Chapter Twenty Four.
Room Number 164.
Days, many anxious, fevered days, passed—bright winter days during which Hubert was frantically active in his efforts to discover some clue to the mystery of the stolen plans of the frontier fortresses.
Not a stone did he leave unturned in his quiet, patient endeavours, and aided by the faithful Pucci—to whom he still hesitated to reveal the exact object of his search—he kept constant watch upon the actions of His Excellency the Minister of War.
Suspicions were very strong against the latter. He had discovered one important point, namely, that within a week from the loss of the documents the sum of one hundred and sixty thousand lire was paid into the General’s account at the Banca Commerciale, and, further, that it appeared to have come from an unknown source.
Agents employed by Pucci had also watched the two secretaries, Lambarini and Pironti, but against neither was there any suspicious circumstance.
Several times had Waldron had audience with His Majesty, but was compelled to confess that he had nothing to report, while from Vienna came the secret information daily that, though a great army had been mobilised, the “manoeuvres” had not yet commenced.
The very silence was full of menace.
More than once—at Court, at the Embassy, and in the princely drawing-rooms of Rome—Hubert had met Her Highness. He had stood beside her full of love and admiration, at the same time puzzled at the paleness of her countenance and the constant anxiety which seemed ever expressed there. Since that night when he had delivered Pujalet’s note to her she had never seemed the same.
Yet she would tell him nothing—absolutely nothing. It was her secret, she said—a secret which she steadily declined to divulge.
“Why do you not take my advice and leave Rome?” she asked one night when she was dancing with him at a great ball at the Rospigliosi Palace. “You are in constant peril.”
“I have my duties here,” was his answer. “I cannot leave.”
She sighed, and as he held her in his arms he felt that she was trembling.
“Why won’t you heed me?” she implored, looking up at him with those wonderful eyes of hers. “Do.”
“Because I am not my own master,” was his reply. “Because I cannot.”
General Cataldi was there, in his fine uniform resplendent with stars and ribbons, and it chanced that at that moment his eyes fell upon the handsome pair.
He regarded them suspiciously, thoughtfully stroking his white moustache.
“That Englishman, Waldron, seems on very friendly terms with the Princess Luisa,” he remarked to the brilliant, handsomely dressed young woman at his side—the Countess Cioni.
“Yes,” was the answer of the lady in pink in the glittering tiara. “I, too, have noticed it. But Luisa is always making queer friendships.”
“He was whispering to her a moment ago, just before they commenced to dance,” the General remarked. “Has Her Highness ever mentioned him?”
“Oh yes. They met up the Nile, I understand, when Luisa was sent away from Court in disgrace.”
“Ah! then the friendship has been of some duration—eh?” grunted His Excellency, casting another strangely suspicious look at the pair as he turned away.
Late one night, about a week later, Hubert had been to an official dinner at the Russian Embassy, in the Via Gaeta, and the weather being bright and starlight he threw his cloak over his uniform and, lighting a cigar, started to stroll home.
It was past one o’clock and few people were astir in those narrow, ill-lit Italian streets with their high, dark houses. He had turned from the Via Gaeta into the narrow Via Curtatone on his way towards the Piazza del Cinquecento—which was the shortest cut to his rooms—when, ere he was aware of it, a dark figure lurched suddenly out of a doorway and he was dealt a stunning blow at the back of the head, causing him to reel, stumble, and fall.
His assailants, of whom there were two—who had apparently been lying in wait for him—bent quickly over his prostrate form with keen knives drawn, when Hubert’s hand shot out and next second one of the men staggered back with a revolver bullet in his stomach. So swiftly had the Englishman defended himself that the second man, ere he could use his knife, received a bullet in the cheek, whereupon the pair both wounded and in fear because of the alarm caused by the report of the explosions, slipped round the corner and were well out of sight before a policeman from the neighbouring piazza came running up eagerly to discover what was wrong.
The whole affair happened within a few seconds, but never had Hubert Waldron been nearer death than at that moment.
His presence of mind to draw his weapon which he had carried loose in the pocket of his cloak, and at the same time to fall heavily as though stunned and unconscious, had saved his life. Had he simply fallen back against the wall his assailants’ knives would, no doubt, have been buried in his heart ere he could have fired.
He had escaped death by an ace.
The policeman, on arrival, found him standing with his back to the wall, recovering from the sudden shock.
“Two men knocked me down,” he replied in answer to the police agent. “But I fired at them. Hit both the brutes, I believe,” and he laughed.
“Dio! Which way did they go?” asked the man.
“Round there, to the left, into the Via Vicenza, I believe. But you’ll never find them. Besides I didn’t see them well enough to be able to recognise them again.”
“The signore is a diplomat, I see. May I not know his name, for the purpose of my report?”
“No,” replied Waldron, for he was not anxious that Ghelardi should learn of the incident, as no doubt he would, if formal report were made that a British diplomat had been attacked in the streets. “It’s nothing,” he said. “They tried to rob me, that’s all.”
And then placing ten francs in the man’s hand he picked up his cocked hat and went his way.
What Lola had told him was the truth. But how could she possibly have known that such a desperate attempt was about to be made?
What motive could there be to seal his lips, save because he was endeavouring to see a solution of the mystery of the missing plans!
Was it possible that those two assassins whom Pucci knew to be two of the most desperate characters in Rome were the hirelings of General Cataldi?
On his way homeward that theory became more than ever impressed upon him. His Excellency was guilty of connivance at the theft, and knowing that he was near arriving at a solution of the mystery, intended that his mouth should be closed.
After he had bathed the injury to his head, he threw himself into his chair and sat for a long time pondering, trying to make up his mind how, in face of the present situation, he should act. Was it possible that Lola, being friendly with the Countess Cioni, had somehow learned of the General’s fears, and had obtained information as to the projected plot? If so, why did not Her Highness, so friendly was she, reveal to him the whole strange truth?
