



Produced by Al Haines









  THE AMATEUR
  DIPLOMAT

  _A Novel_


  BY

  HUGH S. EAYRS AND T. B. COSTAIN



  HODDER AND STOUGHTON
  LONDON TORONTO NEW YORK
  1917




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I.

A CANADIAN IN SERAJOZ


CHAPTER II.

THE ROYAL BALL


CHAPTER III.

DARING PROPOSALS


CHAPTER IV.

THE MEETING OF FOUR NATIONS


CHAPTER V.

AN ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION


CHAPTER VI.

THE KING'S COMMAND


CHAPTER VII.

GENERAL LEBRUN


CHAPTER VIII.

THE QUARREL


CHAPTER IX.

A NIGHT OF RIOTS


CHAPTER X.

FATE & CO


CHAPTER XI.

THE ABDUCTION


CHAPTER XII.

INTRODUCING PHIL CRANE


CHAPTER XIII.

IN THE HILL COUNTRY


CHAPTER XIV.

TAKE LARESCU


CHAPTER XV.

THE TRUMP CARD


CHAPTER XVI.

THE RESCUING PARTY


CHAPTER XVII.

THE RENUNCIATION


CHAPTER XVIII.

TWO FIGHT: ONE FALLS


CHAPTER XIX.

MARRIED OVER THE TONGS


CHAPTER XX.

THE PLOT DISCOVERED


CHAPTER XXI.

PLANNING A FUTURE


CHAPTER XXII.

IRONIA INVADED


CHAPTER XXIII.

CRANE'S ESCAPE


CHAPTER XXIV.

THE NEW KING


CHAPTER XXV.

THE ASSASSINATION


CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DEATH OF THE KING


CHAPTER XXVII.

A LETTER OF FAREWELL


CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE REUNION




CHAPTER I

A CANADIAN IN SERAJOZ

On a sunny spring day in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred
and fifteen, a fiacre drove up to a big house in the Lodz, the winding,
crescent-shaped street in Serajoz, the capital of Ironia, in which were
to be found the Embassies and the residences of the wealthier class.
There was nothing singular, apparently, in that particular fiacre
driving up to that particular house.  Fiacres in scores drove up there
and drove away again day after day the year through and occasioned
little remark.  Yet if certain influential gentlemen in Ironia had
known who it was that jumped out of the fiacre on that sunny spring
day, and if these influential Ironians had had the gift of prophetic
vision in superlative degree, they might have taken some action to
prevent him from reaching the house of Baroness Draschol and her
husband, Mr Percival Varden.  And then, perhaps, this story would never
have been written, because Ironia might never have----But this is
anticipating.

The fiacre stopped.  Almost before all motion had ceased, a tall,
alert-looking young man jumped out and, fishing out a handful of coins
from his pocket, implored the driver to take what was his due.  The
driver knew him for an American or an Englishman, or anything but an
Ironian, and, carefully abstracting from the outstretched palm the
equivalent of twice the legitimate fare, drove away with a smile on his
face and a blessing upon foreigners who had not the gift of tongues.

The young man stood on the sidewalk a moment.  Then, with the quick
step which characterises the man of action, he strode up the narrow
path to the house and rang the bell.  It was answered by a pompous
individual, resplendent in a dull strawberry- plush suit, who,
with the combination of obsequiousness and dignity which can be found
only in the lackey in the Balkans, ushered the caller into a
reception-room and retired with his card.

The young man looked around him appreciatively.  The splendid paintings
which adorned the walls, the luxurious hangings, the rich, deep carpet,
the handsome lounge on which he was sitting, all appeared to surprise
him.

"Some change from that den of Varden's in Montreal," he murmured.

The curtains at the end of the room parted and a tall, well-groomed man
of about thirty-five came quickly across the floor with outstretched
hands.

"Don Fenton, by all that's holy!" he exclaimed, pumping his visitor's
hands up and down with vigorous exuberance.

