Chapter IV

As we sat in silence, my brain seemed somewhat numbed and dulled after the exaltation and excitement of the strange revelation. My mental condition was such that I wanted to believe that Henry and his co-worker, Olinski, had done this extraordinary thing, and yet I was unable, somehow, to believe that they had. How could it be possible? And yet it was certainly as possible as it was utterly improbable.

I wondered if the reaction of the others to this tremendous discovery had been similar to mine. As far as the Prince was concerned, it struck me that it had. I had never known him to be so daring, assured, and insolent before, and I felt quite sure that he had shown himself to Henry in such an unfavorable light that his chances for winning Pat's hand had already passed outside the realm of the possible.

Thank God the wretched business was going to end--and yet, and yet ... my mind was just going off on a new tack when, without warning, a thunder-storm broke over our heads. A summer squall, which so often sweeps down on the Sound, playing havoc with all sailing-craft.

Scarcely half an hour before, the sky over us had been serenely starlit and cloudless. Now it had become black as ink and streaked with lightning. The wind howled and the tower seemed to tremble under the heavy assault of the elements.

Before Henry could get the sectional glass roof closed, the rain poured in, collecting in little pools on the floor. Jane climbed up on her chair, fearful of getting her feet wet. Alarmed in the semi-darkness, I managed to find the switch, and turned on all the lights.

To my great dismay, the sudden illumination disclosed that Pat was quite under the Prince's spell again. They were discovered, snuggled together on a divan, the Prince's arm encircling her waist. She extricated herself gracefully, with a half-nervous laugh, and then went back again to his protecting embrace with a little squeal of fright, when a flash of lightning showed through the glass dome like red fire, followed instantly by a deafening crash of thunder that seemed to rend the castle in twain.

"What a relief it would be," said Jane, as she climbed down from her chair, "if the Creator had given us thunderless lightning."

Her feet had no sooner touched the floor when we all, with one accord, stared inquiringly at each other. In the lull that so often follows a thunder-clap, we heard from the outside a distant, muffled cry of distress. A few moments later, in the renewed rush and beat of the wind and rain, we heard it again. This time it was a distinct cry of "Help! Help!"

Visions of the angry sea taking its toll raced through my mind, while I thought: "Oh, God! Pity the poor sailor that has to be out on a night like this!" And while these things were going through my mind, Henry was taking action. He had jumped to the house telephone, and was giving orders downstairs for our two strong-armed chauffeurs, George and William, to get their flashlights, and seek out and save the person in distress.

While Henry was searching frantically in a wardrobe for his rain-coat, which he always kept conveniently near him for emergencies, the dark, excited face of Niki, the valet, suddenly appeared at the stairs, just showing above the floor level like a head without a body.

"Oh, Meester Royce!" cried Niki, in a high-pitched, nervous voice. "Come--queeck! A man he has been washed ashore. He call for--help."

Niki's head disappeared, and there was a general and excited rush from the observatory. Pat led the way. She was down the narrow stairs, and flying along the dark corridor to the elevator before Henry could get into his rain-coat. Some minutes passed before we found ourselves assembled in the entrance hall on the main floor.

Henry stood just outside the front door, shouting instructions to the two chauffeurs. Pat and the Prince stood at a French window, which opened on the terrace, peering out into the black and tempestuous night.

Greatly to Henry's annoyance, I kept the front door open just a crack. I felt it my duty to see what was going on, and to impart such information to those inside. Presently, I heard one of the chauffeurs calling to Henry. "There's a man lying on the sand near the dock," he shouted.

Henry cupped his mouth with his hands, megaphone fashion, and called back: "Do you think he fell off the cliff?"

"No," came the reply, to a very foolish question, I thought.

"Who is he?" Henry shouted again; really a more foolish question than the first one. "Anybody you know?"

"A stranger," was the chauffeur's reply.