No. There was some curious element of mystery in her attitude towards him. She was concealing something—but what it was he could not in the least discern. He loved her—ay, better than any man had ever loved a woman. He regarded her as his sole ideal, for before her all other feminine beauty faded. He, who had run the whole gamut of gaiety in the exclusive Society of the capitals; he who had trodden the diplomatic stage of Europe ever since a child, had at last met the one woman who was sweet perfection; the one woman before whom he had thrown himself upon his knees and worshipped—on that fatal night when his enemy had, alas! discovered him.
And yet the situation seemed so utterly hopeless. His love was, after all, but a hollow mockery, and could only lead to grief and black despair, while his utter failure to trace the hand which had stolen the plans was, he knew, causing His Majesty to lose all faith in him. He had been in Brussels upon a mysterious errand instead of carrying out His Majesty’s desire.
Italy was at that moment menaced on every side. Complications had arisen with Turkey during the past week or two, while her relations with France were not of the best regarding certain Customs tariffs which France had suddenly risen in order to further strangle Italian trade.
Yes, indeed, the time was now absolutely ripe for Austria to strike her long-premeditated blow. And if she did, then Italy, in her state of unpreparedness, and her serious quarrel with Turkey regarding Tripoli, must, alas! succumb.
Next morning, when Peters brought Hubert the Tribuna in bed as usual, he saw an announcement that His Excellency General Cataldi, Minister of War, was leaving that evening for Lyons, to visit his brother, who was lying dangerously ill there.
Why that sudden journey? he thought. The news had no doubt been communicated to the Press by His Excellency himself.
During the day he reflected upon the matter many times, until at six o’clock that evening, dressed in an old tweed suit, and presenting the appearance of a ten-day-ten-guinea tourist, he entered a second-class compartment of the Paris rapide—having first watched the General into the sleeping-car.
That evening he dined upon a roll and a piece of uncooked ham which he bought at the station, and that night he spent crossing the wild, dreary Maremme marshes in sleepless discomfort, for the Italian railway administrative are not over-generous towards the second-class traveller.
By Pisa, with a glimpse of its white Leaning Tower, Carrara with its dazzling white marble quarries, Genoa, Turin, and the glorious scenery of the Mont Cenis, they at last gained France, until at last, late on the following day, they arrived at the long, inartistic station of Culoz, and there, watching intently, he saw the General in his fur-lined overcoat and felt hat descend, and change into the train for Lyons, an action which he himself followed.
On gaining Lyons, however, His Excellency, who was alone and quite unconscious that he was being followed, entered the big buffet of the terminus, and having waited there an hour, purchased a ticket for Tours.
The story of the invalid brother was at once exploded! He had left Italy with some other object in view.
Travelling by a slow train across the mountains, they did not arrive in the pretty capital of Touraine until early next morning, and then the General, entering the omnibus of the Hôtel de l’Univers, drove down the wide Boulevard Heurteloup, while Hubert went to a rival house, the Metropol, in the Place du Palais-de-Justice.
An hour later, however, he called at the Univers, and by means of a judicious tip to the under-concierge—the concierge being absent—discovered that the Italian gentleman who had arrived had given the name of Conio—Emilio Conio, of Milan, he had written in the register.
The Englishman now saw that the object of the Minister’s journey was, no doubt, to keep some secret appointment. Therefore he decided to risk detection and transfer his quarters to the Univers, which he promptly did.
Through all the day he watched the General very closely. During the morning, overcome by his journey, His Excellency slept, and not until four o’clock did he come down to idle in the lounge. Then after half an hour he crossed the Place and entered one of the cafés there for a vermouth.
His attitude was as though he expected someone who had not arrived.
Hubert smiled within himself when he reflected how he had followed this man who had bribed assassins to take his life, and how utterly unconscious he now was of being watched.
“The Italian gentleman is expecting a certain Herr Steinberg, of Berlin, to-night,” the assistant concierge whispered to Hubert when he entered the hotel just before dinner. “He is to arrive at ten o’clock to-night.”
And then, as his hands closed over the louis which the Englishman produced, he added:
“I will let you know, by a note to your room, m’sieur.”
Hubert, fearing to meet His Excellency in the salle à manger, went out and dined at the Curassier, a noted restaurant in the Rue Nationale, and did not return before half-past ten.
In his room he found a scribbled line as arranged.
Then, descending by the lift, he sought the assistant concierge, and from him discovered that the pair were in consultation in room Number 164.
“Yes, I believe there is a door between that and the next room, m’sieur,” the man replied.
“Good. Then get me the key for an hour or so, and I will make it all right with you.”
The profession of concierge is synonymous of bribery. No concierge in Europe lives upon his stipend. Hence within ten minutes Hubert was crouched against the door of the adjoining room, listening to the conversation of the Italian Minister of War and the stranger from Berlin—a conversation which certainly proved highly instructive.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Government Secrets.
Like most doors separating rooms in Continental hotels those of the Univers at Tours were no exception. They were thin, and Hubert, kneeling with his ear to the crack, could distinctly hear the conversation between the Cabinet Minister who was passing under the unassuming name of Emilio Conio.
Apparently His Excellency had only a very limited knowledge of German, and the pair were therefore speaking in very indifferent French. The Italian can seldom speak French well.
Very soon Waldron ascertained that the secret meeting had been arranged in order to discuss a forthcoming army contract for one hundred and eighty thousand pairs of boots, lucrative, no doubt. Contracts in these days are always lucrative. There is commission somewhere.
“We have had many tenders,” His Excellency said. “Firms in England, France, and Italy have sent in quotations and samples, in addition to four German firms, including your own.”
“But they are all strangers, Your Excellency, no doubt,” replied the gentleman from Berlin very suavely. “We are not strangers, and the terms we offer must, I think, commend themselves to you. Our last deal turned out satisfactory for both sides, did it not?”