"Percy Varden, by all that's--er--profane!" said Fenton, with equal
enthusiasm.

"Old Don Fenton!" repeated Varden, slapping the other on the back and
beaming on him with real affection.  "And in Serajoz, of all places!"

"A pretty good place to be, if I'm to judge by your surroundings," said
Fenton.  "You must be a deputy-sultan at least, Yarden, to live in such
state."

"Ironia isn't a bad place, Don," said Varden, with sudden soberness.
"Or at least it won't be if a certain event comes to pass.  If that
certain event doesn't happen, I intend to leave all this"--he made a
broad gesture to indicate the luxurious room in which they stood--"and
find a place for myself in the line with the boys in khaki.  When your
country's at war, it's hard to be an exile."

"I'm on my way back for that very same purpose," affirmed Fenton
warmly.  "When the war broke I was in Hungary, and I just escaped the
detention camp by two hours.  I got over into Russia after a series of
adventures--dead broke.  I had a letter of credit, of course, but it
was gold that was needed.  It took me a long time to establish my
identity and convert my paper into gold currency.  Then I came down
through the Balkans on my way home and decided to drop off and see you
here in Ironia.  And here I am."

"But," said Varden, "what I want to know is how you ever got to Europe
in the first place.  What's the meaning of all this glib talk of
letters of credit and gold currency?  Last I heard of you, you were
trying to convince the Canadian public that at last Eldorado had been
discovered--in the form of subdivisions in Saskatchewan.  And I judged
from your letters that the public had developed an unwonted degree of
scepticism."

"Then you haven't heard of my good fortune?"

"Why, no, I guess I haven't.  What's happened?"

"An uncle of mine died and very unexpectedly left me several million
dollars.  I considered myself justified under the circumstances in
following the bottom of the real estate market; that is, dropping out."

"Then you are _the_ Fenton," declared Varden, shaking hands again.  "I
read something in a New York paper about a young Canadian coming into a
big pile, but I never thought it would be you.  Why, that possibility
never entered my mind.  Congratulations, old man, congratulations!"

"The congratulations should be mutual, Varden," said Fenton.  "I
remember when one Percival Varden was getting his fifteen per week, and
wasn't worth that any more than I was my twelve per--according to that
honest gentleman, that fair-minded director of budding journalists,
George W. Jackson, city editor of the _News Despatch_--the unspeakable
cur!"

"Then time hasn't cured you of your reverence for dear old Jackson--the
ill-bred beast!" said Varden, with a laugh that ended in a growl.

"No, I'll never give up my grudge until I have a chance to assign
Jackson to cover an August excursion to Hades.  They would never let
him come back."

"Still, they were happy days in Montreal, weren't they?" said Varden.
"But I guess I ought to explain about my good fortune.  I returned to
England and met Baroness Draschol in London.  We fell in love, and that
wonderful woman overlooked my personal deficiencies, my poverty and my
lack of position, and actually married me!  My wife is connected with
the royal family of Ironia and owns so much property I haven't found
out about it all yet.  And yet she married me, poor old hack scribbler
that I was.  Fenton, when you meet her you'll wonder too how it could
ever have happened.  I've been married three years and I'm still dazed
at my wonderful good fortune."

"Three years married and still in the raving state!" jeered Fenton.
"One week generally serves to translate a bridegroom from that
condition.  Varden, you must be the luckiest fellow in the world."

"I am," affirmed Varden emphatically.  "But wait until you see Sonia.
She'll be delighted to meet you.  We've often talked about you.  And by
Jove, Don, you are looking well!"

