Chapter Twenty.
Reveals Hubert’s Secret.
Water was needed, he knew, though he had had but little experience of cases such as this.
Upon the Minister’s writing-table stood a silver bowl full of pale pink tulips, and these he threw out quickly and began to sprinkle Her Highness’s hard-set countenance.
But to no avail.
For some minutes he tried frantically to restore her. He dared not ring for the servants, as it would no doubt compromise her to be found alone with him in that room. There were alas! sufficient wild stories afloat about her already, and no doubt if she were discovered there with him the fact would, in an hour, reach His Majesty’s ears.
In such case what explanation could he give without telling absolute lies? Besides, did not His Majesty repose the utmost confidence in him, and that confidence must assuredly be shaken.
Absolutely helpless he stood gazing upon her prostrate figure and trying in vain to seek a solution of the difficulty.
If she would only regain consciousness in order that he could ring the bell and leave her. But, alas! she was insensible, and no amount of water upon her face would revive her. Of smelling-salts or other restoratives there were none. So he was compelled to remain there inactive and impatient.
What could be the nature of the message she had received from that man who, though a Frenchman, was posing in Brussels as Slavo Petrovitch, a Servian from Belgrade? It must have been a most disquieting one to have so upset her as to cause her to faint. A girl who knew no fear, who was naturally athletic and strong-minded, who drove her car through the night alone and unattended, and who, travelling to the north incognita, had won a motor-cycle race, was not the sort of person to faint at any news which did not gravely concern herself.
Was it possible, he wondered, that Henri Pujalet had written abandoning her?
That was the impression which forced itself upon him. The Frenchman certainly could not know her real title and position. Pujalet no doubt believed, as he himself had believed, that Lola was a poor dependent. Hence it was quite probable that he had met some other woman and in favour of her had abandoned Lola.
Yet, as he stood there wondering he recollected the love-scene that hot stifling night beneath the palms in the far-off Sudan, how her lover had held her so passionately to his breast and smothered her face with his kisses. And how she, too, had stroked his cheeks tenderly with both her soft hands.
Yes. They, no doubt, loved each other, and perhaps, after all, he was misjudging that man to whom she had given her affection.
Thoughts of Beatriz, too, flashed across his mind. How different was the pale recumbent figure in white to that dashing Andalusian dancer!
He dropped upon one knee at the side of the couch, looked intently upon the white unconscious countenance, and held his breath.
“Lola!” he whispered, but so low that sound hardly passed his fevered lips. “I love you, darling! I love you, though you shall never know, because our love is forbidden. Alas! it could only bring grief, sorrow, and disaster upon both of us. But—ah, my God! I love you—I love you!”
And slowly and reverently he took the inert hand which he held in his and raising it to his lips, kissed it with all the mad, ardent passion of his stifled affection.
For some minutes he remained there kneeling by her side, stroking her bare white arm and kissing her soft little hand. Sorely tempted was he to kiss her upon the lips, but by dint of self-restraint he held himself back.
She was unconscious, and to kiss her would be to take an unfair advantage.
But time and again he repeated those fervent whispered words, sometimes so loud that they could actually be heard in the room.
“Lola! I love you! I love you, darling. I love you—though you can never be mine!”
He was bending over her hand in silence, a great lump having arisen in his throat, while in his eyes were unshed tears. The blank hopelessness of his mad passion had been forced upon him. There were two reasons. She loved the young Frenchman, and again she, a Princess of the House of Savoy, could never marry a mere foreign diplomat.
No, he must again crush down all his intense love for her; again remain her sincere and most devoted friend.
Once more he bent till his lips reverently touched her cold hand, but at that moment he heard a movement behind him, and, turning, saw a short, white-haired man in Court uniform, with the crimson and white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy at his throat.
Waldron started quickly.
The man who had entered noiselessly and stood there watching him was none other than the man who, up the Nile, had passed as Lola’s uncle, Jules Gigleux—but whose real name was Luigi Ghelardi, the most renowned Secret Service Chief in Europe.
“Well, signore,” exclaimed the shrewd, cunning old man in Italian with his grey brows knit, “this is certainly a surprise! I did not expect when I entered here in search of His Excellency the General that I should make this very interesting discovery?”
Waldron sprang to his feet much confused and altered in the same language:
“Her Highness has unfortunately fainted.”
“And you were trying to restore her—eh?” he laughed with bitter sarcasm.
There was a look of distinct evil in the man’s small cunning eyes.
“Yes. And I have failed,” Waldron answered.
“Had you not better ring for the servants? I think so.”
And the chief spy of Italy pressed the electric button near at hand.
In response, a tall sentry appeared at once and saluted.
“I want one of the maids of the household instantly. Her Royal Highness has fainted.”
“Si, signore,” was the man’s reply, saluting, again turning like clockwork and disappearing.
“I must confess, Signor Waldron,” exclaimed Ghelardi, very severely, “that I am greatly surprised to discover you here, and in such a position as I found you.”
“And I am equally surprised, Signor Ghelardi, to discover your real identity,” was the diplomat’s reply. “For a number of years, as Chief of the German Service, you were the arch-enemy of my country. That is not forgotten, even though you have returned to the land of your birth, and taken service again under your own King.”
“It appears that your attitude is the reverse of friendly, signore,” was the antagonistic reply of the man with the bristly hair, who looked much more French than Italian.
“And it appears to me that very little friendship exists between us on either side—eh?”
“From what I have just witnessed I can plainly discern the truth,” said the Chief of the Secret Service. “The Princess is a giddy, skittish girl whose injudicious actions have, from time to time, caused greatest annoyance and anxiety to Their Majesties. Rome is full of scandals regarding her unconventionality and her disregard for her high position. And here we have yet another. I discover her insensible with you kneeling at her side declaring your affection?”
“I hope the discovery gives you most supreme satisfaction, Signor Ghelardi,” exclaimed Hubert defiantly.