“Except that my secretary became suddenly most avaricious.”
“By some indiscretion on Your Excellency’s part, no doubt. Secretaries are only hirelings.”
“Probably I was foolish,” the General laughed. “But as I wrote you, I think that if I pass an order of this magnitude your firm ought to—well, they ought to increase its generosity.”
“Ah! Excellency, things are cut so terribly fine. You do not know. In order to compete with those Northampton and Leicester firms we have to be content with the very slightest margin of profit, and after our secret commission to you there is really nothing left. We have to live and pay our people. Besides you tie us down so rigidly to dates of delivery.”
“Unfortunately I am compelled. I cannot show any favour to you, or our association would at once be detected.”
And so, for half an hour, the two men haggled and bargained, until the General who, from the conversation, had, it seemed, got six thousand pounds out of a recent contract from army food, grew impatient and said:
“Well, it seems that we cannot do business. I am really sorry. But I have Menier, of Marseilles, coming to see me here at noon to-morrow. He will be a little more generous than yourself. I happen to know the large commissions which you recently paid in Turkey to secure the contract. So why strangle me—eh?”
“Exactly, m’sieur. But to supply army boots to Turkey and to Italy are quite different matters. To Turkey one can send any rubbish that will hang together—soles of millboard, if necessary—for with a little baksheesh anything will be passed. But in Rome you have your commission, remember, and those officers of yours cannot be bribed.”
“Perhaps it is as well,” laughed the General. “What I fear is that if I sign your contract my secretary will at once suspect commission, and make a demand upon me—as he did before—the worm!”
“Well, permit me to remark that the sum is a really respectable one, and if we pay it on receipt of the contract into an English bank to the account of the Countess Cioni, as before, it cannot be traced to you.”
“Ah yes. But my secretary is a very shrewd person. I would have to give him something—however small.”
Again the two men haggled, while Waldron knelt, holding his breath and listening to the corrupt bargain whereby the Italian Army were to be supplied with inferior German boots in order that His Excellency, the Minister of War, should profit. But in most European countries the same thing is done and winked at.
“If you are to have the contract, Herr Steinberg,” the General said decisively at last, “you must give me an extra half per cent. I will not sign it without.”
“Upon the whole amount?”
“Yes, on the whole amount.”
“But the total contract amounts to nearly a million francs.”
“Exactly. I gave you the tinned-food contract. It is large, therefore I require a larger sum for my signature.”
There was silence for a few moments.
To Waldron it seemed by the rustle of paper that the German contractor must be scribbling a rapid sum to see exactly what the commission amounted to.
“I shall, of course, want the usual sum, twenty-five thousand francs down and the balance placed to the credit of the Countess in London seven days after the signed contract is delivered to you in Berlin,” His Excellency said.
“Well,” exclaimed the German in dismay at last. “That leaves us so very little that I really cannot decide it off-hand. I must telegraph at once to my partner, and will give you a decision to-morrow.”
“No, Herr Steinberg,” was the General’s answer. “I must know now—at once—yes or no. Personally it would give me greater popularity if I dealt in France, rather than in Germany. Besides, if I deal with Menier, my secretary knows nothing. So there is the position. You may leave or accept my terms—whichever you like. It is quite immaterial to me.”
Again they argued and haggled, the German pleading for time to communicate with his partner in Berlin, the General quite obdurate. The latter had much experience of contractors.
At last Herr Steinberg, shrewd business man that he was, seeing that the General’s mind was made up, said: “Very well. I accept your terms.”
“Good,” answered the General. “I shall sign the contract as soon as I return to Rome—the day after to-morrow—and send it to you in Berlin by special messenger.”
“Agreed. Perhaps you will write me a letter?”
“At once,” was the reply. Then after another brief silence, during which time both had scribbled some agreement, the German said:
“I think that will suffice.”
“And this?” asked the General.
They read each other’s letters, expressed satisfaction, and then Waldron heard a slight click, the opening and shutting of a wallet.
Some notes were counted out—to the sum of one thousand pounds. They rustled, and the listener knew that they were English notes so that they could not be traced so easily as those which the unscrupulous German contractor might withdraw from his own bank in Berlin.
His Excellency counted them, declared the sum to be correct, and then, after a further brief conversation the German left, His Excellency remaining so as not to be seen in his company.
The deal was concluded. Though interesting to Hubert, it however carried him no farther in his inquiry. It proved of course that General Cataldi, Minister of War, was corrupt and unscrupulous, yet were not the majority of the men who formed the Cabinet equally ready to accept bribes?
He stood in that artistically furnished bedroom full of chagrin. He had practically had his journey there for nothing, and had lost valuable time by his absence from Rome.
Therefore he slipped out along the corridor, and two hours later was on his way to Culoz, to catch the train-de-luxe from Paris to Rome.
During that night as the express roared through the mountains he lay in his narrow sleeping-berth watching the green-shaded lamp above, and full of conflicting thoughts.
The attempt upon his life showed plainly that the thief was aware of the strenuous efforts he was making to fathom the mystery. But who was the thief! Was it this unscrupulous, much-decorated General who took secret commission of contractors, the man who allowed the army to be fed on discarded tin food, and go shod in cheap German boots which wore in holes on the first march, in order to enrich himself?
Long and deeply he thought, and still the conviction clung to him that the person mainly responsible for the sale of the plans to Austria was His Excellency himself.
Thoughts of Her Highness rose within him. He sighed. Yes, he loved her with all his body and soul. Yet that barrier of birth could never be bridged. After all, they could be only good friends, therefore he had never dared to declare his love. She was a Princess of the blood-royal and might marry a reigning Sovereign, but he was a mere diplomat, a secretary of Embassy, a man whom the Court regarded as the necessary adjunct of a practically defunct institution, for, however much one may cling in these days to the old usages and customs, yet the glaring fact must be faced that kings themselves are the ambassadors, and royal visits from one Court to another tend to cement more international friendships than ten years of that narrow little squabbling and intriguing world which exists in every capital under the name of the corps diplomatique.