Fenton was about thirty years of age--a handsome fellow in a healthy,
outdoor sort of way.  He stood over six feet, broad-shouldered and
straight-limbed.  Set him in a crowd in any country of dark-pigmented,
short-statured men and he stood out by contrast like a Norse god.  It
is not likely that any woman would ever refuse him the tribute of a
second glance.  And yet Fenton was not in any sense a lady's man.  The
firm mouth, the strong jaw and clear eye told of resolve, of
determination, of self-reliance.  He had a finely chiselled face, a
frank, clean, open face.  Fenton was a manly man.  It was said of him
that he stood four-square to every wind that blew.

"Married yet?" went on Varden.

"No," replied the other.

"Then you've no one with you?  No ties, no one whose wishes or whims
you must consider?"

"Free as the air of the Western prairies," returned Fenton.  "Why?"

"Well, if you can stay over and if you have the same taste for
excitement that you had in the old days, I can gratify it for you,
that's all."

"Tell me what it is all about.  And, by the way, what are your people
in Ironia going to do?  Going to join us in this war?  I heard a lot of
talk about it as I came through Russia.  Ironia seems to have been
pretty well featured in the newspapers lately."

Varden looked around, then drew his chair closer to Fenton's.

"That's just the excitement I spoke of, Don," he said.  "Ironia is
going to figure in the war; that part of it is certain.  But on which
side?  There are two factions in the country, and at the present time
we are fighting like wild cats to determine the policy of the country.
Both sides are determined to win; and let me tell you, Don, they take
their politics hard in this land.  It's a fight to the bitter end in
which lives are not counted of any great importance.

"I guess you know pretty well how matters stand in Ironia," he went on.
"The people as a whole are heart and soul with the Allies.  Austria
holds Serania and Mulkovina, two provinces that used to be part of
Ironia.  What Alsace and Lorraine are to France, these two provinces
are to Ironia.  It is certain that if the Allies win Russia will seize
both Serania and Mulkovina, and then Ironia's chance of bringing her
sons and daughters in the lost provinces back into the fold will have
been lost for ever.  Russia offers us the two provinces as the price of
throwing in our lot with the Allies.  Ironians see that it is their
only chance and they clamour for war on Austria."

"But," said Varden, speaking cautiously, "there is one obstacle.  King
Alexander of Ironia is dead against the Allies.  His sympathies are all
with the Teutonic alliance.  And he is possibly, next to the Kaiser,
the most absolute monarch in Europe to-day.  The envoys of Germany and
Austria are camping on his doorstep, urging him to join them.  He would
throw the weight of Ironian intervention into the scales against the
Allies to-morrow if he were not afraid of the feeling of his subjects.
Fearing to act according to the dictates of his own mind, he
nevertheless refuses to obey the clearly expressed mandate of the
people and strike a blow for the restoration of the lost provinces."

"Does the King stand alone?" asked Fenton.

"By no means," replied Varden.  "There is a faction that stands by him,
composed of a number of the nobles and the Austrian section of the
country.  The majority of the nobles, practically all of the business
classes and the common people _en masse_ favour an alliance with
England, France and Russia.  Needless to state, I am with the latter
faction.  I am, in fact, right in the thick of it--sort of a lieutenant
to Prince Peter, the King's brother, who acts as leader of the popular
cause, and who is, by the way, the strongest man in the country.  It's
a great fight, Don--intrigues, plots and counterplots, with secret
societies on both sides, duels, assassinations and all the other
properties necessary to a Balkan imbroglio.  One never knows when a
bullet may not come his way or a knife find lodgment between his
shoulder-blades."

Varden had risen and was pacing up and down the room excitedly.  He
paused in front of his guest.

"Do you remember the thrill you get in a fight for a big news story?"
he asked.  "That's all child's play in comparison with this game."

Fenton stood up in turn and faced his friend.

"I intend to place myself at the disposal of my country," he said.
"I've been wondering how I could serve best--by enlisting in England,
or by staying right here and helping in the fight to bring Ironia into
line with the allied cause.  If you think I could be of any use,
Varden, I would like to figure in the fight here.  Every cent I've got,
my own time, my life, if necessary, are at your disposal."