“It gives me the greatest dissatisfaction. His Majesty entrusts her to my care, and I am responsible.”
“You exercised your duty very well in Egypt, I admit,” Waldron replied with a light laugh. “Now I suppose your intention will be to go to His Majesty and describe what you have seen here this evening.”
“I shall act, signore, just as I think fit.”
“No doubt, in order to curry favour with His Majesty you will give a lurid picture of what you have witnessed,” exclaimed Hubert. “Well, do so—at your own peril.”
As he spoke two maids entered, accompanied by the sentry.
“Her Royal Highness has fainted,” Ghelardi explained, pointing to the prostrate figure upon the couch. “You, sentry, had better go in search of Doctor Mellini. He is probably in his rooms. You know where they are—close to the principal entrance. Tell your captain—he will soon find him.”
“Si, signore,” was the man’s answer, as he raised his hand to the salute, turned again and left.
The two maids in their artistic pale grey caps and aprons—the uniform worn by all the female servants of the Palace—dashed across to the young Princess. Then one of them left and ran away for her own smelling-salts.
“I think we had better leave Her Highness. She will be attended to and taken to her rooms,” Ghelardi said.
So the two men went out together, passing along the corridor which led towards the grand staircase.
Hubert was pondering. He saw that the situation was, both for Lola and himself, a very unpleasant one. Ghelardi would, without a doubt, inform the King. Since he had been appointed to Rome he had learnt that the notorious spy was, in addition to being a most remarkable man in his profession, at the same time a place-seeker of the worst type, a soft-spoken sycophant who was for ever closeted with the King.
That His Majesty, with his shrewd intuition and his instinctive reading of men’s minds, had realised this, had been shown by the fact that he had called in the British diplomat to make inquiries into the serious loss of the plans of the frontier fortresses.
No. The King did not trust Luigi Ghelardi so implicitly as Ghelardi himself believed.
The pair, on their way along the corridor, passed an open door. The small room, which was that devoted to the Captain of the Royal Guard while on duty.
“Before we part, Signor Ghelardi, I would like to have a word with you,” Hubert said suddenly. “We cannot do better than speak together here in private.”
“Benissimo,” was the great spy’s reply, acceding most willingly.
Then when they were inside, and Waldron had closed the door, he turned, suddenly asking:
“I presume it is your intention to reveal to the King what you have just witnessed—eh?”
“It is my duty to do so, signore. I have been entrusted with Her Royal Highness’s welfare.”
“And by doing so you will once more cause His Majesty both pain and annoyance,” Waldron remarked.
“And if I were silent should I not be conniving at this impossible situation?”
Hubert Waldron looking at him with keen defiance said:
“Signor Ghelardi, you will, I tell you, say nothing of to-night’s incident to a single soul.”
The elder man laughed openly in the diplomat’s face.
“No, Signor Waldron,” he said, “I quite understand you have no desire that the truth should become common property; but His Majesty will say nothing to others.”
“His Majesty will not know!” Waldron said decisively and very quietly. There was a hard look upon his dark handsome face.
“Madonna mia! I may surely make what report I like to my King, to whom I am directly responsible.”
“In this instance, Signor Ghelardi, though you discern in it an excellent opportunity of showing your remarkable powers of inquiry, you will remain strictly silent. No word of it shall pass your lips.”
“Oh, and pray why, my dear signore?” asked the other opening his eyes.
“Because I forbid it.”
“You forbid!” he echoed. “I tell you that I shall act just as I deem proper.”
“Then I, too, shall also act, Signor Ghelardi—and much against your interests, I assure you.”
“You threaten me—eh? You?”
“I do not threaten,” Hubert hastened to assure him. “I shall only act in case you should act against the interests of Her Royal Highness.”
“I do not think you, a foreigner, can interfere very much with my interests,” laughed the other in defiance.
“Think whatever you please. After you have had audience with His Majesty I, too, shall have audience, and when I have left, then the King will probably tell you what I have revealed to him.”
“And what, pray, can you reveal?” asked the Chief of the Secret Service, his grey brows again knit, showing that he was somewhat puzzled by the diplomat’s defiant attitude.
“That is my own affair,” replied Hubert with a triumphant smile. “Suffice it to say that the hour you make any statement concerning what you have witnessed to-night, then in the same hour you will cease to be Chief of Italy’s Secret Service!”
“Do you think to frighten me, then?”
“I have no wish, my dear Signor Ghelardi,” was Hubert’s very polite reply. “I only desire that no further scandal should be attached to Her Royal Highness’s good name.” And after a brief pause he looked the official straight in the face and said: “I offer you silence for silence!”
“And I decline your most generous offer.”
“Good. Then we shall see!”
“But—”
“I do not wish to discuss this unpleasant matter further,” interrupted Waldron. “Go and tell the King—but at your own peril. Buona sera.” And the diplomat turned away. As he was about to leave the room Ghelardi sprang forward and placed his fingers upon the handle of the door to prevent him.
“I think,” he said, “that we are perhaps misunderstanding each other.”
“No, we are not,” was Hubert’s prompt reply, sturdy Briton that he was. “I understand you, Luigi Ghelardi, perfectly. You have no compunction where Her Highness is concerned. You, man of secrets that you are, will, rather than conceal a woman’s shortcomings, bring upon her the anger of the King in order to secure your own personal ends.”
The bristly haired old official bit his lip. Hubert watched him and smiled inwardly.
“You defy me to execute my duty.”
“Your duty is political espionage, not to spy upon a member of the royal family,” the diplomat replied. “And, further, I tell you that if you breathe a word of this to His Majesty—or if His Majesty gets to hear of it through any third party, I will not spare you, Luigi Ghelardi,” he added, earnestly facing the old man in defiance. “Go then, tell him what you will,” Hubert continued angrily, and again he turned the handle of the door to pass out.
“That is my intention.”
