E. Phillips Oppenheim - 21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

“Wonderful!” he murmured.

“Mr. Benjamin is a miracle man,” Patricia went on. “You will think so if ever the truth comes out. His enemies will think so when they seize his bank and go through his books. Now, one thing more and you must go. He left you a present.”

“A present?”

She unlocked a drawer, pushed back a sheet of tissue paper and showed him a flat volume with gilt edges exquisitely bound in white vellum.

“There were only six of these made,” she confided. “It is the catalogue—the complete catalogue—of the pictures, the statuary and the tapestries. You will realize its importance later on. Mr. Benjamin himself said it would be one of the world’s treasures. It is his recompense to you because he could not show you his pictures. Take great care of it, Mr. Mildenhall. It is the last one in this country. Here is a case for it.”

She slipped it into a plain brown leather wrapper.

“Now you must go,” she insisted. “I have been as quick as I could, but the Baroness must have been hating me for the last ten minutes!”

“But can’t we—shan’t we meet again?” he begged.

“I haven’t time to think of anything of that sort just now.”

She pushed him very gently towards the door.

“You must go,” she went on. “We may meet again somewhere—sometime. Who knows—and does it matter?”

Suddenly he felt that it did matter. That delightful little tremulous mouth and the sad eyes which looked as though they were really made for laughter and happiness suddenly seemed to make a new appeal to him.

“Of course it matters,” he declared. “To-morrow—next day—anywhere—at any place.”

“I have work to do,” she sighed. “It isn’t ordinary work. It is sacred. Until it is finished I have no time for any other thought. Please go.”

They had reached the hall. Heinrich came respectfully forward.

“The Baroness is getting very impatient, mein Herr .” he said.

Charles Mildenhall held out his hand. Patricia’s fingers were like ice.

“Take care of yourself during the next few days,” she advised. “Even for foreigners Vienna will not be a happy place.”

“You must tell me—” he began.

She had suddenly turned away. Her hand was almost snatched from his. He caught a glimpse of the gathering tears in her eyes. She flew up the great staircase, slim and wonderfully graceful in those rapid movements.

“You will pardon me, mein Herr ,” a voice sounded in his ears. “The Baroness is leaving.”

Patricia had disappeared. Mildenhall followed Heinrich to the door.

“I am an angry woman,” the Baroness declared, throwing him a portion of the rug which covered her knees but retiring a little farther into her corner.

“I beg you to excuse me,” he said. “Really, the message was quite important.”

“And you have a present,” she observed.

“Yes.”

“Really, of all the men I know you are the most ungallant,” she pronounced. “You go away to flirt with that little girl and leave me here shivering. What am I to expect from you in the future if you treat me like this so early in our acquaintance?”

“It is a relief to me to know that there is to be a future,” he replied.

“You do not deserve one—with me.”

The rug slipped. He stooped to replace it. Somehow or other their hands came into collision. He retained his hold upon her fingers.

“How amiable I am!” she sighed. “Why should I allow you to hold my hand when you have been so rude to me?”

“The greatest privilege a woman possesses is the privilege of forgiving” he reminded her.

“That was never written by a writer of romance,” she told him. “Forgiveness should be earned.”

“Teach me how to earn it, please.”

She sighed again.

“Well,” she said, “you must answer every question I ask you.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“What are you doing in Vienna just now?”

“I am on my way back to England.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Budapest.”

“What did you do there?”

“Wrote and sketched.”

“What did you write about?”

“The country.”

“What did you sketch—fortifications?”

“Why fortifications?”

“You are interested in such things,” she observed. “You were military attaché here once.”

“Was I?” he answered. “That must have been the year I suffered from loss of memory.”

“What is in that parcel you have under your arm? If you are going to be rude I shall not let you hold my hand.”

“I like holding your hand and I am certainly not being rude,” he told her. “As regards the parcel, however, it was a present from a lady and the only condition she made was that I should tell no one I possessed it.”

“You will take me to the Von Liebenstrahl ball to-night?”

“But how is that possible?” he asked. “I have only an Embassy card.”

“Are you ever going to say ‘yes’ to anything I ask you?” she demanded.

“Ask me the thing I should like you to and I shall not hesitate.”

“You are too glib,” she laughed. “You are like all the others. I am tired of you.”

“ Infidèle .” he murmured reproachfully.

“But what a man! He charges me with faithlessness!”

“Supposing I ask you a few questions.”

“I shall answer you—truthfully if it pleases me, untruthfully if it suits me better.”

“We make no progress,” he complained.

“Along which road do you desire to travel?” she asked.

“The nearest road which leads to your heart, Madame.”

“I shall begin to feel aggrieved,” she declared. “Your first glance at me was the sort of glance a woman loves to receive. There was a little admiration in those rather expressive eyes of yours, there was a little curiosity, there was a certain amount of—desire.”

“Then they appear to have told you everything,” he said, “which my lips are not yet brave enough to utter.”

She moved her head slightly and looked at him.

“Your mouth looks brave enough,” she meditated.

“A challenge?”

She shook her head.

“Not a challenge. An affair of lipstick.”

“You have none on your eyes,” he said, gazing at them intently.

“There is poison on my eyelashes,” she warned him.

He drew a little nearer.

“You are well protected,” he complained.

“Something must have told me,” she sighed, “that I was going to be driven home alone by a young man whose tongue, at any rate, was intrepid.”

“That certainly is a challenge,” he replied, and held her for a moment in his arms.

“Be sweet to me now,” she begged, as she delicately removed herself. “Tell me what is in that parcel.”

“I will tell you what is in my heart. Baroness,” he promised, “but I cannot reveal the contents of this parcel.”

“To think,” she murmured, “that your lips should dare to misbehave as they have done and then refuse my simple request! Besides, your offer means nothing. I know what is in your heart.”

“That should be of some assistance to me,” he declared hopefully.

“On the contrary, it is fast making of me an icicle. In your heart is the image of that little red-haired girl who called you away from me and who has given you a present.”

He glanced out of the window and sighed.

“I seem to make but little progress,” he grumbled. “Are you really not going to the Von Liebenstrahl ball?”

She shook her head.

“Alas,” she sighed, “I am not invited. It is well known that I adore Karl, and the Princess, like your Lady Tremearne at the Embassy, loves the Archduchess.”

He drew a deep sigh of content.