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

“Me—court danger?” she exclaimed with wide-open eyes.

The Ambassador’s gesture dismissed her protest with a shade of impatience.

“You have the misfortune, my dear niece,” he continued, “to be by birth and education an amazing example of modern cosmopolitanism. Your sister is married to a German princeling, whose father is aiming at being Chancellor of Germany and who is himself a prominent figure in this latest upheaval. Your aunt is almost the only remaining French aristocrat who is permitted to interest herself—behind the scenes naturally—in French politics. Both your brothers, my nephews, have made their mark in our own country and are reported to be ambitious.”

“Is all this the prelude to an eulogy or a lecture?” Elida asked.

“Neither,” her uncle answered. “It is just that I am going to take the privilege of a near relative and an elderly man, who has at any rate won his spurs in diplomacy, to give you a word of advice. There is no place to-day, no seemly and dignified place, for women in the underground galleries of diplomacy. Spies there must always be and always have been. Cocottes have generally been the most successful, but I need not remind you of their inevitable fate. The profession is not elastic enough to include members of the great families of Europe.”

There was a brief silence. A puff of wind stole into the room through the open windows, bent the lilac blossoms in their vases and wafted their perfume into the further recesses of the stately apartment. A Louis XVI clock of blue and gold inlay chimed the hour merrily. Elida moved uneasily in her chair. No one in the world had ever spoken to her like this.

“What have you been hearing about me?” she asked.

The Marchese shrugged his shoulders.

“One hears,” he murmured. “One does not necessarily listen. Now, if you take my advice, you will present yourself to your aunt. She is resting for a time in her rooms and taking a new face treatment from some New York wizard. She will like to know that you are here. By the by, we dine at home—only one or two very dull people—and we leave for Dorrington House at ten-thirty.”

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze and kissed his forehead.

“I have sent my maid to see which are my rooms,” she said. “As soon as I have had a bath, I will present myself. Perhaps Aunt Thérèse will hand over the new treatment to me. A dignified and unadorned middle age is all the mode nowadays.”

“You go and tell her so,” her uncle remarked, with a smile.

* * * * *

The Marchese suffered from a fit of unusual restlessness after the departure of his favourite niece. He left his chair and paced the room, his hands behind his back, an anxious frown upon his forehead. He was an exceedingly handsome man of the best Italian type, but he seemed during the last few months to have grown older. The lines in his face were deeper, his forehead was furrowed, he had even acquired a slight stoop. He was a conscientious politician and withal an astute one. There were certain features of the present situation which filled him with uneasiness. He took up the house telephone and spoke in rapid Italian. In a few minutes a quietly dressed young man presented himself. He carried a locked volume under his arm. The Ambassador summoned the servant who brought him in.

“Close all the windows,” he ordered. “See that I am not disturbed until I ring the bell.”

The man obeyed with the swiftness of the well-trained Italian. The Ambassador reseated himself at his desk. He took a key from his chain and unlocked the volume.

“The Princess Elida has arrived, Ottavio,” he confided.

The young man assented.

“So I understood, Your Excellency.”

The Ambassador turned over the pages of the volume which he had opened and paused at a closely written sheet.

“A fortnight ago,” he continued quietly, “my niece was in Berlin. I see your reports are all unanimous. She appears to have deserted Von Salzenburg and to have left the Prince behind her in Monaco.”

“That is true, Your Excellency.”

“She spent much of her time with Behrling and with an American, who is reported to be in the service of Berati.”

“I can vouch for the truth of that, Your Excellency.”

“The American arrived unexpectedly in London a few days ago,” the Ambassador went on. “You brought me word of his coming, although he has not presented himself here. Perhaps that is policy. Do you know what he has been doing in the capital?”

“It is possible to ascertain, Your Excellency. His movements did not come within the scope of my observations.”

The Ambassador nodded. He read through another page, then he carefully locked up the volume and returned it.

“It would appear,” he remarked, “that my niece’s sympathies, at any rate, have been transferred to Behrling. One might consider her almost an opportunist.”

“Behrling to-day,” the young man said firmly, “is the master of Germany.”

The Ambassador handed him back the volume and sighed.

“That will do, Ottavio,” he said. “I should like, during the next few days, to have an interview arranged with the American Ambassador.”

“The matter shall be attended to, Excellency. In the meantime, I am charged with a somewhat serious communication from the Captain Varzi, Commander Borzacchini and Air Pilot Nuvolari. They desire to know whether they may pay their respects or whether it would be better for them to take leave of absence without announcement.”

Again there was silence. The Marchese looked up wearily. He seemed suddenly conscious of the gloom of the apartment, with its drawn curtains and closed windows.

“It was a message by wireless a few hours ago, Excellency. They would wish, subject to your permission, to attend the ball at Dorrington House to-night and to leave separately before morning.”

“I have no jurisdiction,” the Marchese pronounced. “They must obey such orders as they have received. Have you any further information?”

“None, Your Excellency, except a hint that the urgency is not so great as might seem. About the middle of next week, perhaps, we may expect official news. Is it permitted to ask Your Excellency a question?”

“With the proviso that he answers it only if he feels inclined to,” was the weary reply.

“The Department has received a very cautiously worded enquiry as to this American, Major Martin Fawley,” the young man confided. “It seems that he has been in Rome and on the French Riviera, from which one understands that he had to make a precipitate departure. Then he turned up in Berlin and if our information is correct, Excellency, he was seen once or twice with Her Highness the Princess Elida. We have been asked quite unofficially whether we can give any information as to the nature of his activities.”

“Well, you know the answer well enough,” the Marchese replied irritably. “I have no knowledge of Major Fawley. Of my niece’s acquaintances or companions I naturally can keep no count. If he is a suspected person, I regret her association with him; otherwise there is nothing to be said.”

The young man took silent and respectful leave of his chief. The Ambassador, who was a very much worried man, lit a cigarette and studied the neatly typed list of his engagements for the next few days with a groan.

Table of Contents

It was the moment for the sake of which Elida had made many sacrifices. She had, for the first time in her life, disobeyed certain instructions issued from a beautiful white stone and marble building in the Plaza Corregio at Rome, instructions signed by the hand of a very great man indeed. Not only that but, in quartering herself upon a relative whom she loved better than any other amongst her somewhat extensive family, she had involved him in many possible embarrassments. As she sat there, she felt that she had offended against the code of her life and, listening to the music in the distant rooms, the hum of joyous voices, watching men in brilliant uniforms and beautifully gowned women pass back and forth, she felt conscious of a sense of shame. Yet it all seemed worth while when young Hartley Stammers, second secretary at the American Embassy, the acquaintance of a few hours, from whom she had begged this favour, and Fawley, a quietly distinguished-looking figure in his plain evening clothes amongst this colourful gathering, suddenly appeared upon the threshold. The light which flashed for a single moment in his eyes filled her with a sort of painful joy. For the first time, she felt weak of purpose. She was filled with a longing to abandon at that moment and forever this stealthy groping through the tortuous ways of life, to respond instead to that momentary challenge with everything she had to give. Perhaps if the mask had not fallen quite so quickly, she might have yielded.