“And in return my intention will be to bring you down from your high position in the King’s esteem. That I shall do, and quickly—never fear,” Waldron said. Then, after a second’s pause, he added: “You are acquainted with a certain Englishman—a Mr Jerningham. He knew you well when you were in the German Service—he has cause to remember you. Indeed he has still a little account to settle with you, has he not—eh?”
Ghelardi started.
“What do you mean?” he asked, though affecting disregard of the remark.
“I mean nothing—so long as you remain silent,” Waldron answered.
Ghelardi was nonplussed. But only for a second, for he was not a man to be easily deterred from any intention.
“So you think that I may heed your empty threats—eh, Signor Waldron? Well, we shall see,” he replied, with a hard, triumphant laugh.
Then releasing his hold upon the door handle he bowed mockingly to the Englishman, inviting him to pass out.
Chapter Twenty One.
A Confidential Report.
Hubert Waldron halted on the threshold, his eyes fixed upon those of the spy.
“Well?” asked Ghelardi, with a sinister smile.
“All I desire to say is that I have the ear of His Majesty as well as yourself. And what I shall tell him will not be to your credit.”
The countenance of the Chief of the Secret Service broadened into a smile of open derision. In his high official position he was all-powerful in Italy—more powerful indeed than the whole Cabinet of Ministers.
“Neither will it be to your credit when I describe to the King what I have witnessed to-night,” he answered.
The Englishman had it upon the tip of his tongue to speak more openly, but on reflection realised that it would be more judicious to keep the information to himself. Jerningham knew that man who had been England’s arch-enemy while in the pay of his masters at Berlin; he had cause to know him—and well, too.
“Signor Ghelardi,” he said finally, “this matter is one of give and take. I offer you terms for your silence. If you refuse, then I shall act as I think fit.”
“Act just as you think fit,” was the Italian’s sneering response.
“Very well,” replied the diplomat, turning and walking up the corridor back to the ballroom.
Half an hour later he met His Majesty face to face.
“Ah, Signor Waldron, you are back again in Rome—eh?” the King exclaimed anxiously. “Well—anything to tell me?” he asked, dropping his voice.
His Majesty was passing through the Sala Regia alone, and there was nobody in the vicinity to overhear.
“Nothing, sir—only—”
“Only what? Quick,” he said impatiently. “It is rumoured in Brussels that Austria is mobilising for attack!”
“In Brussels!” exclaimed the King as they walked together. “How do you know that?”
“I have to-night returned from there.”
“Curious—very curious,” repeated His Majesty reflectively. “Here, as far as I know, we have heard nothing. Ghelardi’s agents in Vienna report by telegraph several times daily, but they can obtain no definite information, though it is known that troops are massing in the south—for manoeuvres—the old story.”
“I am still inquiring into the affair,” said Waldron. “As soon as I have anything to report I will seek audience of Your Majesty.”
“Yes; at any hour. I have instructed Villanova.”
“I have not spoken about the matter to Ghelardi,” the Englishman said as they left the great salon and turned into one of the corridors. Several men and women had halted to bow as His Majesty passed.
“Ghelardi has discovered nothing,” was the King’s hasty response. “He has all sorts of wild theories regarding the theft of the plans, but as far as I can see he has no clue whatever to the thief.”
“Then I shall continue to work without his aid,” Waldron declared, and a moment later he bowed and left His Majesty, who passed through a small door leading to the private apartments.
Next morning, at nine o’clock, Pucci, the brigadier of detective police, called at Hubert’s rooms, and produced a carefully written report, which the Englishman settled himself to digest.
It certainly was interesting reading.
While the brigadier sat smoking a cigarette, the diplomat ran through the document, which showed that Pucci had been extremely active during the week of his absence.
The private and public lives—with extracts from the dossiers at the Prefecture of Police—of His Excellency the Minister for War, of Lambarini, secretary of the Council of Defence, and of Pironti, the Minister’s private secretary, were all laid bare.
Of General Cataldi it was stated that, after long service in the army, he became General, commanding the Third Army Corps in Calabria. While occupying that post an army scandal occurred regarding the supply of stores, great quantities having been paid for and not delivered by the contractors. A court martial was held and four officers attached to the General’s headquarters had been sentenced to terms of imprisonment and dismissed the Service. Certain journals had accused the General himself of being cognisant of the misappropriation of funds, but this he had indignantly denied and had demanded of the Minister of War an inquiry into his conduct. This had been held, and a report returned that there were no grounds for the allegation. But even in face of that the journals in question had charged him with making scapegoats of the four imprisoned officers.
It was curious that a year later the General, who had hitherto, like all Italian officers, not been very well off, had suddenly appeared to be in possession of considerable funds. He had been transferred to Turin, where he had bought a large house and, with his wife, had entertained lavishly. Another lady, a certain youthful Countess in Milan, had attracted him, and in consequence, after a few months, his wife preferred to live apart.
Then, by reason of his lavish entertainments, his apparent wealth, and also because he had a number of influential friends in the Chamber of Deputies, he had been called by the King and given his portfolio as Minister of War.
The confidential report added that his present expenditure greatly exceeded his income, and that he was also heavily in debt, owing, in great measure, to the extravagances of the young Countess in question, who had now taken up her abode in Rome.
Against Colonel Lambarini nothing was known. He was happily married, with two charming children. He lived well within his income, and was of a plain and rather economic turn of mind. He ran into debt for nothing, and his wife had a private income of her own.
The King’s estimate of Lambarini was therefore perfectly correct.
With Pironti it was different. As His Excellency’s secretary he was a man who pandered in every way to all his Chief’s whims and foibles. He was a bachelor, and spent his evenings in the gaming clubs and other questionable haunts, and had been known to lose considerable sums at baccarat. He frequented the political cafés and the variety theatres, and it was also well-known in the army that no one could obtain the ear of His Excellency without first obtaining “the good graces of his secretary.”
