III
As I stood there, holding Nancy Flynn's hands in mine, I lost all consciousness of the present, and even of Nancy herself, and my mind went back for fifteen years. I saw myself a subaltern in a regiment quartered in Dublin. I recalled a desire to learn the flute, and my first visit to Mr. Aloysius Flynn, in a small street near the Castle.
Nancy was then a child of ten—all legs and wings, and very gawky and boisterous. I was eighteen, and she and I had soon become friends. Sometimes we used to slip out together into the streets and stare at the shops. Nancy would amuse me by her imitations, and I used to offer her some slight reward at the pastry cook's or the toy shop.
I think we stood holding each other's hands for several minutes.
“It is you, Nancy,” I said at last; “and you are just what I thought you would be—a very beautiful woman. I'm glad you were only ten years old when I last saw you!”
“I knew you very quickly,” she said, still keeping her hands in mine. “You're not much altered, but I'm sure I must be, when I think of myself as a child, all eyes and hair and arms and legs. Heavens, how ugly I must have been in those days!”
“You were rather ugly,” I said, laughing, “but you were full of promise, Nancy.”
She laughed, drew her hands away from mine, went back to her desk, and unlocked a drawer. Her hand rummaged within it and brought out a small parcel folded in tissue-paper.
“There!” she said, holding it toward me with an air of triumph. “Open it!”
I unrolled the wrappings. At last there emerged a much battered doll, woebegone of countenance, with the remnants of a wig that had once been flaxen.
“Yes,” I said. “I know you, Euphemia. I gave four and sixpence for you in Sackville Street.”
The doll's owner wrapped it up again with tender hands.
“I've kept Euphemia all these years,” she told me; “and I'm going to keep her. Sometimes I take her out and talk to her. There—see how safely I put her back into my specially locked drawer! And now—is my identity established?”
“I never doubted it,” I replied.
“Come, then,” she said, “do you refuse to help me now that you know that I know all about you?”
She sat down, smiling at me, but I remained standing.
“You don't know all about me,” I answered. 'I have seen and done a good deal during the past fifteen years.”
She looked at me narrowly.
“There is nothing like plain truth when one speaks to a friend,” I said. “Shall I tell you the truth, Nancy?”
She bowed her head.
“I was cashiered. Two causes, Nancy—one was drink, the other was gambling. That's three years ago. I'm cured of both—quite cured—but I'm done.”
I watched her narrowly. Suddenly her face brightened all over, and she sprang up, laughing.
“Then it's all right!” she said. “Who cares for the past? Not Nancy Flynn, at any rate, with all her memories of the shabby little parlor. Cosmo, you're not done! Why, there's everything to begin, and here's a ready made romance lying in wait for you. Sit down, take another cigarette, and listen to me.”
I obeyed her.
“I'll do anything I can, Nancy,” I promised. “Am I to call you Nancy or Miss St. Clair? And, by the bye, won't you tell me how Selma St. Clair has been evolved from Nancy Flynn?”
“Oh, another time!” she said impatiently. “Don't you know that we have already wasted half an hour in chatter about ourselves, and that all the time the safety of my dear friend—”
“Ah, yes—the lady of high degree!”
She sat up and looked at me with a flash of anger.
“Cosmo, leave off that foolish habit of saying flippant things at serious times—for this is very serious.”
I threw away my cigarette and stood up. I saw her watching me out of her eye corners as I faced her in an attitude of strict attention.
“Now, then, Nancy,” I said, “what is it? Out with it!”
“Well, you know,” she went on, “there may be all sorts of dreadful things in it—robbery, perhaps murder, and I'm perplexed. I told you that I had formed a great attachment for a young lady of high rank, a fellow student of mine at Leipzig. She is a princess of Amavia.”
“Amavia? Oh, yes, I know,” I said. “Amavia—that's one of the very smallest of the old German states—an affair where the army consists of a field marshal, six generals, seven sergeants, and twelve men, and the reigning sovereign can encompass his dominions 'twixt sunrise and sunset on his own legs, isn't it?”
“The Princess Amirel of Amavia,” she said; “and Amavia is not quite so insignificant.”
“Amirel is a pretty name,” I replied, “and I gather that—”
“The princess is here,” she said, interrupting me.