Ten minutes later, the two husky chauffeurs came slowly across the terrace, supporting between them a bedraggled, hatless young man, who seemed to have some difficulty in walking. The stranger's fortunate rescue--from what cruel fate, of course, we did not know at the time--was a signal for Pat to let out a cry of mingled thankfulness and relief. "Oh, goody! He's alive!" she exclaimed. Then, pressing her face closer to the rain-washed window, she added: "I--I wonder who he is?"

One glance was sufficient to show Henry who he was. But I'm sure I gave a far louder exclamation of astonishment than my brother.

"God bless my life and soul!" I exclaimed. "It's Bob McGinity, the Daily Recorder reporter!"

Just as suddenly as the recognition had come, the reporter shook himself free of the two chauffeurs, and rushed up to Henry.

"Mr. Royce!" he said, excitedly. "Will--will you please confirm the report that--er--that you and Serge Olinski have established radio connection with Mars?"

Henry for a moment remained perfectly still and mute. His face looked as dark as the thunder-clouds that were sweeping over the castle. I saw the whole thing now, clearly enough. The reporter's predicament had been self-imposed; a ruse to gain personal contact with Henry which had been denied him by telephone. Anxiously, and puzzled, I watched closely the two of them.

"Can't I have a word with you--inside?" the reporter pleaded desperately. The rain ran in little rivers down his face; his dark, disheveled, kinky hair fringed his brow like the little, curled, rat-tail bangs that were fashionable when my grandmother was a girl. "I'm sorry, sir, if I've put you to so much inconvenience," he went on, "but in a case like this--momentous discovery--well, I've got--"

He got no further. "Not another word!" Henry interrupted sternly, raising his hand as though to command silence. Turning to the chauffeurs, he ordered, in a low, harsh voice: "Take him round to the garage, and dry him out. Then turn him loose--and--be damned with him!"

Just then, I heard a slight sound at my elbow. Pat, somehow, had wedged her pretty head under my arm, and was peering through the crack of the door. I had been so engrossed in the unhappy but thrilling scene outside, I hadn't noticed her presence. Apparently she had seen and heard everything. As the two chauffeurs, with a firm grip on the reporter, marched him off to the garage, she spoke. But what she said was inarticulate. It sounded to me like a heart-cry.

And then, suddenly, an idea came to me. Under her little harmless affectations and artificialities, Pat was very human. She had contacted very few young men outside her own exclusive social set; she knew very little of the outside world. Since childhood, she had been guarded and protected from the world's disillusions and ugliness, a protection which only great wealth like ours can give; and she still had the sweet and tender heart of a child.

Now, it was plain to me, she did not approve of the way Henry was treating the reporter. A fleeting glimpse of his youth and good looks, so unlike Henry's description, seemed to increase her interest in him. Oldish, fat, and almost bald--indeed! Pity for the handsome young stranger had touched her heart; and pity so often borders on that emotional danger zone: love.

Of all the unlooked for contingencies which could have arisen, this seemed to be about the worst. While I shared with Henry the honest indignation he felt at what he considered unjustifiable trickery and intrusion, yet I knew, deep down in me, I would side with Pat should she take the reporter's part. On this she seemed determined, judging from the expression on her face, cold and resolute, as Henry entered the hall, still snorting with anger.

In the clatter of voices that followed his return from the field of storm and conflict, the voice of Pat rose in steady crescendo.

"Uncle Henry! How could you be so inhuman?" she exclaimed. "You make us all feel--so cheap."

Jane stretched out a warning hand. "Now, darling!" she admonished; "this is not necessary."

"It is necessary!" replied Pat. "Uncle Henry has behaved shamefully, and should be scolded. I've half a mind to go to the garage myself, and apologize to this reporter for Uncle's cruel and unspeakable behavior."

Henry regarded her quizzically for a moment, then smiled. "This has nothing to do with you, my dear," he said, as Orkins relieved him of his rain-coat and hat. "Why, I acted in the reporter's best interests. I sent him to the garage to be dried out when I should have booted him off the premises."

