Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/518

Steinart was shown into Emilia's boudoir, tastefully decorated with glass cases containing the famous Collection, among which he saw with a spasm of joy the exquisite designs and colours of the Salvador gems.

The fair occupant was bending over a table on which lay a sheet of stamps of the 1823 issue of Kamschatka.

She was deep in the absorbing task of separating those with the full-stop after the "A" (value sixteen a penny) from those without the full stop (Catalogue value 39s. 6d. each), and did not at first observe him.

When she at last did so she bowed coldly, at the same time tactfully stifling a yawn with her pocket magnifier.

She made a pretty picture as she stood in her 5 cent French 1906 issue green evening wrap, trimmed with fur of the peculiar shade seen to such advantage in the background of the Russian 2 kopeck of 1875.

Her features had all the natural grace observable in the early Colonial attempts at the presentment of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, but a close observer might have noticed that the pupil of one of her eyes was badly centred, while a fairly well defined watermark was visible in the shading of her neck.

"Why do you force yourself, on me like this?" exclaimed the beautiful girl. "You must know that you are more worthless in my eyes than even the ten pfennig stamp of the country which had the misfortune to give you birth."

"Ha! you haf then not yet heard the news," hissed Steinart. "War has been declared between England and Germany, and every Stamp Collector in the country is wringing his hands over the 'worthless' German stamps he has so often contemptuously thrown away, each one of which is now worth at least double its weight in three-penny-bits!"

"And Harold! What of him? shrieked Emilia, as she suddenly realised the horror of the situation.

"Interned in Germany as an English spy," returned Steinart with guttural glee.

Emilia fell over in a swoon, fortunately landing on a large sack of Portuguese Colonials (surcharged "Republica") which had just arrived and so escaping injury.

When she recovered the German had disappeared, and on going to the window she observed him some distance down the street with a large flat parcel under his arm.

For a few seconds she hardly realised what had occurred; then, with a wild cry and a despairing look at the empty space on the wall, she sank to the floor in a second merciful access of unconsciousness.

The priceless case of San Salvadors had disappeared!

In a lonely turret cell in the grim prison fortress of Schweinoberundunterwolfenberg Harold Pootwink had now been immured for over two months.

Late one evening he was seated over the remains of a miserable meal, with his precious Stamp Album, of which even the brutality of his gaolers had not deprived him, propped against a loaf of war bread.

Forgetful of his sordid surroundings he was feasting his eyes on the matchless beauty of the new English "Postage Dues" he had recently acquired, when the door opened noiselessly and a figure in the long cloak of a German officer stood before him.

Harold rose to his feet as the cloak was thrown aside, revealing the magnificent form of Magda Ivanovitch.

"Cruel boy!" she whispered; "see what dangers I have passed through for your sake. Come; my private airship lies moored at the window outside your cell. We have but to fly together to some far land where this frightful war cannot reach us, and in savage solitude live for love and stamps alone."

Harold made a gesture of refusal, but the lovely Magda, sinking on her knees before him, cried, "Ah! do not spurn me. I can make you famous, the possessor of stamps which Kings have fought for."

With these words she drew from her valise and exposed before Harold's fascinated gaze some specimens that might well have tempted any philatelist—a superb example of the Costa Rican issue of 1892, but bluish green instead of greenish blue, being the only example known with this peculiarity; a beautiful early Afghanistan which looked even more like an intoxicated Catherine-wheel than any previously discovered, and a handful of "Post Office" Mauritius which, if thrown on the market, would have instantly brought the price of this famous stamp down to a few paltry thousands.

Harold took a step towards her with outstretched hands. But just in time he recalled that his affections were centred in the beautiful girl he had left in England.

Regaining command of himself with an effort he turned away from the temptress, exclaiming in a broken voice, "Enough! even for these I cannot give up my Emilia."

Magda's features grew as white as a plain embossed stamp as she cried, "Your Emilia, forsooth! Do you still dream of that baby-faced child while such a woman as I plead for your love? Fool! months ago she forgot you, and already when I left London her engagement to Steinart was rumoured in the Society papers."

Harold's iron manhood almost failed him, but only for a moment. Drawing himself up as nearly to his full height as the ceiling of his cell would permit, he retorted, "You say her engagement is rumoured; I refuse to believe it until it is officially passed by the Press Bureau."

The face of the adventuress instantly flushed as dark as an old English penny red. Rushing to the table she seized the stamp album, and, ere Harold could intervene, heaved it through the open window. A sullen splash far below told that the loving work of a lifetime was lost for ever in the depths of the Dummereselbach.

Then with a vicious slam of the door she disappeared, while the unhappy prisoner buried his face in the war loaf and burst into sobs.

"The King and Queen waved the Italian flag, and the King shouted 'Long Live Italy!' The crowd shouted, 'Long Live the War!'"

The Star.

This was perhaps carrying enthusiasm a little too far.