Polly the Pagan: Her Lost Love Letters Read online

  CONCLUSION

  The journal and letters end abruptly here. Were they married? In allprobability, Checkers gave Polly away, with the lovely blackhairedSybil as maid of honor, while Aunt, subdued and chagrined, watchedthem submissively from her front pew. But yet I should like to hearabout it from the little lady of the air raid of that Good Fridaynight, and I should like to be able to give her love letters back toher.

  If the Red Cross badge found in the bag points a correct surmise A. D.must have left the diplomatic service as he intended, and finallyentered the Red Cross during the war. The following clipping allowsanother assumption which is, that lively Polly followed the bent thatallowed her to discover the author of the anonymous letter in Rome,Carlo's gardener's daughter, as well as to detect the Prince in hisforgeries and thefts, and to develop during the war, into a veryclever secret service agent.

  This was the clipping from an American paper also found in the bag."It has been said that in our land we do not use women spies as muchas they do in some other countries, but we cannot stop them if theywish to work along this dangerous line, and we can only admire themfor what they accomplish. A case has just come to our attention of abeautiful American woman trapping in Paris a clever andlong-sought-for spy.

  "He was a Russian Prince, well-known in diplomatic circles, thoughafter his father's death, his German mother returned to her nativeland to bring up her boy and instil German sympathies in him. For anumber of years he was obscurely connected with the TurkishGovernment.

  "During the War this popular bachelor Prince had an apartment inParis. He was supposed to be just over the age limit for the army, sohe interested himself and worked for the betterment of the Russianprisoners, being privileged therefore to send material across theborder into Germany. No one suspected him, and in the evenings he gavegay little suppers in his quarters, which were well attended and muchenjoyed.

  "Women of all kinds accepted his hospitality, often bringing theirhusbands or lovers, generally just back from the front. They gatheredin his rooms like bees about a honey-pot and much war news wasexchanged or discussed. For some time a leak in high circles wassuspected, but it took a pretty American woman, who, it seems, had hadearlier reasons to distrust him, to get a dictagraph installed in hisrooms. Soon it was discovered that when indiscreet remarks weredropped in his salon, the burden of them was mysteriously conveyedinto Germany through packages of food to Russian prisoners. Shesurmised this first; later it was proved. The Prince was lunching at arestaurant with the American lady when he was arrested."

  So the Polly whom I helped dress at the hotel and who gave me the bagmust surely be Polly of the letters but I did not place her in thedark during the air raid although I, too, just a few days before thefatal Good Friday, had been lunching at the same hostelry the veryhour the Prince was arrested. Suddenly there was a complete silencein the room. I looked up. All heads were turned toward the table wherea blue-eyed man of Slavic type sat facing a fashionably dressed littleblonde. The excitement was intense; the scene, dramatic, as if theywere holding their pose for a tableau. He still sat there, thegendarmes at his side, his expression unchanging, looking intently atthe woman opposite, while she returned his gaze not a whit lesssteadily. Neither spoke. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and might havegotten away had she not been too quick for him, and had flung herselfin front of him. He threw her off roughly but it was too late. Thegendarmes slipped on the handcuffs, and the woman followed them out,her lips white with pain and her right arm hanging helplessly by herside.

  Then the dining room doors shut behind them and the room buzzed as ifinvaded by a swarm of flies. I inquired of the head waiter what it wasall about, and he answered excitedly, "They have arrested a RussianPrince! The police think he is a spy--but surely there is somemistake." Then he added, "Why, the Prince has been here on and offfor years--we know him well!"

  "Who is the lady with him?" I inquired.

  "I do not know," he answered. "They say she is an American, but shehas never been at the restaurant before."

  "Is this the first thing of its kind that ever happened here?"

  "No, once a few months ago we had an arrest--but this time the policehave surely made a mistake." Shrugging his shoulders, he continued,"Our police are sometimes stupid. We shall see the Prince here againin a few days, you may be sure."

  But Boris never came back. After reading the letters and surmising whohe was, I became greatly interested and tried to trace him through theinterminable processes of the law. Everywhere I was baffled by blankstares, and "Pardon, madame," or "We do not recollect this case,madame." Perhaps he was swiftly and secretly executed. Who knows?Surely he was Polly's suitor in the Roman days of years ago. How theyrenewed their friendship, I cannot surmise. Possibly the littleblonde lady may be in hiding for military reasons; perhaps our lastmeeting was the hour of her death. But I am left a reluctant legateeof her lover's letters and those written by her gay young self.

  ISABEL ANDERSON.

  THE LADY FOUND

  Dear Friend of Good Friday Night,

  Can this book which is now being advertised really be made of extractsfrom letters that were in my black bag, and that I thrust into thehands of a certain kind person on the night when the German bombingplanes were making our hotel a place of peril? I verily believe theyare, and shall be so happy to have them again. I will call at thepublishers.

  I tried without success to find you in the cellar where I crouchedwith many others that dreadful Good Friday night when the building wasstruck. The next morning I took an early train for Bordeaux to embarkfor America, so I never saw any of the advertisements which the booknotices say that you inserted in the Paris papers.

  When the war was ended, my husband, A. D. of the letters, went toRussia with the American Red Cross, but alas! he has been thrown intoprison--perhaps the work of the Prince. The latter was released inParis through some pressure brought to bear by his influentialfriends. My husband saw him in Moscow where Boris is at present inhigh standing with the Soviet authorities. Our government is only justnow making an effort to have its citizens released, and I am startingin a few days for Europe, hoping to meet A. D. at the frontier.

  I hesitate about asking you to withdraw the book from publication atthis late date. Ordinarily I should feel ashamed to havecorrespondence so personal go before the world, even anonymously. Butunder these circumstances I feel differently. I should like to see thePrince shown up in his true light. I feel that the American peopleought to be warned against their sense of indifference and falsesecurity, and more and more publicity given to the true condition ofaffairs, namely, that their countrymen do not receive the protectionof their own government, in Russia, in Mexico, and in other countries,where _de facto_ administrations can throw any of their fellowcitizens into prison and keep them there months and years withimpunity.

  Therefore you have my permission to publish the letters, and I signmyself again, as you have been used to seeing me,

  POLLY THE PAGAN.

  THE END