but his eyes were very sorrowful.
“Your family,” he said, slowly, “have always been patriots. You deserve well of your country people.”
Reist glanced once more around the room.
“My visit to you,” he said, “is not one of courtesy—nay, let me say affection, only. I have a weighty matter to discuss with you. Will you allow me to outstay your