“These good graces you mention, Signor Pucci, mean money, I suppose!” remarked Waldron suddenly in Italian.
“Si, signore,” replied the dark-faced detective, with a smile.
Continuing, the report stated that Pironti often associated with undesirable persons, and, further, that it was a known fact that he had received from many officers who had sought promotion douceurs to a considerable amount. Indeed in the army it was declared that so lax was His Excellency in his duties as Minister that he left Pironti to prepare the lists of both promotions and military decorations, merely taking care that the names of none of his enemies appeared there, and scribbling his signature to the decree for the King’s approval.
Hubert Waldon sighed when he had finished that most instructive document.
Then, rising, he placed it in a drawer of his writing-table and locked it safely away.
“So His Excellency and his secretary are not exactly above accepting bribes—eh?” he asked, throwing himself again in his chair.
“According to the result of my inquiries they seem to be both reaping a golden harvest,” Pucci said. “But perhaps not greater than in any other department.”
“The police excepted, I hope,” laughed the diplomat.
But the brigadier grinned. During his years of office he had known more than one person being given timely warning to escape when the Government, forced to prosecute, did not wish to expose a scandal. The Italian peasant may well say that the law for the count is exactly opposite to that for the contadino.
Hubert sat for some moments looking straight into the fire.
He saw that General Cataldi, with the assistance of his dishonest secretary, could enforce a secret toll from every officer who obtained promotion. While nearly every member of the Cabinet was doing the same thing, and every Deputy was giving or accepting bribes, often quite openly, it was not likely that anyone would dare to come forward and denounce them.
The motto of the Minister in Italy is to make a fortune while the office lasts. And they certainly do—as is proved by the constant scandals ever being exposed by the Press, while more are suppressed with hush-money.
But if this were so, and if His Excellency and his sycophant were reaping such a rich harvest, then would they dare to run such risks as to connive at the theft of the plans by a foreign agent?
According to Tonini, only His Excellency and the two secretaries entered the room wherein the plans reposed. Therefore, either His Excellency or his secretary must have extracted them.
Nevertheless this report of Pucci’s made it somewhat dubious whether these two corrupt officials, making the many thousands a year themselves, would go to such lengths as to betray their country into the hands of Austria.
Pucci sat there in silence, wondering what was passing through the diplomat’s mind. He was, of course, in ignorance of what had happened, and was puzzled as to the reason why Waldron was so inquisitive.
Hubert knew the General’s house well—a splendid villa of princely proportions, with delightful garden and terraces, about five miles out of Rome on the white, dusty road which leads to Civita Vecchia. It was near Malagrotta, in the picturesque hills through which still runs the ancient Via Aurelia, and looked down upon ancient Ostia and the broad mouths of the ancient Tiber.
Was he a traitor? Or was he innocent? That was the great and crucial question which he had to decide.
“And this Countess,” he exclaimed, addressing the detective presently. “I noticed that she is not named in your report.”
“No, signore. But her name is Cioni—of the Cionis of Firenze, one of the most ancient houses in Italy—the Countess Guilia Cioni.”
“A widow?”
“No, signore. She is daughter of the late Count Ferdinando Cioni, head of the house. Their palace is on the Lung ’Arno in Firenze.”
“Of what age is she?”
“Thirty.”
“You say she was from Milan.”
“They have a palace in Milan—in one of those short streets off the Piazza del Duomo.”
“And this woman is infatuated with the General, you say? Where does she live?”
“In an apartment in the Corso Vittorio.”
“She, no doubt, knows the chief source of his income—eh?”
“Without a doubt.”
Then Waldron thought deeply. A strange theory had crossed his mind.
“Has she a maid?”
“Yes, signore, a young woman from Borghetto named Velia Bettini.”
Waldron scribbled the name upon his shirt-cuff together with the address of the young Countess Cioni.
“Anything known of this maid?”
Pucci, who had done thoroughly the work entrusted to him, reflected for a moment, and then diving his hand into his breast-pocket, drew forth a well-worn note-book, which he searched for a few moments.
“Yes,” he replied. “I made a few inquiries at the Prefecture concerning her. She was previously in the service of the Marchesa di Martini, of Genoa, and was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for stealing jewellery belonging to her.”
“How long ago?”
“Two years.”
“Anything else?”
“Well—her record is not exactly an unblemished one, signore,” the detective went on. “After her release she went to Paris and was in the service of a young French actress, Mademoiselle Yvonne Barlet, of the Gymnase. While there she passed herself off as a young lady of good family and became friendly with a wealthy young Frenchman, whose name, however I do not know.”
“And what else?”
“She returned to Italy and then entered the service of the Countess Cioni.”
“But this Countess Cioni—who is she? I do not seem to have heard of her in Rome Society.”
“She is not known—except in a certain circle. One of her intimate friends, however, is Her Royal Highness, the Princess Luisa.”
“The Princess Luisa?” echoed the Englishman. “Yes, signore. But, as you have heard, the Princess makes many strange and unfortunate friendships. She is, I fear, rather foolish.”
“But surely this friendship ought to be put a stop to, Signor Pucci. It is impossible for a Princess of the blood-royal to associate with such a person as this Contessa Cioni.”
The detective shrugged his shoulders and elevated his dark eyebrows.
Then he smiled that quiet meaning smile which all Italians can affect in moments of indecision.
Chapter Twenty Two.
“The Thrush.”
On the night following Pucci’s visit to Hubert Waldron, Her Royal Highness sat before the fire in her handsome bedroom curled up in a soft chair, thinking.
The little leather-framed travelling-clock upon her big dressing-table with its gold and tortoiseshell brushes and toilet accessories showed that midnight was past. She had been to a dinner at the Palazzo Riparbella, where Her Majesty had honoured the Duchess of Riparbella with her presence, and an hour ago they had returned.