"Great!" cried Varden, wringing Fenton's hand for the third time.  "Can
you be of assistance, boy?  I wish I had a hundred like you.  And a
little cash won't be amiss either.  Count yourself in from now on.
You've enlisted in the cause."

"Well, what's the next move?" asked Fenton, impatient for action and
eager for a closer acquaintance with the thrilling experiences of
Ironian intrigue.

"Have patience, you old fire-eater," admonished Varden with an amused
smile.  "There's a ball at the palace to-night.  I'll get an invitation
for you and probably I'll be able to introduce you to some of the
leading characters in the drama.  They'll all be there.  All you'll
have to do this time will be to keep your eyes and cars open."

As Fenton walked down the steps and into the waiting fiacre, he smiled
to himself.  "Don Fenton, diplomat, is a new one," he said.  "But one
man in his time plays many parts.  I guess it will be more exciting
than reporting or selling real estate, anyway."




CHAPTER II

THE ROYAL BALL

The ball at the palace was a very brilliant affair.  The rooms were
hung with a thousand lights; the flowers, many of them strange to
Fenton's western knowledge, and the decorations were on a munificent
scale.  Beautiful women and handsome men in vari- uniforms
moved here and there, intent upon enjoying themselves.  Fenton was
impressed and not a little surprised.  The whole atmosphere was one of
wealth and luxury, such wealth and such luxury as one does not expect
to find in the kingdoms of the Balkans.

Fenton was paying a mental tribute to it all when Varden touched him on
the arm and took him away to present him to King Alexander and his
consort.  Fenton had heard that the King was a charming man, and His
Majesty's personality made the few words of welcome which he uttered
well worth remembrance.  Alexander was possibly the handsomest monarch
in Europe.  Dark, tall and soldierly he looked every inch a king.  It
came to Fenton as he stood there chatting, that here was a man who
would have his own way.

The formalities of royal presentation over, Fenton was backing away
when he caught a glimpse of an officer, apparently of high rank,
approaching the King, with a young girl on his arm.  Fenton looked at
the girl--and forgot everything else.  She was tall and graceful, with
an air that could only be defined as regal.  The oval face was
surmounted with a crowning glory of hair, dark and lustrous.  Her skin
was like the petals of a wild rose.  Her deep violet eyes, large and
unwavering of gaze, were fringed with long lashes that imparted the
only suggestion of coquetry to a face of surpassing witchery and charm.
Fenton continued to stare in a literal haze of admiration.

He was aroused from his dream by the reappearance of Varden.  The
latter took him by the arm and propelled him forward until they stood
in the presence of the divinity who had so completely set Fenton's wits
wool-gathering.  Fenton, awe-struck at this good fortune, felt like a
humble mortal suddenly transported into the august company of the gods
on Mount Olympus.

"Your highness," he heard Varden say to the girl, "may I present Mr
Fenton, my friend from Canada?  Fenton, this is her highness, the
Princess Olga."

The Canadian bowed low over the princess's hand, surely the most dainty
hand in all the world.  He was presented in due form to her escort, the
Grand Duke Miridoff, a heavy-set man with hawk-like features, long
moustache and side-whiskers, which stood out aggressively with an
unmistakable Teutonic suggestion.  The grand duke typified the
domineering efficiency of the military caste.

Fenton, murmuring a commonplace greeting, felt a strange antagonism for
Miridoff.  The latter's manner, while strictly courteous and even
urbane, did not conceal the fact that Miridoff himself look no pleasure
in the introduction.

In a few minutes Varden, with a happy tact, discovered an errand that
took both himself and Miridoff away.  Fenton allowed his glance to
follow their retreating figures for a moment, and then, conscious of
the scrutiny of his companion, turned back to the princess.  She was
studying him with frank interest and did not seem at all disposed to
hide it.

