For by this time the Grand Duchess of Esthonia -- Ricca, as she was called by her companion, Valentine, the pretty Countess Orloff-Strelwitz -- must have arrived in New York.
At the big hunting lodge of the late Henry Harrod -- now inherited by Darragh -- there might be a letter -- perhaps a telegram -- the cue for Hal Smith to vanish and for James Darragh to enter, play his brief but glittering part, and---Darragh's sequence of pleasing meditations halted abruptly. ... To walk out of the life of the little Grand Duchess did not seem to suit his ideas -- indefinite and hazy as they were, so far.
He lifted the bridle from the horse's neck, divided curb and snaffle thoughtfully, touched the splendid animal with heel and knee.
As he cantered on into the wide forest road that led to his late uncle's abode, curiosity led him to wheel into a narrower trail running east along Star Pond, and from whence he could make a farewell view of Clinch's Dump.
He smiled to think of Eve and Stormont there together, and now in safety behind bolted doors and shutters.
He grinned to think of Quintana and his precious crew, blood-crazy, baffled, probably already distrusting one another, yet running wild through the night like starving wolves galloping at hazard across a famine-stricken waste.
"Only wait till Stormont makes his report," he thought, grinning more broadly still. "Every State Trooper north of Albany will be after Senor Quintana. Some hunting! And, if he could understand, Mike Clinch might thank his stars that what I've done this night has saved him his skin and Eve a broken heart!"
He drew his horse to a walk, now, for the path began to run closer to Star Pond, skirting the pebbled shallows in the open just ahead.
Alders still concealed the house across the lake, but the trail was already coming out into the starlight.
Suddenly his horse stopped short, trembling, its ears pricked forward.
Darragh sat listening intently for a moment. Then with infinite caution, he leaned over the cantle and gently parted the alders.
On the pebbled beach, full in the starlight, stood two figures, on white and slim, the other dark.
The arm of the dark figure clasped the waist of the white and slender one.
Evidently they had heard his horse, for they stood motionless, looking directly at the alders behind which his horse had halted.
To turn might mean a shot in the back as far as Darragh knew. He was still masked with Salzar's red bandanna. He raised his rifle, slid a cartridge into the breech, pressed his horse forward with a slight touch of heel and knee, and rode slowly out into the star-dusk.