She had dismissed her maid-of-honour, and when Renata, her personal maid, had entered to attend her she had sent her to bed. Renata was devoted to her mistress. She was used to the vagaries of Her Highness—who so often wore her dresses in her escapades—so she bowed and retired.
For half an hour, still attired in her handsome, pale blue evening gown, with her dark hair well-dressed, and a beautiful diamond necklet upon her white throat, she had sat staring into the dancing flames, thinking—ever thinking.
At last she stirred herself, rising suddenly to her feet, and then, crossing to her bed, she threw herself upon her knees wildly and bent her head within her white hands.
Her pale lips moved, but no sound came from them.
She was fervent in prayer.
Her countenance, her movements, her attitude showed her to be in a veritable tumult of agony and despair. But she was alone, with none to witness her terrible anxiety, and the blank hopelessness of it all.
She had been wondering ever since she had regained consciousness on the previous night what had really occurred in the room of the Minister of the Royal Household—whether the British diplomat, her friend, had also been discovered there in her company. She had questioned the maids, but they had been instructed by Ghelardi and refused to satisfy her curiosity.
Therefore she was in ignorance of what had happened after the receipt of that fatal message from Brussels.
How she had passed that day of feverish anxiety she knew not. Every second had to her seemed an hour.
At last, after crossing herself devoutly, she rose from her knees wearily, when her eyes fell upon the clock.
Instantly she began to take off her splendid evening gown. Her diamonds she unclasped and tossed them unheeded into a velvet-lined casket on the big dressing-table, together with her bracelets and the ornament from her corsage.
Then, kicking off her evening slippers, she exchanged her pale blue silk stockings for stout ones of black cashmere, and putting on a pair of serviceable country boots, she afterwards opened her wardrobe and took out a dingy costume of blue serge—one of Renata’s.
This she hastily donned, and taking down her hair, deftly arranged it so that when she put on the little black bonnet she produced from a locked box, she was in a quarter of an hour transformed from a princess to a demure, neatly-dressed lady’s maid.
From a drawer in her dressing-table she took out a shabby hand-bag—Renata’s bag—and, after ascertaining that there was a small sum of money in it, she put it upon her arm, and finally examined herself in the glass.
She was an adept at disguising herself as Renata, and, after patting her hair and altering the angle of her neat bonnet, she switched off the light and left the room.
Boldly she passed along the corridor of the private apartments until she at length opened a door at the end, whereupon she passed a sentry unchallenged, and away into the servants’ quarters.
Across the courtyard, now only dimly lit, she passed, and then out by the servants’ entrance to the Via del Quirinale.
Having left the Palace she hurried through a number of dark side-streets until she reached a small garage in a narrow thoroughfare—almost a lane—called the Via della Muratte, beyond the Trevi fountain.
A sleepy, white-haired old man roused himself as she entered, while she gave him a cheery good evening, and then went up to her car, a powerful grey one of open type, and switched on the head-lamps. From a locker in the garage the old man brought her a big, fur-lined motor coat and a close-fitting hat, and these she quickly assumed. Then a few minutes later, seated at the wheel, she passed out of the garage exclaiming gaily:
“I shall be back before it is light, Paolo. Buona motte.”
Gaining the Corso, silent and dark at that hour, she drove rapidly away, out by the Popolo Gate, and with her cut-out roaring went straight along the Via Flaminia, the ancient way through the mountains to Civita Castellana and the wilds of Umbria.
The night was dark and bitterly cold, for a strong east wind was blowing from the snowcapped mountains causing Lola to draw up and take her big fur mitts from the inside pocket of the car. Then she turned up the wide fur collar of her coat, mounted to the wheel again, and was soon negotiating the winding road—the surface of which at that season was shockingly loose and bad.
After fifteen miles of continual ascent she approached the dead silent old town of Castelnuova, being challenged by the octroi guards who, finding a lady alone, allowed her to proceed without further word. Then through the narrow, ancient street, lit by oil lamps, she went slowly, and out again into a great plain for a further fifteen miles—a lonely drive, indeed, along a difficult and dangerous road. But she was an expert driver and negotiated all the difficult corners with tact and caution.
Through several hamlets she passed, but not a dog was astir, until presently she descended a sharp hill, and below saw a few meagre lights of the half-hidden town of Borghetto—a little place dominated by a great ruined castle situated on the direct railway line between Firenze and Rome.
Half-way down the hill she slackened speed, her great head-lights glaring, until presently she pulled up at the roadside and, slowly descending, extinguished the lights so that they might not attract attention.
Then, leaving the car, she hurried forward along the road, for she was cramped and cold.
But scarcely had she gone fifty yards when a dark figure came out of the shadows to meet her, uttering her name.
“Is it you, Pietro?” she asked quickly.
“Si, signorina,” was the reassuring reply, in a voice which told that its owner was a contadino, and not a gentleman.
Next second they were standing together.
“I received your message, Pietro,” she said, “and I have kept the appointment, as you see.”
The man for a few minutes did not reply. In the half-light, for the moon was now struggling through the clouds, the fact was revealed that the peasant was about forty, one of that pleasant-faced, debonair type so frequently met with in Central Italy—a gay, careless fellow who might possibly be a noted person in the little village of Borghetto.
He had taken off his hat at Lola’s approach and stood bare-headed before her.
“You are silent,” she said. “What has happened?”
“Nothing evil has happened, signorina,” was his reply, for he spoke in the distinctive dialect of Umbria, very different indeed to the polite language of Rome. “Only I am surprised—that is all.”
“Surprised! Why?”
“I feared that the signorina would not be in Rome.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw the Signor Enrico to-night, and he told me you had left.”
“Enrico! He has not been here?”
“I saw him at eleven o’clock. He arrived from Firenze by the north express at half-past eight. He had come from far away—from Milano, I think.”
“He has been at the signora’s then?” asked Her Highness quickly.
“Yes—with the Signorina Velia. I was with him an hour ago.”