The public have been long enough gulled by the false tinsel and glamour of the diplomatic world, and in these ultra-modern days they see the inutility of it all. Often an obscure Vice-Consul in an obscure port is of greater use to the nation than the whole of the red-taped, ceremonious Embassy, with its splendid house, its dinners and dances, its flunkeys and furbelows, and its flabby, do-nothing policy directed from Downing Street.
Hubert Waldron, born and bred in the diplomatic atmosphere and nurtured upon the squabbles and petty jealousies of international politics, could not close his eyes to the fact that the public of Europe were being gulled daily by the Press, and that at an hour when all would seem quietest and most peaceful, the great and terrible European war would suddenly break out.
Though at the Embassies you will be told that the peace of Europe is quite assured nowadays, and though your penny papers with their “advertised actual sales” will print reassuring leaders for the sake of the particular party who supports them, yet there is not a diplomat in all Europe who does not, in his own heart, fear a violent and bloody explosion and that brought about by the Dual Monarchy.
Though this view may appear pessimistic, it is nevertheless a hard fact that the Powers of the Triple Alliance have not signed any agreements relating to the Mediterranean, and more than one European throne is to-day tottering to its fall, nay, more than one nation may, at any moment, be erased from the map.
But the whole object of diplomacy is to reassure, not to alarm. The days when the greatest international tension exists are those when the outlook seems the most serene and unruffled.
In our present century war breaks out; it is not declared. And war in Europe may break out at any moment, even though much is said of the solidity of the Triple Alliance.
On arrival at the great echoing station at Rome, Hubert descended, tired and fagged, and took a taxi home.
It was then nine o’clock in the morning, and Peters, surprised to see him, handed him a letter which had been left on the previous night. On opening it he found it was from Ghelardi, dated from the Bureau of Secret Police, and asking when he could see him.
At this request he was somewhat surprised in view of what had already passed between them, nevertheless he spoke to the functionary on the telephone at his private house and at eleven o’clock entered his private room at the Ministry.
Their greeting was the reverse of cordial. Indeed Hubert had at first hesitated to meet him at all, yet he thought that the object of the interview might concern the unfortunate incident in the Palace; hence he went, determined to still show a bold front.
“I regret, Signor Waldron, to have disturbed you,” the crafty old man said when his visitor was seated. “But it has been reported to me that the other night you were attacked by two individuals, and that you narrowly escaped with your life—that you shot and wounded both your assailants.”
The policeman had, notwithstanding the bribe, evidently made a report in order to show his watchfulness to his superior. Hubert frowned in annoyance.
“Oh, it was nothing at all,” he declared, laughing. “I had quite forgotten all about it. They were merely footpads, I suppose. No further notice need be taken of them.”
“Ah! but they are very dangerous characters, and well-known in Rome,” he said. Then, looking straight at him the old man with the bristly hair said in a curious, half-suspicious voice: “You appear, Signor Waldron, to have some rather bitter enemies in Rome—eh?”
“I was not aware of it,” answered the diplomat. “If I have it does not trouble me in the least. I am perfectly able to defend myself.”
“They are secret enemies, it seems,” Ghelardi said slowly, looking at his visitor meaningly.
Hubert did not reply for a few moments. At last he said:
“And they include yourself, Signor Commendatore.”
The cunning old fellow smiled.
“Ah, you are referring, I suppose, to that incident of the other night. Well, I think we may surely let that pass. We all of us have our hours of irresponsibility,” and he slowly twisted the diamond ring around his little finger, laughing lightly.
“Thank you. I have no desire for your covert sneers, Signor Commendatore,” he said angrily, rising. “As I have told you—you are my secret enemy, and I shall treat you as such.”
“It is rather a pity that you do so.”
“A pity—why?”
“For the sake of Her Royal Highness.”
“Her name need not enter into our discussion,” Hubert said hotly, his hand upon the door ready to leave. “I do not see your object in troubling me to come here, merely to tell me of the attack made upon me by two criminals which the police should already have under lock and key. It is not much to the credit of the department that the streets of Rome are unsafe at night.”
“Ah! my dear signore, you are a little too impatient, I fear,” replied the chief of spies, quite undisturbed. “I was about to prove to you my friendliness.”
“I desire none of your friendship,” declared the Englishman hotly. “And I tell you that I will not have you mention the name of the Princess Luisa in connection with my own.”
“Friendships formed by Her Royal Highness are frequently unfortunate.”
“Are they!” exclaimed Waldron, his eyes aflame. “If you were younger, Signor Commendatore, I would knock you down for your gratuitous insult. As it is, I shall not forget it. Buon giorno!”
And he left the room, slamming the door after him.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Gathering Clouds.
Dust had once more been thrown into the eyes of Europe.
Weeks had gone by, spring came, and the Roman season was on the wane. The month of May—the Primavera—with all its blossoms and ceremonies had opened.
As far as the world knew not a cloud obscured the political horizon. In the chancelleries of Europe there were no sinister whispers, in the Embassies they danced and dined, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand had made a placid speech from the Throne, and Count Berchtold had declared the foreign policy of Austria-Hungary unchanged, and further, that the changes in the Near East had created new interests common to the Dual Monarchy and to Italy, and that their policy was leading them together along the path of co-operation, and also that their attitude towards each other tended to preserve the peace of Europe and to assure freedom and equilibrium in the Adriatic.
It is always so. The calm is followed by the storm. At Vienna they were secretly completing their plans for a sudden coup against their neighbours, yet the true facts were known only in our own Intelligence Department in Whitehall, and the information had in turn been sent in a cipher dispatch to the Embassy in Rome.
It was this dispatch which the Ambassador, receiving it one evening from the hand of the King’s messenger, who had brought it in hot haste direct from Downing Street, passed over to Hubert to decipher.