"I must have a long talk with you, Mr Fenton," she said, speaking in
excellent English.  The conversation previously had been conducted in
French, in which Fenton was well schooled.  "You are so--so different
from us.  I have met but two Americans before, and they were of
Austrian descent.  You see, we are off the beaten track of tourists
here in Ironia.  Coming from your strange, big country across the ocean
you seem almost like a visitor from Mars."

The princess smiled, and if her face was charming in repose it was ten
times more so when it expressed animation.  Fenton's diffidence left
him.  He began to talk of Canada, of the vastness of the country, of
its customs and its freedom; particularly of its freedom.  The princess
listened with deepest interest.

"I should like to go to America--to Canada," said she.  "It would be so
splendid to be able to do what one wanted without bothering with
customs and etiquette; to be able to go about without endless crowds of
people staring at one."

"Canadians turn out to stare at princesses the same as they do here in
Ironia," answered Fenton.  "In fact, as their opportunities are fewer,
they probably make more of them.  And even if you were to travel
incognito--I'm afraid my countrymen would let their admiration get the
better of their politeness."

They were soon on most friendly terms, quite forgetful of the fact that
she was a princess of the royal line.  In fact, Fenton found it
difficult to realise that his companion was anything but an unusually
attractive partner at a dance; and she seemed quite as willing to let
all other considerations recede into the background.  A quarter of an
hour of most delightful interest passed, though it seemed but a moment
to Fenton, when a tall, elderly man in uniform brought their
_tête-à-tête_ to an end.

"Mr Fenton, this is my father," said the princess.

The Canadian, who had been observing everything, acknowledged the
introduction with a correct imitation of the stiff formal bow that
seemed an integral part of Ironian etiquette.  The princess's father
bore a striking resemblance to King Alexander.  Could this be the
Prince Peter to whom Varden had referred?

They talked for a few minutes, the prince also speaking English with
fluency.  Then someone came, a little understrapper in a most gorgeous
uniform, and bore the princess away to dance.

"Lucky devil!" sighed the Canadian to himself.

The two men walked out to a balcony, and on the prince's first remark
Fenton became assured of his identity.

"Mr Varden has spoken of you to me," said Prince Peter.  "He intimates
that it is your intention to remain for some time in Ironia and to lend
your assistance to the cause that Mr Varden has himself espoused."

Fenton responded warmly, and for half an hour the two men talked war
problems and Ironia's relation thereto.  Prince Peter discussed the
situation with a frankness which might have astonished the young
Canadian had he not been aware that all Ironia was thoroughly
conversant with most phases of the vexed problem.  When the prince
returned to the ball-room, he left Fenton with an unbounded enthusiasm
for the new cause and a deep respect for Prince Peter himself.  The
latter was a born leader in every respect, particularly in his ability
to win adherents.

Fenton lit a cigarette and started down a dark path leading to the
extensive and intricately planned royal gardens.  He wanted to be
alone.  He wanted to be able to think, to dream.  And his thoughts and
dreams at first ran exclusively along one groove.  How beautiful the
princess was!  He began to reflect on the future--his future and hers.
In a moment his thoughts took a gloomy turn.  He would go back to
Canada, which now for the first time seemed void of interest.  She
would marry a man of royal blood and rule in some such country as
Ironia.  He pictured her married for diplomatic reasons to a royal
nonentity, condemned to a lifetime of endless etiquette, of senseless
rigmarole.  He reflected darkly on the benighted condition of the old
world which made such things possible.  Was there no way that an
ambitious young millionaire from the new world could succeed in
upsetting this almost inevitable arrangement, by scaling the walls of
custom and tradition?

In keeping with his thoughts his pace had become savagely energetic.
He now discovered that he had wandered well away from the palace into a
maze of dark paths.  He stopped and looked about him.  And then
suddenly he heard voices.

They proceeded from a thick clump of bushes close to his right.  One
voice was raised sufficiently high above the rest to carry its message
to his ears.  The owner of the voice was speaking in German, and Fenton
knew enough of that language to catch what was being said.  It
interested him so acutely that he stepped through the bushes cautiously
in the direction from which the sound came.