“Did you tell him I should be here?”
“No; I feared to tell him, signorina.”
“Good. Where is he now?”
“Still at the signora’s.”
“Then he does not know I am here?”
“No, signorina, he goes to Rome to-morrow.” Lola was silent for a few moments. She was reflecting deeply.
“You say that Velia is here—eh? Then Enrico has come to see her, I suppose?” she asked.
“I believe so. They met before at the house of old Madame Mortara’s and again to-night.”
“Benissimo, Pietro. Now tell me, what have you found out?”
“Not very much, signorina, I regret to say. They are too wary, these people. I know, however, they are watching your friend the Englishman. And they mean mischief, too.”
“Watching Signor Waldron,” she echoed in alarm. “Are you quite certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Who are watching?”
“Beppo and ‘The Thrush.’”
“That is Beppo Fiola and Gino Merlo—eh?” she remarked. “I thought Gino had been arrested in Sarzana.”
“So he was,” replied the man, “but he escaped. He is wanted, but the present moment is not an exactly opportune one for his arrest, signorina.”
“And they mean evil?”
“Decidedly. The Signor Waldron should be warned.”
“How did you discover this, Pietro?” she asked, standing with him in the deep shadow of a disused granary.
“Signorina, a man of my profession has various channels of information,” was his polite but rather ambiguous reply, his voice entirely altered, for he now spoke in an educated manner. Hitherto he had spoken in the dialect peculiar to the valley of the Tiber, but his last sentence was that of an educated man.
“Ah! I know, Signor Olivieri,” she said; “you are a past-master in the art of disguise to come out here and live as a contadino.”
“For the purpose of obtaining information every ruse is admissable, signorina. This is not the first occasion in my career by many when I have posed as a peasant.”
“Curious that Signor Enrico is so friendly with Velia, is it not?” she asked.
“Exactly my thought,” replied Pietro Olivieri, the renowned private detective of Genoa, for such he was; “there is some devil’s work afoot, but whether it is in connection with the matter we are investigating I cannot yet convince myself. As a field-labourer in madame’s service I have been ever on the alert. Fortunately no one has yet suspected me—for this place is, as you well know, a veritable hot-bed of anarchy and crime; a nest which contains some of the worst and most desperate characters in the whole of Italy. Therefore if I betrayed myself, I fear I should not return to Rome alive.”
“But have you no fear?” she asked anxiously. “Not while I exercise ordinary caution. Here, I am Pietro Bondi, a simple, hard-working contadino. I take my wine like a man. I gossip to the women, and I interfere with nobody. At first when I came here my presence aroused suspicion, but that has, fortunately, now died down.”
“You will watch Enrico?”
“Certainly.”
“I wonder what his object is in returning here to Borghetto?”
“In order to meet Velia.”
“He could have met her more easily in Rome.”
“Not if it chanced to be against his interests to be seen in Rome. Remember he is well-known there.”
“So you think he got off the train here instead of going on to the capital?”
“Yes. To see the girl Velia who came here to-night—to meet him and the others.”
“The others?” she repeated inquiringly.
“Yes—‘The Thrush’ and the others.”
“To form a plot against the Englishman?” she gasped.
“Exactly, signorina. The Signor Waldron should be warned at once. Will you do so—or shall I send him an anonymous letter?”
“I will see him to-morrow; but—but what can I say without exposing the truth. Come, Signor Pietro, you are a good one at inventing stories.”
“Tell him the truth, signorina.”
“No,” she said, “that is impossible. I—I could never do that. I have reasons for concealing it—strong reasons.”
“Then what do you propose doing? If you tell him he is in grave personal danger he will only laugh at you and take no heed of your warning. Englishmen never can understand our people.”
“True, but—but really,” she asked suddenly, “is there any great danger?”
“I tell you, signorina, that some conspiracy is afoot against your friend,” replied the detective who, before entering business on his own account, had been a well-known official at the Prefecture of Police in Genoa. His work lay in the north and he knew very little of Rome, and was therefore unknown. “You requested me to assist you in this curious inquiry, and I am doing so; yet the further I probe, the deeper and more complicated, I confess, becomes the problem.”
“But you do not despair?” she cried anxiously.
“No. I am hoping ere long to see a ray of light through this impenetrable veil of mystery,” he replied. “At present, however, all seems so utterly complicated. There is but one outstanding feature of the affair,” he added, “and that is the attempt which will assuredly be made upon the life of your friend.”
“But why? With what motive?”
“They hold him in fear.”
“For what reason?”
“Ah! that, signorina, I am as yet unable to say,” was his quick reply. “If I knew that then we might soon get upon a path which would undoubtedly lead us to the truth.”
“We must crush the conspiracy at all hazards, Signor Olivieri,” she said quickly. “Remember that Signor Waldron is my friend—my dear friend.”
“Then go to him and tell him the truth.”
“Ah, no, I cannot!” she cried. “That is quite impossible.”
“You know him, I do not,” the detective said. “Could you not induce him to leave Italy, say for a few weeks? It would be safer. These men, I tell you frankly, are desperate characters. They will hesitate at nothing.”
“But why should they attack an Englishman?” she asked.
“Because he knows—or they think he knows—some secret concerning them. That is my theory.”
“And they intend to close his lips?”
The detective nodded.
“S-h-h-h,” he whispered next second. “See yonder”—and he pointed down the hill to where a light had suddenly shone. “Someone is coming across the vineyard. Perhaps it is Signor Enrico—probably it is, I overheard him say something about catching the night mail to Rome. It is due in twenty minutes.”
“Addio, then,” she said hurriedly. “I will manage to warn Signor Waldron if, as you say, it is absolutely necessary,” and, taking the peasant’s hand in farewell, she ran back to where her car was waiting, and was soon on the road again speeding back over the thirty odd miles which lay between that nest of bad characters and the Eternal City.