The information was highly alarming, to say the least.
The British secret agent—a responsible Austrian official in the Ministry of War—reported that the great army massed in the Tyrol for manoeuvres was being kept there. A secret order had been issued to the Eighth, Tenth, and Thirteenth Army Corps to concentrate from the Adriatic across to the Danube, and at the same time the Ministry of Marine had issued orders to the navy recalling the Adriatic fleet which had been manoeuvring between Cattaro and Ragusa up to Trieste.
The wireless stations at Sebenico and Pola had been taken over by the navy, and operators placed there sent expressly from the Ministry of Marine in Vienna.
All tended to a secret attack—to war—a war in Europe with dreadnoughts, high explosives, aeroplanes, seaplanes, submarines, and wireless conditions never before imagined either in the wildest dreams of novelists or the ever-active brains of place-seeking party politicians.
Preparations were slowly but surely being made in Vienna, and the blow would surely soon be struck.
For an hour Waldron remained in consultation with his Chief. Then, regardless of Downing Street regulations, and only hoping to prevent the conflagration, he went back to his rooms on the ground floor of the Embassy, scribbled a hasty copy of the secret information, and with it walked direct to the Quirinale.
Events would, he saw, very soon be moving fast.
About six o’clock he entered the private room of the Minister of the Royal Household, that cosy, well-remembered apartment in which Ghelardi had discovered him on his knees beside Her Royal Highness. The Minister himself was not in, but his secretary went immediately along to the private apartments and asked His Majesty for audience on Waldron’s behalf.
The request was immediately granted, and he was at once shown up the long corridor, past the sentries guarding the door leading to the royal apartments, and on into the King’s private cabinet, where His Majesty, plainly dressed in dark blue serge—for he discarded uniform whenever he could—stood eagerly awaiting him.
“Well, Waldron?” he exclaimed, stretching out his hand warmly, “I’ve been expecting you for days. Anything to report—eh?”
For answer his visitor drew out the rough memorandum from his pocket, and after brief explanation regarding its source, proceeded to read it.
His Majesty’s handsome, clear-cut face fell. He grew pale, but remained silent till the end.
Then with his hands behind his back, he strode slowly across the soft carpet to the heavily curtained window and back again.
Twice he paced the room in silence.
“Strange, Waldron!” he said, pausing and standing before the diplomat. “Very strange that you get this information, yet Ghelardi is in ignorance of what is happening?”
“He may not deem it wise to report to Your Majesty,” Hubert suggested.
“Wise!” he echoed. “In the interests of the country’s safety it is his first duty! He reports to me sufficient regarding trivial matters—the irresponsible vagaries of my niece, Lola, and things of that sort. Yet he knows nothing of what is in progress across the frontier,” the King cried in anger. “Again, he has discovered nothing regarding the theft of those plans. If we could but find out the truth we might easily face our friends in Vienna, and prevent this attack. Diplomacy could avert the explosion even now, if we only knew the identity of the spy.”
“I have made every inquiry, Your Majesty, but I have, alas! failed.”
“I can only suppose that the conspiracy must have been formed in our own camp,” was the King’s hard remark, and his visitor knew what was passing in His Majesty’s mind. Though Sovereign, he was not blind to the corruptness of his Ministry. Yet, as monarch, his hands were, alas! tied, or he would have long ago cleaned out the Augean stable.
For an hour he remained with the King, discussing the seriousness of the international situation.
“Ah, Waldron,” sighed His Majesty, as he stood before the fire, erect, almost statuesque, his face pale and hard-set, “my people little know how much responsibility rests upon me, or how heavy is the burden of my duties towards my nation. During these past weeks I have slept but little, and many a night have I passed in here alone, trying to devise some scheme whereby to defeat this secret plot against us. I have learnt how untiring have been your efforts to unravel the mystery of the theft, and I also know that a dastardly attempt has been made upon your life. I know how well and faithfully you have served me, even though I am not your own King. I can only thank you most deeply. Your father was my father’s friend, and you are my friend.”
“And I trust, even though I have failed to accomplish successfully the mission entrusted to me, that Your Majesty will still allow me to be your most faithful and devoted servant,” he replied.
“I know you have done your very best, Waldron, and I highly appreciate it,” was the Sovereign’s earnest reply. “Ah!” he sighed, “if we could only discover the truth concerning those plans. Then, by prompt action, we might save the situation. But alas! it is still a mystery.”
“Has Your Majesty formed any theory?” Hubert asked, after a few moments’ hesitation.
“Only one—that Cataldi may have sought profit to himself.”
Hubert Waldron nodded, but no word escaped him.
“But how can we prove it—how can we prove it?” the King said.
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders. He recollected that sum which had come to the Minister from a mysterious source a few days after the theft. But of that he made no mention to the King. It was, after all, no proof. Only a suspicion.
Therefore, after yet another half an hour, he made his adieu, bowed as he backed out of the room, and then walked home full of gravest reflections.
That same evening he had promised to see off at the station by the Milan express two English ladies who had been guests of Lady Cathcart at the Embassy, and this he did, driving in the car with them, for the Ambassador himself had to be present at an official dinner given by the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
He had bidden the two ladies farewell and the train had moved out of the station upon its long, northward journey when, just as he was about to enter the Ambassador’s car, standing in the piazza, he caught sight of a familiar face—that of Henri Pujalet.
“Hallo?” he cried. “Why—you in Rome?”
“Yes. I arrived only this afternoon,” responded Her Highness’s lover, halting and putting out his hand. He was well-dressed, though there seemed to have been some slight attempt to disguise his features. “Mademoiselle does not know I am here,” he added, “so if you see her, please do not mention this meeting. I shall not see her until the day after to-morrow—when we have an appointment to meet.”