"But he's wet--and miserable--and disappointed," said Pat, gravely.

"And whose fault is it? Not mine, certainly." Henry chuckled.

"He hasn't a dry stitch on him," moaned Pat; "he may catch pneumonia. You should send him some dry clothes, and go yourself, and give him this information he's worked so hard to get. You really ought!"

"No!" thundered Henry, suddenly. "No matter if the papers send an army of reporters in motors, ships or airplanes, I refuse to give any information until the proper time, not if they tear the roof off." He took several fierce strides up and down the hall, then stopped dead, and again faced Pat. "Why, may I ask, are you so concerned in this driveling lunatic for news--this interfering, meddlesome young swine? Why?"

There was a pause. Pat's face took on a wistful look. Then she replied: "Why? Because I feel sorry for him, I guess. Oh, you don't know, Uncle, how wonderful this reporter seems to me. Never thinking of himself--taking dangerous risks--just to get news for his paper. I never realized until now how people who haven't much money, have to struggle to make a living. But I suppose life is like that--outside," she went on, half meditatively: "struggle and disappointment. In time, I dare say I'll find out more about life and get used to it, and pretend not to care--"

"Now, my dear, you're tired out," Jane broke in, in gentle solicitude. "You've had a tiring day." She laid an entreating hand on Pat's arm. "Better go to bed."

But once an idea was planted in Pat's brain, she clung to it tenaciously. Disregarding Jane, and still addressing Henry, she continued: "But I wouldn't get used to it, and I shall always care--always!"

"Care about what?" snapped Henry.

"Oh, just feeling I'm better than other people--poor, common people, and not caring what happens to them. No! I'll be darned if I will!"

"Patricia!" Jane chided.

"Oh, what's the good of pretending we are better than other people, just because we have everything," Pat retorted boldly. "If this reporter was in my own set, some young, rotten cad, and had driven up in a big motor car, and sent in his card, Uncle Henry would have received him with open arms. Because he is common and poor--"

"Will you be quiet?" Henry interrupted, resentfully. "You talk like a scullery maid, fed up on bolshevism. I don't feel a bit better than anybody else, although I am a Royce."

"Very well," murmured Pat, shrugging with hopeless resignation. Then she turned to Prince Matani, who all this time had stood by rigidly, like a soldier at attention, and who now clicked his heels together and said, brightly:

"Now, my dear Miss Patricia, you'll hear from me. Consider yourself under arrest for behaving so rudely to your uncle. And while this irrepressible reporter is being dried out, you shall be court-martialled for conduct unbecoming a--"

Pat stopped him. "Don't talk silly!" she said. Then she smiled thinly. "Perhaps I have been acting the little fool, but, please, don't rub it in." She walked away.

The Prince followed her, impetuously. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Straight upstairs and to bed," she replied, wearily. "Why do you ask?"

"Because," said the Prince, raising his voice so that Henry might hear, "I'm afraid, on account of the storm, I shall have to spend the night here."

"So you shall, Your Highness," Henry responded, readily.

Until this moment, Olinski had contributed nothing to the controversial dialogue. With complete reconciliation in progress, he moved forward, and spoke.

"I am sure none of us have anything personally against this audacious reporter," he said. "Why should we? It's his profession, nosing into other people's business, that we object to. Anyway, no one wants a reporter running over the premises like a mouse looking for cheese. And now that our dear Patricia appears to have thought the matter over, and decided that she's made a mistake, I shall prepare to make my departure."

"No; I forbid you leaving the castle on a night like this," said Henry, supplementing his remark with a hearty slap on Olinski's shoulder.

Pat looked round at me, standing unmovable and silent, in the background. The glance that I gave her, I intended as a reminder that she had my complete understanding and sympathy. Presently she drifted over to me and whispered something rapidly. I nodded and left the room unconcernedly.