In a small clearing, part of which was thrown into relief by a ray of
light from a nearby building, stood a group of men.  One of them turned
and the light fell direct on his face.  With a start of surprise Fenton
recognised the Grand Duke Miridoff.

"Are we all here?" asked Miridoff.

From where he stood behind the bushes, Fenton could watch the party
without being seen himself.  He noted that they were all in uniform or
evening dress, having apparently left the ball-room to attend this
stealthy rendezvous.  It struck Fenton that the majority of the group
were not Ironians.  They gathered about Miridoff, who quite apparently
was the leader.

"Members of the Society of Crossed Swords," Miridoff was saying, "we
have heard news of such importance that we deemed it necessary to have
word passed quietly to each of you to meet here.

"Events are taking an unfavourable turn," he went on.  "The King is
still loyal to our cause, but the strong feeling throughout the country
is making an impression on him.  Peter is pressing him strongly.  I
regret to have to state it, but I can clearly see the King is wavering."

There was a moment's silence, and then Miridoff began again in such low
tones that Fenton could hardly catch the words.

"I received important news to-night from the front.  The Russians are
massing for an invasion of Mulkovina.  It will be hard to hold them.
Once they get possession of Mulkovina, without Ironia's assistance, no
power on earth will wrest it from them."  Miridoff's voice at this
point sunk almost to a whisper.  "If the people know that Russia is
ready for the advance, nothing will prevent them from declaring for the
Allies while there is still time to gain the two provinces by so doing.
Alexander's opposition will be swept away.  There is only one course
left.  Ironia must be ranged on Germany's side before the news of the
Russian mobilisation leaks out!"

This statement was followed by a babel of discussion in which most of
the men took part, and the confused tangle of talk proved too difficult
for Fenton's inadequate knowledge of the German tongue.  He lost the
thread of the discussion until the decisive tones of Miridoff again cut
through the talk.

"There is but one course open.  If Prince Peter is not there to prompt
the King, to urge his arguments of policy, Alexander could be rushed
into declaring war against Russia at once.  That is what we must bring
about.  Peter must be removed!"

A general murmur followed Miridoff's statement, and out of it Fenton's
amazed senses picked one word--"Assassination!"

"Well, who's to do it?" someone asked.

"It is to decide that point that we are here," answered Miridoff.  "It
is a regrettable necessity, but our cause demands it.  Peter dead, the
people will be like a flock of sheep without a shepherd.  Is it
necessary to get your consent to the step?"

The men assented as with one voice to what their leader had said.

"Our oath binds us to secrecy," said Miridoff.  Drawing from his pocket
some slips of paper, he deposited them in his hat.  "Two are marked,"
he said.  "Those who draw them will be called upon to perform the
service.  Are you agreed?"

Rooted to the spot with horror, Teuton watched the men draw in turn
from the hat.  After all had drawn, two of them stepped aside for
consultation with Miridoff.

"The rest of you had better go," said the latter.  "This place is none
too safe.  Remember, not a word.  Perhaps by to-morrow morning we shall
have news for you, news that will shake the world and cause a grey fear
to creep into the faces of the cursed English!"




CHAPTER III

DARING PROPOSALS

For the first time now, Fenton became aware that the happy accident
which brought him as eavesdropper to this extraordinary assignation had
also placed him in a most dangerous position.  On completing their
consultation, the three men made straight in his direction.  Fenton
tried to shrink back farther into the rhododendrons, but even in the
darkness they did not afford sufficient shelter for a man with the
conspicuous white front of evening dress.  He decided that his best
chance of safely lay in flight.

Pulling the collar of his dress coat up around his neck, he started off
cautiously.  Unfortunately he stumbled and nearly fell headlong into a
small shrub.  Sharp excl