“Very well,” laughed Waldron, though, truth to tell, he was consumed by jealousy. Then in reply to a question he told Waldron that he was staying at the Hôtel de Russie, out by the Porta del Popolo, to which place Hubert gave him a lift, afterwards bidding him good evening and driving back to the Embassy.
What further indiscretion, he wondered, was Lola about to commit.
His heart was bursting with unspoken love. Night after night he lay and thought of her in wonder. Though she was in ignorance of it, she was his all-in-all. Since he had been in Rome he had danced attendance upon many women, as it was his duty as diplomat to do; he had laughed and flirted, and danced and gossiped, and kissed many a woman’s hand, but in his heart he held them all in supreme indifference. His eyes and heart were only gladdened when Her Royal Highness, the scandalously skittish and unconventional, chanced to be present. This was fortunately often the case, and frequently he found himself in cosy corners or in conservatories with her as she whispered merrily behind her fan.
This Frenchman, Pujalet, still knew her by the name she had used in her incognita in Egypt—Lola Duprez. Where, he wondered, would they hold their secret meeting?
He bit his lip in mad jealousy as there arose before his eyes a vision of that far-off oasis of dark palms, the steely sky with the bright stars shining, and of two figures clasped breast to breast.
Peters, as he entered his room, placed the evening paper before him.
Taking it up mechanically he saw a heading: “Boots for the Army,” and read as follows:
“It has just transpired, telegraphs our Berlin correspondent, that the tender for the supply of all boots to the Italian Army for the next three years has been secured by the well-known firm of Steinberg and Klein, of Friedenau, near Berlin. It will be remembered that last year they also secured the contract for supplying tinned meats and leather accoutrements for the expedition to Tripoli. The contract was signed by His Excellency General Cataldi some weeks ago, but has not been made public until to-day. The prices quoted by the English and French firms were lower, but His Excellency, after various tests, decided that the quality of the goods offered by the German firm was distinctly better.”
Waldron, with bitter words upon his lips, cast the journal from him viciously.
A letter he opened was from Beatriz, dated from Moscow. She was having a brilliant success at the Opera there, she said. When could they meet?
He tore it into small fragments and cast it into the wastepaper-basket. All thought of the handsome dancer who had used him merely as a stepping-stone to fame had now passed from him. He only remembered her with a feeling of poignant bitterness.
Upon the mantelshelf a large, imposing card of invitation caught his eye. Peters sorted them out, and day by day placed them in that conspicuous spot so that he might be reminded of his engagements.
The presence of the Honourable Hubert Waldron, M.V.O., was requested that night by His Excellency General Cataldi at an official reception at the Ministry of War.
He smiled. Cataldi, the unscrupulous, corrupt member of the Cabinet, who was feathering his nest so comfortably, had, perhaps, hired those two assassins to take his life. And he was invited to his reception. The situation was not without its grim humour.
Yes, he would go. He would watch further this man who was providing the brave, patriotic sons of Italy with uneatable beef and unwearable boots, in order that the Countess Cioni should be provided with funds.
He rung up Pucci on the telephone, telling him where he was going.
“You have entrée to the Ministry, Pucci, have you not?”
He heard the detective reply in the affirmative.
“I may want you. So go there.”
“I cannot go as guest, signore,” came the reply. “I will arrange, if you wish, to be on duty as a servant.”
“Good. And be as near His Excellency’s private room as possible. I will meet you there at midnight and give you instructions. The reception is at eleven—after the banquet at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His Majesty will, no doubt, be there, and other members of the Royal Family.”
“Benissimo, signore, I shall be in the corridor at midnight, acting as waiter.”
Then Hubert rang off, and passing into his bedroom, got into uniform with the aid of the queer, under-sized, hunch-backed little man who, for so many years, had been his faithful servant, and whose father before him had been valet to Hubert’s father.
At eleven o’clock Waldron stood before the long cheval glass arranging his tight uniform collar. Then he placed his decorations exactly at the right angle, settled the hang of his pearl-handled diplomatic sword, and took his white gloves from Peters’ hand.
His face was dark and clouded. On the one hand he had no desire to meet the corrupt Minister who was bringing disaster and defeat upon his country, while on the other he knew that his Chief expected him to turn up there and be on show, as is the duty of those attached to the Embassies.
His Majesty, too, would be there. What, in face of those words of his concerning His Excellency, could he think? Truly, the head upon which lies a crown must, indeed, be very weary. How little does the general public know of that narrow, glittering, fevered world which, in every capital, surrounds a throne—that world where place-seekers intrigue, where money brings power, where morality is so often scoffed at as antiquated and out-of-date, and where the true, honest love of man and woman is forbidden because of rank and blood.
How little do the readers of our daily Press ever dream of the many bitter romances of love that are to-day being enacted beneath the shadows of the thrones of Europe, for the social columns tell nothing save what those mentioned desire that the world shall know, while the scandals which find their way into print are only the sordid ones. How little, indeed, do the public dream of the hearts which lie broken near the thrones of Europe, of the mad passion, of the steel fetters of royalty, or of the true, honest affection of those beyond the pale. It is only when there is a morganatic marriage, or when a Prince or Princess of the blood-royal renounces their royal rights that that public pause for a second to reflect. And then, alas! they too often put it down to mental derangement.
But the public are in ignorance of the world behind the walls of the royal palace, the pomp, the splendour, the officialdom, and, alas! the constant intrigue.
Only those in the immediate entourage of the Sovereign and the diplomat know the truth. And, after all, it is that little fevered world of its own which rules the greater world outside. And so the Powers of Europe struggle on, one against the other, for wealth and supremacy.
At eleven o’clock Hubert Waldron’s taxi drove into the great courtyard of the Ministry of War, that huge, handsome building at the other end of the Via Venti Settembre to where the British Embassy was situated.