A few minutes later, I returned from the library, where I had telephoned to the garage, and learned that the reporter had slipped out and disappeared into the night while the two chauffeurs were having their bread and cheese and beer. Patricia did not seem unduly surprised at the news I brought her.

"This McGinity fellow," I said to her, on the quiet, "struck me, what little I've seen of him, as being the sort of young man who could play a game to the limit."

"I shouldn't wonder," she agreed, with a smile that signified a new interest in life had arisen in her heart.

The hall cleared rapidly. Jane went upstairs with Pat. Prince Matani was shown to his room by Orkins. I accompanied them in the elevator as far as the gallery overlooking the hall, where I settled myself comfortably in the welcome silence and semi-darkness.

I had a slight headache; my head seemed to be in a whirl after the stirring events of the evening; I wanted to be left alone to meditate. There was no use of my going to bed and trying to sleep. I glanced at my watch. It was still early--ten-thirty.

Henry and Olinski had remained behind, and were now seated, conversing in low tones, at a side table, where there were books and magazines. Intermittently, I could hear the rain beating against the window panes; the noise of the wind came in little moaning gasps and flutters.

In fancy, I pictured the reporter, wet and disheartened, making his way back to the village, over an unfrequented road, against the driving wind and rain. I felt truly sorry for him. Pat was right. Henry had treated him shamefully.

As we learned afterwards, the reporter's life had really been endangered, and he had a perfect right to call for help. In his efforts to outwit Henry, and knowing he would be stopped at our lodge-gate, he had hired a fisherman's row-boat, and was seeking entrance to the castle grounds, by way of our dock, in a second attempt to gain an interview.

Caught in the sudden storm, and losing one of his oars, his frail craft had been dashed onto the rocks at the foot of the cliff. Pitched out headlong among them, he had been rendered semi-unconscious. Coming to at last, with the waves threatening to engulf him, and unable to extricate himself, he had called for help. Finally he had managed to crawl to a safety spot on the shore, where the chauffeurs had found him.

My thoughts so occupied, and enjoying to the utmost the reposeful darkness and quiet of the gallery, but still reluctant to summon Orkins to fetch me a cigar and some whiskey, I was just beginning to feel thoroughly relaxed when I saw a slim, whitish figure, which I knew at once to be Pat's, come down the dark stairway that connected the gallery with the upper floor. That she, too, was restless and unable to sleep, was at once evident. Still, I made no move to accost her, being content to remain in my comfortable concealment. After a hurried glance down into the hall, from the head of the grand staircase, she returned the way she had come, soft and silent as a ghost.

By this time, the murmur of Henry's and Olinski's voices had risen into boisterous talk and laughter. Apparently they were bent on celebrating their scientific achievement. Prying a bit, I saw they were indulging in numerous whiskies and sodas, served by Niki, and smoking the big cigars of Henry's favorite brand. Orkins, I assumed, was on his usual round of the doors, in accordance with a time-honored custom of locking up the castle at eleven o'clock every night. Carrying the keys of some baker's dozen of doors, he usually began with the front door and ended up with the smaller ones.

With the soothing sense that the castle was being secured for the night; mightily pleased over Henry's and Olinski's startling and triumphant conquest, that extended to the very edge of the infinite universe, but wondering, too, if the riddle of Mars was really to be solved at last, and speculating what this would mean to the inhabitants of the earth, whose appetite for marvels is never satisfied; snug and secure from the battling elements, I fell into a doze.

Suddenly, I was awakened. Naturally puzzled to know what had roused me, I rose and stepped noiselessly to the gallery railing and took a view of what was occurring below, in the hall.

The front door-bell, an ancient contraption, was ringing--spasmodic, jerky rings, like a person would make who had hurried to a neighbor's house with some alarming news.

At Henry's command, Niki went to the door, unlocked it and looked out. As he did so, he gave voice to a sharp, surprised exclamation, causing me to wonder who would approach the castle at this hour, midnight, on such a tempestuous night.