While she was hurrying away, without waiting to switch on her lamps, Pietro Olivieri leisurely descended the hill. But as he passed on through the grove of dark cypresses a human figure crept stealthily out of the shadows and, looking after him, muttered a fierce imprecation.
The pair who had believed themselves unseen, had been watched by a very sharp pair of eyes!
Chapter Twenty Three.
Her Highness’s Warning.
The grey morning mist hung over the Tiber and over the Eternal City, but outside the town it was bright, crisp, and sunny.
Away at Frascati on the pleasant mountain slopes with those lovely views over the Campagna, fifteen miles from Rome, the day was charming, and at noon quite warm and delightful.
Perhaps of all the contorini of Rome the Frascati is the most attractive. By road and rail it is easy of access, and perhaps this fact had induced Lola to telephone to Hubert and give him an appointment in the beautiful grounds of the Villa Aldobrandini, where there certainly would be no other person, save perhaps a few odd British tourists who would not recognise either of the pair.
At noon, therefore, both having arrived by train from Rome, they had met at a spot appointed by Her Highness, and were standing together against an old broken piece of statuary under a high hedge of dark ilex. The great old sixteenth-century villa, built by Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, nephew of Clement VIII, is now, alas! falling into decay; its fountains are dilapidated; its statuary broken; its terraces, once trod by papal dignitaries, moss-grown; while over the steps of its principal entrance the green lizards flash in the sunshine.
Its grounds, however, are still the delight of the traveller, with their terraces, their fantastic grottos, their fountains and rocks, their great oaks, their funereal cypresses, and their splendid extensive views.
From where the diplomat stood beside the Princess he could see far away across the plain to where the great dome of St. Peter’s rose in the blue-grey mists of the panorama, while on the other hand lay the ancient Tusculum, and the range of blue hills dominated by the Corbio—as the Italians call the Rocca Priora—while a little to the right shone the Lake of Albano, lying like a mirror in its basin in the sunshine.
Lola had arrived there first, but as he came swinging along the path a flush of pleasure mounted to her pale cheeks, and she put out her gloved hand, greeting him warmly.
Dressed in dark grey, and wearing a magnificent set of blue fox, she presented a very different appearance to that of the previous night when she had worn the old dress and close-fitting bonnet of Renata’s.
Hubert Waldron thought he had never seen her looking so charming, yet he wondered why she had made that appointment so far away from Rome. He was still wondering, too, why that letter of Henry Pujalet’s should have had such an effect upon her. With her last strenuous effort, however, she had destroyed it. Why?
“Your man seemed awfully dense this morning,” the Princess laughed. “When I telephoned he thought it was the manageress of your fishmonger, and told me that you required nothing to-day! Your English servants are horribly abrupt, I assure you.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, hastening to apologise. “I fear abruptness is one of his failings, but he is honest. I’ve reprimanded him lots of times.”
“Ah! I expect he hears a good many female voices on the ’phone,” she laughed, teasing him; “and he has orders to what you call it in English, to choke them off—eh?” and she laughed.
Together they walked along the gravelled path to where, beneath a tall cypress, was an old semicircular stone seat, one of those placed there when the great cardinal laid out the grounds of his princely villa. Upon that they seated themselves when suddenly Her Highness, with an anxious look upon her face, turned to her companion and said, still speaking in English.
“I fear that we may be watched, therefore I made this appointment with you here.”
“Watched?” he echoed. “Who by? Old Ghelardi, I suppose?”
“No. I have no great fear of him,” she answered. “But you have enemies here, in Rome,” she went on very seriously. “I have discovered that they are desperate and intend to do you some grievous harm. Therefore I urge you to make some excuse to leave Rome at once.”
“Why, whatever do you mean, Princess?” he asked, staring at her.
“How often have I forbidden you to use that title to me?” she cried petulantly. “To you I am Lola, plain Lola, as always,” she said, looking very gravely into his eyes. “We are friends. That is why I am here to warn you.”
“But I really don’t understand,” he protested. “What enemies can I have here? And if I have, what harm can they possibly do me? I’m not afraid, I assure you.”
“Ah! I know you are not afraid,” she answered. “But from what I have heard, it seems probable that these people, whoever they are, must be in fear of you—they suspect you are cognisant of some secret of theirs.”
The word “secret” held him speechless for some seconds. She knew nothing of the theft that had been committed at the Ministry of War. The only “secret” which he had tried to discover was the identity of the thief.
“But how came you to know this?” he asked at last.
“I—well I heard a rumour last night,” was her vague reply; “and I thought it my duty, as your friend, to warn you lest you should be entrapped or taken unawares.”
“Then you really and honestly believe that these mysterious, unknown persons, whoever they are, mean mischief?” he asked, looking anxiously into her pale, anxious countenance.
How handsome she was! How deeply, too, was he in love with her. He held his breath, remembering how frantically he had kissed her hand; how he had told her of the great burning passion within his heart, though she had lain there with all consciousness blotted out.
“If I had any doubt, Signor Waldron, I should not trouble to raise this alarm,” she answered in a tone of slight reproach.
“But how can I leave Rome?” he asked, for he was reflecting that to adopt her suggestion was impossible. His duty to the King, as well as his duty to the British Service, precluded it at present. “Cannot you go on leave again? Or—or cannot you get appointed to another post for six months—or a year?”
He was silent, his eyes fixed upon hers.
“Are you so very anxious then to get rid of me?” he asked gravely.
“To get rid of you?” she echoed blankly. “To get rid of you—my most sincere and devoted friend! How can you suggest such a thing?”
“Well, it almost seems so,” he answered with a smile.
“My dear Signor Waldron, I warn you most seriously that you are in grave personal peril, and that—”
“But you do not tell me how you know this, Lola,” he interrupted. “I am naturally most curious to know.”
“Without doubt,” she responded, her eyes cast down. “But the information is from a source which I have no desire to divulge. I learnt it entirely by accident.”
