amazing act of gallantry at my expense,” he sneered.
“Bad enough in my position, I admit, but not quite as bad as it seems,” Fawley pointed out. “I have already told you that the purport of that paper is at your disposal.”
“It was signed by one who used to bear a great name in Germany?” Berati asked.
“It was,” Fawley assented.
“And in return for certain action on your part you were offered—?”
“I can tell you specifically, if you like.”
Berati shook his head.
“A copy of the proposed agreement reached me ten minutes ago. My mind is not made up. I have decided to wait until you have visited Germany. Your reports from there will influence me. At present I have an open mind. The Princess Elida has been bitterly disappointed,” he went on, “by what she thought was a point-blank refusal on my part. She believes that I lean towards Behrling. She has the usual woman’s fault—she jumps at conclusions.
“Is it permitted to ask what your intentions are with regard to the Princess?”
Berati grunted.
“Nothing venomous, I can assure you. I do not make war on women. She is now on her way to Vienna in the safest of my airships. I regret the necessity for such discipline, but she will not be allowed to cross the frontier again for a year. This need not disturb you, my friend, for I doubt whether you will spend much of your time in this country. You will recognise the fact, I am sure, that however much I may choose to risk in the way of danger, I cannot afford to be made ridiculous.”
“I think that you have behaved very generously,” Fawley declared.
Berati rose to his feet and touched the bell.
“The car in which you arrived is waiting for you, Fawley,” he announced. “Your place is taken in the night train for Monte Carlo. You have thirty-five minutes. Good luck to you. Carlo,” he added in Italian, to the servant who had answered the bell, “show this gentleman to his automobile. He goes to the Central Railway Station. By the by, Fawley, your luggage has all been registered and your small things put in your compartment. Once more—good night and good luck to you.”
Fawley lingered for a moment until the servant was out of hearing.
“How do you propose to communicate with me, General?” he asked.
“Concerning that you need not worry,” was the bland reply. “I do not approve of the telephone or the telegraph and I like even less letters which go through the post. Live your own perfectly natural life. Some day you will find in your salon a blue envelope.”
CHAPTER VII
The blue envelope!
Fawley threw down the tennis racquet he had been carrying, turned the key in the lock of his sitting room door at the Hôtel de France and moved swiftly to the writing table on which the letter had been placed. He tore it open, read it very deliberately—for it was in a somewhat curious cipher which he had only just committed to memory—and then, lighting a match, watched it slowly consume to ashes. Afterwards he lingered for a few minutes on his balcony, looking up towards the misty peaks eastwards of Mont Agel. He no longer regretted the fortnight’s idleness, the nonappearance of Krust, the almost stagnant calm of his days. He had thoroughly established himself as a leisure-loving American with a passion for games. He now busied himself at the telephone, cancelling a few social engagements, for Fawley, reserved though he was by habit, was a man always sought after.
“A few days’ golf up at Sospel,” he told every one, after he had packed his clothes.
He wondered a little grimly whither those few days’ golf would lead him. Perhaps to the same place as Joseffi, who had been found in the gardens with a bullet through his heart and a revolver by his side, but who had never been known to enter the Casino in his life.
“You are not leaving us, sir?” the valet de chambre enquired, as he answered the bell.
“Only for a few days,” Fawley assured him. “I am keeping on my rooms.”
“You are not leaving us, Major Fawley, I trust,” the smiling and urbane manager asked him in the hall.
“Only for a few days,” Fawley repeated. “I am going to explore your
hills and try another golf links. Back about Sunday, I should think. Keep my letters.”
“I wish you a pleasant and successful expedition,” the manager remarked, with a final bow.
Fawley’s smile was perhaps a little enigmatic. He waved his hand and drove off without further speech.
* * * * *
Fawley, some five days later, driving his high-powered Lancia car through one of the many passes of the lesser Alps between Roquebrune and the frontier, suddenly swung around a corner to find himself confronted by a movable obstruction of white freshly painted rails and an ominous notice. A soldier in the uniform of the Chasseurs Alpins stepped forward, his rifle at a threatening angle.
“There is no road this way, Monsieur,” he announced curtly.
Fawley, who had brought his car to a standstill, leaned forward and produced a map. He addressed the soldier in his own language.
“My young friend,” he protested, “I fancy that you are mistaken. You have blocked the wrong road. This is clearly marked in the latest edition of the issued maps as a Number Two road between Hegel and the village of Les Estaples.”
“Your map is of no consequence,” the man replied. “This road was taken over by the military some time ago. There is no passage here for civilians.”
A sergeant, who had been sitting on a rock amongst the sparse pine trees smoking a cigarette, scrambled down to them.
“What is the trouble?” he demanded.
“Monsieur desires to use this route,” his subordinate confided. “I have told him that it exists now only for military purposes. He must return the way he came.”
“C’est exact,” the sergeant declared. “Where were you bound for by this route, Monsieur?”
Fawley leaned from his seat.
“I have been told,” he replied confidentially, “that your army is thinking of erecting military works here. I wish to discover how far that is the truth.”
The sergeant stared at him. So did the private. So did the young lieutenant, who had just ridden up on a high-spirited horse in time to hear the end of the sentence.
“What is the reason for Monsieur’s desire to gain this information?” he asked, wheeling around so that he completely blocked the road.
“I might reply that that is my affair,” Fawley declared. “I
