Adventure, December 1914 — page 215: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Sinews of War “TI will have my car here in a minute,” he said coolly, as he reached for a telephone. *“Masoya, get your wraps ready. I will also call Boris on the ’phone. He is in command at the Guards Barracks. He will “I telephoned Colonel Kurtsky before I left the Palace,” interposed Héléne von Anhalt. ‘‘He understands the situation and he is galloping here with as many troopers as he can muster.”’ _ The minister gave her an admiring glance. “You are a woman of _ resource, Countess,” he remarked. ‘‘Boris will not let a little thing like an order from the Czar prevent him from protecting these two from arrest.” “But you must hurry!” the Countess insisted. ‘‘You can not wait for Colonel Kurtsky or to lay formal plans. be away at once. Never mind your auto- mobile. Take mine. It is ready. If Gort- cheff gets here first you will both be dead before help can come.” Even while she was speaking she ran to a closet and snatched from it an armful of wraps. “Come!” she commanded, flinging open the entrance door. We followed her meekly, because in this tense moment of action Héléne von Anhalt, our enemy, whom we had every right to mistrust, made us instinctively feel that she knew what was best. She ordered the driver out of his seat and pushed Masoya into his place. “The man is an employe of our Ministry,” she explained briefly. “Best not to take chances with him. Besides, I dare say you are a better driver.” ' She swung around on me. ‘““Have you money?” “T have a beltful of gold; it should be enough,” I answered. “Then jump in and be off,” she cried. “Oh, hurry! Hurry!” “But look here,’”’ I protested. ‘This has been uncommonly decent of you, Countess. What “Call it pique, personal indulgence, trea- son to my friends, inherent deceit, anything you like,” she said. ‘Only please don’t waste valuable time.” | | “But how about yourself?’ I insisted. “Gortcheff will be angry enough to shoot you. And how about your friends at the Austrian Ministry? You had best——” She laughed a bit wildly. You must 213 ‘““My dear Mr. Blair,’ she said mockingly, “don’t worry yourself about Héléne von Anhalt. She has been used to looking out for herself in the past, and a little thing like this won’t bother her. Rest easy. I’ve been\in many a worse hole—and with less reason to be proud of myself.” “But I don’t understand,” I said blankly. Masoya leaned across me and snapped the side door shut. “T understand, Madame von Anhalt,” she said, and to my surprise her voice was very kind. ‘God bless you.”’ But I was even more surprised at the tears that sprang into Héléne von Anhalt’s eyes. Shestarted to say something, but the words seemed to choke in her throat; and at this very moment old Kurtsky, standing at the head of the steps, shouted a warning. ‘“‘A troop of gendarmes has just ridden out of the Palace gateway,” he cried. “Don’t let them head you off.” Ezy MASOYA, with a single glance over Parma) her shoulder, pushed in the clutch Bice and snapped the gear lever into high speed. The touring-car slid forward easily over the smooth gravel roadway, rounded the gatepost on two wheels and struck the straight stretch of the highroad leading out of the city toward the southwest, the Dubnitza Road. Behind us, riding furiously in a cloud of dust came a whole troop of mounted men whom we distanced easily. But to my chagrin, before we had gotten very far toward the city limits, I spied a second and somewhat larger troop, of about a squad- ron’s strength, coming up on our left hand through one of the outlying streets that led to the barracks east of the city. I pointed them out to Masoya, suggesting that we swing to the right; for I was afraid they might open fire upon us, even if they could not intercept us; and I knew a volley at such range would be fatal. She gripped the steering-wheel a trifle tighter and took her eyes off the road ahead barely long enough to flash a glance- at this new factor in the game. A relieved expression crossed her face. ‘“‘They are of the Guards!’’ she shouted, so as to make herself heard above the pounding of our motor. “It must be Boris.” She slowed down; and sure enough, in five minutes good old Boris Kurtsky—who, to his great disgust, had been left behind by MICLOOOLK (C©