“It was not contained in that letter I brought you from Brussels?” he asked very slowly, for of that he held a faint suspicion. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“Oh no,” was her reply. “That letter—ah! it was about something—something which affected me very closely. I know that I was very foolish to allow it to upset me so. It was absurd of me to faint as I did. But I could not help it. I suppose I am but a woman, after all.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to describe how old Ghelardi had discovered them together in the room of the Minister of the Household, but he hesitated, fearing to unduly cause her annoyance. He had defied the chief spy of Italy, but was as yet uncertain whether the crafty old fellow had not gone secretly to the King and told him the story—with many embellishments, perhaps.
“Your indisposition was not your own fault, Lola,” he answered in a voice of deepest sympathy. “No doubt Monsieur Pujalet’s letter contained something to cause you the gravest disconcern.”
“Disconcern!” she cried, starting up wildly, her big expressive eyes full of anxiety. “Ah! you do not know—how can you know all the tortures of conscience, of the daily, hourly terror I am now suffering! No! You cannot understand.”
“Because you will explain nothing,” he remarked with dissatisfaction.
“I cannot, I dare not—even to you, my most intimate friend!”
“Well, Lola, I confess that each time we meet you become more and more mysterious.”
“Ah! Because I am compelled. Surrounded by enemies, even my association with you seems to have placed you also in a deadly peril. That is why I am appealing to you to leave Rome.”
“I can’t,” he said. “That is entirely out of the question. But now that you have warned me I will be wary—and will carry my revolver, if you think it necessary.”
“Cannot you leave Italy? It would be far safer.”
“And leave you in this perilous position? No,” was his prompt and decisive answer.
“But I beg—nay, I implore you to do so,” she cried, holding out both her hands to him.
He shook his head slowly.
“It is quite impossible. If danger really exists, then I must face it.”
For some moments she remained silent.
“Have you seen Ghelardi lately?” she asked quite suddenly.
Her question surprised. What, he wondered, could she know?
“I saw him the day before yesterday,” was his vague reply.
“Has it not struck you that he is very ill-disposed towards you?” she exclaimed.
“Certainly. I have always known that—even while we were up the Nile, and he was passing as Jules Gigleux. He objected to our friendliness. Yet he never seemed to discover that you were acquainted with Henri Pujalet. That was curious, was it not?”
She smiled.
“Perhaps because I was extremely careful not to betray it—eh?” But next second she glanced at the little diamond-studded watch upon her wrist, and rising quickly, declared that it was time for her to catch the train back to Rome.
“There is a luncheon to the Grand Duke of Oldenbourg to-day, and I shall be in horrible disgrace if I’m absent,” she explained. “But it will be best for you to travel by the next train. It is injudicious for us to be seen together, Mr Waldron, especially if we are watched—as I believe we are.”
“Ghelardi’s secret agents may lurk anywhere,” he said, as they walked together to the great gateway of the villa.
“No, I do not fear them, I tell you,” she said.
“But just now you told me that he is ill-disposed towards me—a fact of which I am well aware.”
“I tell you it is not Ghelardi that I fear, but certain persons who, for their own mysterious purposes, intend to make an attack upon you when fitting opportunity offers.”
“Trust me to remain wary,” replied Hubert with a smile, and then after they had stood together in the winter sunshine for several moments near the gate he lifted his hat, bowed low over her hand, and then stood watching until she, pulling her splendid furs about her shoulders, had disappeared into the road which led down to the rural station.
Ah! how he loved her! But he sighed and bit his lip.
To Hubert, the object of Her Highness’s warning seemed both mysterious and obscure. Did she, for some hidden purpose of her own wish to get rid of him. If so, why?
The story that an attempt might be made upon him he was inclined to discredit, especially as she had refused to reveal the source of her information.
He lunched at the little albergo above the steps leading to the station, and by half-past two found himself back again in Rome where, in his rooms, he found Pucci, the brigadier of police, awaiting him.
“I have a curious fact to report, signore,” said the man when they were alone together with the door closed.
“Well,” asked Hubert, “what is it?”
“That your movements are being closely watched by two well-known characters—criminals.”
Waldron started, staring at the man, for had not Lola warned him that very morning.
“Do you know them?”
“Quite well. One is called ‘The Thrush’ by his associates, and has served several long terms of imprisonment for theft. Indeed I arrested him three years ago for attacking a policeman in the Piazza Farnese and using a knife. The other is Beppo Fiola, who has been sentenced several times for burglary.”
“Professional thieves then?”
“Two of the worst characters we have in Rome, signore.”
“I wonder what they want with me—eh?” asked Hubert, lighting a cigarette, perfectly unperturbed.
“They mean no good, signore,” declared the man very gravely. “Perhaps they intend to commit a burglary here?”
“They are welcome. There’s nothing here of any great value, and if they do come they’ll get a pretty warm reception,” he laughed.
“Ah, signore, it is a very serious matter,” protested the detective. “These two men would, if it suited them, take life without the slightest hesitation. In a case four months ago where a Russian diamond-dealer was robbed of his wallet and his body found in the Tiber stabbed to the heart, the strongest suspicion attached to the two men in question, though we have not yet been able to bring home the crime to them.”
“But I haven’t any diamonds or valuables,” replied the diplomat.
“No, but perhaps you, signore, may be in possession of some secret or other concerning them,” the detective said. “Perhaps even they may be employed by some enemy of yours to watch an opportunity and close your lips.”
Hubert looked at the man in surprise without replying.
“Yes, signore,” Pucci added very gravely, “such a thing is not entirely unknown in Rome, remember. Therefore I would urge you to exercise the greatest caution; to beware of any trap, and always to carry arms. It would be best, I think, to report to the Questore, and arrest both men on suspicion.”
“No, Pucci,” Hubert replied quickly. “No. Watch closely, but make no move. Their arrest might upset all my present plans.”