As he descended, the sentries, noticing his uniform, saluted, and returning their salute, he entered the great vestibule, threw his cloak to one of the gorgeously dressed flunkeys, and with his cocked hat tucked beneath his arm made his way up the great red-carpeted staircase to the first floor where the reception was being held.
As he went up he could hear the tuneful strains of dance music being played above by one of the military bands, bright military uniforms were everywhere, the place, usually so dark and sombre, had been adorned by flowers and palms, and was now brilliantly lit by festoons of coloured electric lamps.
Italy, par excellence the country of the British tourist, has its charm even in its officialdom.
At the top of the staircase stood the Minister himself, His Excellency General Cataldi, resplendent in his brilliant, gold-laced uniform, glittering with decorations, saluting as he received his guests.
Hubert smiled bitterly within himself. He recollected that last occasion when, after travelling many miles, he had seen him driving to the Univers at Tours, and remembered the subsequent conversation when he had accepted the bribe to place brown-paper boots upon the feet of the Italian Army.
He saw that His Excellency wished to behave with great cordiality as he passed. But he merely drew himself up, saluted, and passed on along the corridor.
A second later he found himself face to face with the detective, Pucci, who, in plain evening-clothes as a waiter, came up and bowed, and then, with darkly knit brows, motioned that he desired most anxiously to speak with him.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Reveals an Intrigue.
Hubert Waldron, a smart figure in his diplomatic uniform, strolled along the corridor, followed at a respectable distance by the neatly-dressed waiter until, at a convenient point, the diplomat halted at the junction of two corridors, as though in doubt. Pucci was at his side in an instant.
“I learnt only half an hour ago, signore, that there is a plot against you!” he said. “Signor Ghelardi is your enemy. You were attacked by the two assassins whom he bribed, but the conspiracy failed. Be careful. Exercise the greatest caution, signore—I beg of you.”
“This is not news to me, Pucci,” replied the diplomat, pretending to button his white glove. “I am keeping observation upon His Excellency the Minister, so be near me to-night, and keep a sharp look-out. It is in the personal interests of His Majesty. Is he here?”
“Si, signore. He arrived a quarter of an hour ago. I saluted him and he recognised me—even in this garb. His Majesty never forgets the faces of those whose duty it is to be his personal guardians.”
“All right, Pucci. Be near in case I require you—I trust you.”
“Bene, signore. I shall be there if you want me, never fear,” was the reply; of the faithful police agent.
And then the British diplomat strolled up the corridor, leaving the waiter to bustle along in the opposite direction.
Pucci was full of resource. He had been attracted to Hubert Waldron because he had seen that he was a fine, strong character, a man of high ideals, of dogged courage, and of British bull-dog perseverance. Waldron, of the stock that had made the Empire what it is, commanded respect. He was a man of action and of honour. Though clever, far-seeing, and with a keen scent for mystery, yet he was honest, upright, and once he made a friend that friend was his for always. His only fault was that he was too generous towards his friends, or to those who were in want. He would give his last half-sovereign to anyone who told him a tale of poverty.
In this connection he had often been imposed upon. He knew it, but always declared that, after all, he might have done one really charitable action, though others who had told their stories were impostors.
Like most men possessed of keen wits, he had been very badly imposed upon at times. Yet often and often, by his sympathetic feelings, he had spent the greater part of his pay in the relief of real cases of distress.
The Waldrons had ever been charitable, for they were always English gentlemen in the truest sense of the word.
In the great Council Chamber with the huge crystal chandeliers, where the walls were hung with the ancient tapestries brought from the Palazzo Communale at Siena—the chamber in which the sittings of the Council of Defence were held, and where the lost plans had been discussed—the King stood, the brilliant, imposing centre of His Excellency’s guests.
The assembly was a somewhat mixed one, though mainly military, and uniforms of every description were there, while every second man wore decorations of one kind or another. The ladies were mostly wives of high officers of State, of prefects and of military men. Yet there was also the usual sprinkling of wives and daughters of deputies and senators. Monte Citorio is always much in evidence in every public function in Italy.
Twice each year was the great imposing Ministry of War—or at least the public portion of it—thronged with officials from every corner of the kingdom, for His Excellency, General Cataldi, sent invitations broadcast, as he found it a cheap way of returning the hospitality daily offered to him—especially as the entertainment was paid for out of the public purse.
Waldron, on entering the Council Chamber, made his bow before His Majesty, and then, after nodding acquaintance with many persons he knew, crossed to where the Princess Luisa was standing in conversation with a stout old General, the commandant on the Alpine frontier. He bowed over her hand, and then all three began to chatter, while a few moments later the secretary, Lambarini, approached and found the little group.
Presently Lola, who was wearing a beautiful gown of pale carnation pink, and who looked inexpressibly sweet as she smiled, bent and whispered to Hubert:
“We had better not be seen together to-night, I think. Let us meet to-morrow at noon, out at Frascati, as before. I must see you. It is most important.”
“Good,” he replied. “That is an appointment,” and bending over her hand he passed across the great apartment, and was soon laughing merrily with Suderman, secretary of the Swedish Embassy.
He was rather annoyed that Lola—whom he had come there expressly to meet—should have ordered him to remain apart from her. What, he wondered, did she fear?
When in her presence, the world was, to him, full of bright gladness, but when they were apart, he only moped in silence and despair.
Did she know the truth, he wondered. Had she, by her woman’s keen, natural intuition, discovered that he loved her—that he was hers, body and soul?
Though he laughed lightly with the tall, fair-haired Swede at his side, his thoughtful eyes were still upon her, full of supreme admiration. And once she glanced furtively at him, as though in fear, it seemed, and then he saw her accompany the fat old General out into the ante-chamber adjoining.
For half an hour, or more, he remained talking with men and women he knew—the same old weary chatter of which the diplomat serving his country abroad grows so unutterably tired.
Who, of all that gay throng save His Majesty himself, dreamed of the sharp-edged sword of war suspended above them? Who knew of the black peril which threatened the fair land of Italy, or of the carefully prepared plot which her enemies in Vienna had prepared against her.
