Chapter XVII. "It Is a Very Bad Sign"

The Lost Prince

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

The policeman was not so much excited as out of temper. He did
not know what Marco knew or what The Rat knew. Some common lad had
got himself locked up in a house, and some one would have to go to
the landlord and get a key from him. He had no intention of laying
himself open to the law by breaking into a private house with his
truncheon, as The Rat expected him to do.

"He got himself in through some of his larks, and he'll have to
wait till he's got out without smashing locks," he growled, shaking
the area door. "How did you get in there?" he shouted.

It was not easy for Marco to explain through a keyhole that he
had come in to help a lady who had met with an accident. The
policeman thought this mere boy's talk. As to the rest of the story,
Marco knew that it could not be related at all without saying things
which could not be explained to any one but his father. He quickly
made up his mind that he must let it be believed that he had been
locked in by some queer accident. It must be supposed that the
people had not remembered, in their haste, that he had not yet left
the house.

When the young clerk from the house agency came with the keys,
he was much disturbed and bewildered after he got inside.

"They've made a bolt of it," he said. "That happens now and
then, but there's something queer about this. What did they lock
these doors in the basement for, and the one on the stairs? What did
they say to you?" he asked Marco, staring at him suspiciously.

"They said they were obliged to go suddenly," Marco answered.

"What were you doing in the basement?"

"The man took me down."

"And left you there and bolted? He must have been in a
hurry."

"The lady said they had not a moment's time."

"Her ankle must have got well in short order," said the young
man.

"I knew nothing about them," answered Marco. "I had never seen
them before."

"The police were after them," the young man said. "That's what
I should say. They paid three months' rent in advance, and they have
only been here two. Some of these foreign spies lurking about
London; that's what they were."

The Rat had not waited until the keys arrived. He had swung
himself at his swiftest pace back through the streets to No. 7
Philibert Place. People turned and stared at his wild pale face as
he almost shot past them.

He had left himself barely breath enough to speak with when he
reached the house and banged on the door with his crutch to save
time.

Both Loristan and Lazarus came to answer.

The Rat leaned against the door gasping.

"He's found! He's all right!" he panted. "Some one had locked
him in a house and left him. They've sent for the keys. I'm going
back. Brandon Terrace, No. 10."

Loristan and Lazarus exchanged glances. Both of them were at
the moment as pale as The Rat.

"Help him into the house," said Loristan to Lazarus. "He must
stay here and rest. We will go." The Rat knew it was an order.

He did not like it, but he obeyed.

"This is a bad sign, Master," said Lazarus, as they went out
together.

"It is a very bad one," answered Loristan.

"God of the Right, defend us!" Lazarus groaned.

"Amen!" said Loristan. "Amen!"

The group had become a small crowd by the time they reached
Brandon Terrace. Marco had not found it easy to leave the place
because he was being questioned. Neither the policeman nor the
agent's clerk seemed willing to relinquish the idea that he could
give them some information about the absconding pair.

The entrance of Loristan produced its usual effect. The agent's
clerk lifted his hat, and the policeman stood straight and made
salute. Neither of them realized that the tall man's clothes were
worn and threadbare. They felt only that a personage was before
them, and that it was not possible to question his air of absolute
and serene authority. He laid his hand on Marco's shoulder and held
it there as he spoke. When Marco looked up at him and felt the
closeness of his touch, it seemed as if it were an embrace-- as if he
had caught him to his breast.

"My boy knew nothing of these people," he said. "That I can
guarantee. He had seen neither of them before. His entering the
house was the result of no boyish trick. He has been shut up in this
place for nearly twenty-four hours and has had no food. I must take
him home. This is my address." He handed the young man a card.

Then they went home together, and all the way to Philibert
Place Loristan's firm hand held closely to his boy's shoulder as if
he could not endure to let him go. But on the way they said very
little.

"Father," Marco said, rather hoarsely, when they first got away
from the house in the terrace, "I can't talk well in the street. For
one thing, I am so glad to be with you again. It seemed as if--it
might turn out badly."

"Beloved one," Loristan said the words in their own Samavian,
"until you are fed and at rest, you shall not talk at all."

Afterward, when he was himself again and was allowed to tell his
strange story, Marco found that both his father and Lazarus had at
once had suspicions when he had not returned. They knew no ordinary
event could have kept him. They were sure that he must have been
detained against his will, and they were also sure that, if he had
been so detained, it could only have been for reasons they could
guess at.

"This was the card that she gave me," Marco said, and he handed
it to Loristan. "She said you would remember the name." Loristan
looked at the lettering with an ironic half-smile.

"I never heard it before," he replied. "She would not send me a
name I knew. Probably I have never seen either of them. But I know
the work they do. They are spies of the Maranovitch, and suspect
that I know something of the Lost Prince. They believed they could
terrify you into saying things which would be a clue. Men and women
of their class will use desperate means to gain their end."

"Might they--have left me as they threatened?" Marco asked
him.

"They would scarcely have dared, I think. Too great a hue and
cry would have been raised by the discovery of such a crime. Too
many detectives would have been set at work to track them."

But the look in his father's eyes as he spoke, and the pressure
of the hand he stretched out to touch him, made Marco's heart thrill.
He had won a new love and trust from his father. When they sat
together and talked that night, they were closer to each other's
souls than they had ever been before.

They sat in the firelight, Marco upon the worn hearth-rug, and
they talked about Samavia--about the war and its heart-rending
struggles, and about how they might end.

"Do you think that some time we might be exiles no longer?" the
boy said wistfully. "Do you think we might go there together --and
see it--you and I, Father?"

There was a silence for a while. Loristan looked into the
sinking bed of red coal.

"For years--for years I have made for my soul that image," he
said slowly. "When I think of my friend on the side of the Himalayan
Mountains, I say, `The Thought which Thought the World may give us
that also!' "