“Here! Where? In the house?”
“She is out at present. She is staying with me under the name of Miss Smith.”
“There is nothing like variety,” I remarked; “but the robbery and the murder—what of them? Are they mixed up with the princess's visit to you?”
“Oh, it's all mixed up!” she replied. “Last night Amirel arrived here quite suddenly—without the least warning, you know—and threw herself upon my mercy. She had been obliged to leave the court of Amavia through the conduct of her brother, Prince Adalbert, the reigning sovereign, and she had come to me for advice and shelter.”
“Shelter?”
“Well, whatever you like to call it. You see, Amirel met a young Irish gentleman, Sir Desmond Adare, at Mentone last year, and he and she fell desperately in love. Amirel has vainly endeavored to obtain her brother's consent to the marriage; he flatly refused to hear of it. Sir Desmond is out in South Africa with his regiment, and the prince has tried to force upon Amirel the attentions of Count Hofberg, a nobleman of Amavia, who is much older than she. Amirel hates the count, and she has promised herself to Sir Desmond Adare. Things became so distressing at Prince Adalbert's court that Amirel could not remain there any longer. Her brother was continually pestering her to marry Count Hofberg; but she believes that what the count really wants is not herself, but the amethyst.”
“The amethyst! What amethyst?”
“Surely you have heard of the Amavia amethyst!” she exclaimed. “I thought every one knew of it. It's as famous as the Koh-i-noor. It's a most wonderful stone, with a weird history. It has been in possession of the reigning house of Amavia since the days of Rudolph the Black, in the twelfth century, and it is always held by the eldest daughter of the house. For instance, Amirel holds it now; when she dies, it will pass to the keeping of the eldest daughter of the then reigning prince.”
“But I don't see what particular monetary value there can be in the amethyst that should make this count so covetous of its possession,” I said.
“There is more than a monetary value. The legend of the amethyst is that it brings good fortune to its possessor, and, of course, what is a wife's is her husband's. Besides, apart from the famous heirloom, Amirel has magnificent diamonds, rubies, and pearls, and she suspects Hofberg of coveting them.”
“I see—and so she has fled to you. What about the amethyst, and the diamonds, and the rubies, and the pearls?”
“Oh, they are here!”
“Here?”
“There!” she said, pointing to a small safe built into the wall. “Would you like to see them?”
“Not for the world!” I exclaimed, backing away. “Let them stay in the safe until the princess's own hands take them out,” I added with emphasis. “I say, Nancy, I don't like this! I begin to understand your allusion to robbery and murder. Both will come if those jewels remain in that safe!”
“But they can't remain in that safe. They'll have to come out to-night,” she said. “We can't leave them there.”
“Will you explain?” I suggested, sitting down and lighting a cigarette.
“Well, as soon as Amirel arrived here we talked the whole thing over, and decided to send a cablegram to Sir Desmond Adare, explaining her flight and asking his advice. Just before noon to-day we received a reply from him, instructing us to proceed immediately to his place in Ireland, there to await his coming. He has obtained leave, and is sailing from Cape Town at once. He has cabled to his household to prepare for our reception.”
“And are you going?”
“We are starting to-night. What else can we do? The princess is sure to be tracked. The Prince of Amavia is one of those men who care little about legalities, while the count is worse. They might follow her here and carry her and the jewels off before my very eyes.”
“I should say that is exceedingly probable. In fact, my dear Nancy, the whole Story suggests some exceedingly disagreeable possibilities for you, and I regret them extremely. Why don't you persuade her to take her jewels to a bank and have them locked up?”
“She won't let them pass out of her possession,” replied Nancy with a sigh.
“Well,” I asked, after a brief silence, “what do you wish me to do?”
“Didn't I ask you to assume the rôle of knight-errant?” she said.
“Come, what can I do, Nancy?”
“I want you to go over to Ireland with us,” she answered gravely. “I want you to act as our bodyguard and traveling courier, to protect us and stay with us until Sir Desmond Adare returns. I don't know another man in whom I would trust.”
“But—I am penniless,” I objected.
“I shall insist on your accepting a proper fee from the princess,” she said. “Come, sir—do you accept the situation?”
“Madam,” I replied, “I accept the situation, and I trust to discharge its duties in a manner that will satisfy you.”