As Waldron stood chatting with a stout woman in black—the wife of one of the great Hebrew financiers of Genoa, he saw His Excellency enter and take his stand near the King, smiling serenely and bowing graciously to those about him—he, the man who was feeding the army upon tinned meat that had been rejected by the German authorities, and who signed contracts in return for bundles of bank-notes. Ah! what a world is ours!
But alas! is there not corruption in every Ministry of every European Power. What contractor to-day can hope to do a legitimate business without placing apart a sum for palm-oil? Disguise it as you will, business morality is in these days of grab and get-rich-quick, at a very low ebb, for too often, alas! honesty spells bankruptcy.
A pretty young Countess was talking with Hubert as he stood watching His Excellency. Was the General, he wondered, the man who had hired the two ruffians, Merlo and Fiola, to make that murderous attack upon him? Or was it Ghelardi, as the detective, Pucci, had that night declared.
Was it possible that the Chief of Secret Police had now found out the strenuous efforts he was making towards the elucidation of the problem of the stolen plans, and in consequence his jealousy had been aroused.
Of which theory to accept he was utterly undecided.
He was listening to the pretty woman’s inane chatter, hardly aware of what she said. His mind was far too full of the grave peril of the international situation.
Suddenly his eyes wandered around to find Lambarini. He was there a few moments before, but he seemed to have left and passed into one or other of the ante-rooms. A point had arisen in his mind regarding the plans earlier that evening, and upon it he wished to ask him a question.
The Council Chamber was now hot and stifling, and the mingled odours of the chiffons of the women nauseated him. He would have preferred to be in the quiet comfort of his own rooms, now that Lola had sent him away. Yet was not his duty to be seen at that official reception?
Dawson, the British military attaché, conspicuous in his Guards’ uniform, came up to him, saying in a low voice:
“Hallo, Hubert, you look a bit bored, my dear boy. So am I. Couldn’t we clear out, do you think? I’m going to play bridge down at the club. Come?”
“Not to-night, old chap,” Hubert answered. “I shall stay another quarter of an hour, and then toddle home.”
“Sure you won’t—eh?”
“No, not to-night. I’m tired.”
“Right-ho! Good night,” answered the attaché cheerily, and was next moment lost in the crowd. Waldron pushed his way through the throng into the ante-chamber, vainly searching for Lambarini. Pironti, the unscrupulous secretary of the Minister was there, surrounded by women—wives of officers and others who hoped to secure the man’s good graces to procure better appointments for their husbands. In the army it was openly declared that Pironti was necessary in order to secure His Excellency’s ear, and many a man had been passed over his superior’s heads and given lucrative jobs because Pironti’s palm had been crossed by a few bank-notes.
Presently, tired to death of the incessant laughter and chatter, Hubert left by a door which he knew led to a long corridor, which ended with a flight of stairs to the first floor.
On the nights of Ministerial receptions the sentries had orders to allow guests to pass without hindrance and unchallenged throughout the building, therefore, as Hubert ascended the stairs the soldier stood at attention.
Above, was another wide corridor leading right round the first floor to where was situated General Cataldi’s private cabinet in the centre of the huge, handsome pile overlooking the broad Via Venti Settembre.
To that part of the building few of the guests penetrated, save perhaps some officials who took their wives to see the fine suite of rooms occupied by His Excellency the Minister.
Hubert was still in search of Lambarini, and was wondering if he had gone in that direction.
At some distance down the corridor from the door of His Excellency’s private cabinet two sentries, their duties relaxed that night, stood at ease chatting, but as Hubert passed they drew themselves to attention, while around a corner from another corridor which ran at right angles a waiter with a silver salver in his hand hurried by.
The man’s face struck Waldron as peculiarly familiar, yet he saw it only for a second, as the man seemed in a great hurry.
It was not Pucci, for he had not seen him since he had first entered the building.
Hubert halted and looked after the receding figure, much puzzled. His clothes did not fit him, for the tails of his dress-coat were too long, and the trousers also were too big. Apparently, he seemed of middle-age, with a short moustache turning slightly grey, yet in his eyes, in that brief second when their glance had met, there was an expression that was familiar.
“Who can he be?” murmured Hubert to himself. “I know him. But for the life of me I can’t recollect where we’ve met before.”
The man who travels comes frequently across familiar waiters in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. Therefore, after reflection, he came to the conclusion that it must be a man who had served him somewhere or other in the past.
And he went forward to His Excellency’s rooms—that room wherein, on the last occasion, he had discussed the stolen plans with Cataldi and the two secretaries.
No one was nigh. The sentry still stood gossiping at the other end of the corridor. He would enter and have yet another look at that big safe which had been so mysteriously opened, though no one appeared to have entered there.
He turned the handle of the big door of polished mahogany. It yielded noiselessly, and pushing it open, he stood upon the thick, Oriental carpet in the too familiar room.
He halted upon the threshold, scarce believing his own eyes.
Before the Minister’s safe—the same one from which the plans had been stolen—stood a woman—Lola!
The safe door stood open, and as he looked he watched her abstract an envelope, which she folded hurriedly with nervous hands and thrust into the breast of her gown, at the same time producing a similar envelope which she put in the place of the one she had stolen.
So noiselessly had he entered that she was all unconscious of his presence.
His heart gave a great bound and he held his breath. His senses were frozen by the amazing and horrifying discovery.
With staring eyes he watched her breathlessly, as with hurried hands she closed the heavy safe door, turned the small key twice and then slipped it into her long white glove, at the same time crushing the stolen envelope deeper down into the breast of her low-cut dress.
For a second she remained motionless. Then she tried the safe door in order to reassure herself that it was securely locked, and turned to leave.
But as she did so a low cry escaped her hard, white lips.
She found herself face to face with Hubert Waldron.