you must permit me to present my two friends—Mr. Lascelles from the British Embassy and Mr. Mildenhall, whom I heard someone once call a ‘diplomatic vagrant.’”
The Baroness held out her fingers to Lascelles and afterwards received Mildenhall’s bow. Upon Lascelles she bestowed a smile of courtesy. She looked into Charles Mildenhall’s eyes with a different expression. It seemed to him, and he was by no means conceited, that she withdrew her fingers almost with reluctance.
“Mr. Mildenhall does not come often enough to Vienna,” she remarked.
“To-night’s experience tells me that you speak the truth, Baroness,” he replied.
“What does His Highness mean when he calls you a ‘diplomatic vagrant’?” she asked.
“I started life in the Diplomatic Service,” he told her, “but for some years I have been only partially attached.”
“You lack fidelity?”
“Scarcely that, Baroness. I happen to possess a gift which we English, I fear, acquire with too much difficulty. I have the knack of speaking most European languages. Therefore, if there is any small trouble in any one of these countries whose language seems to be brimming over with consonants, I act for our government as messenger boy or peacemaker. The occupation has its advantages, but I can conceive nothing more wonderful than being in my friend Lascelles’ position.”
“And why?” she asked softly.
He leaned a little farther across the table. Certainly hers were the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
“Because I find Vienna the centre of civilization,” he told her. “It possesses the best food, the most wonderful wines and the most beautiful women in the world.”
“And since when,” she persisted, “have you arrived at that conclusion?”
He glanced at his platinum wrist watch.
“Two hours and five minutes ago, Baroness.”
“You are evidently a gourmet,” she smiled. “I noticed that you were taking great interest in those wonderful dishes which were being served at your table.”
“A gesture, Baroness,” he assured her. “When one is so utterly content with one’s surroundings it is necessary, sometimes, to dissemble.”
She leaned back in her place and laughed frankly.
“From now on,” she declared, “I change my opinion of all Englishmen.”
The Archduke grunted.
“Mr. Lascelles,” he said, “you must remove your young friend. I am becoming jealous. Nevertheless, I hope that we shall all meet again before long.”
He waved them graciously away.
“Your opinion is unchanged?” Lascelles asked as he took his friend’s arm outside.
“I still think,” Mildenhall replied, “that she is the most perfectly beautiful creature I have ever seen.”
CHAPTER IV
The mansion of Leopold Benjamin, more than once the habitation of royalty, was encircled by a railing of iron bars as thick as a man’s wrist, with spiked tops, reaching at least eight feet high. The lodge keeper, who somewhat reluctantly had answered Charles Mildenhall’s summons, took down his name in a book, after which he swung open the great gates and motioned him forward. As far as he could see, when at last he reached the imposing entrance, the whole house on the other side of the huge front door was in complete darkness. He raised the knocker—a massive, wrought-iron affair—after a few moments’ hesitation, and although he could hear the bell, with which it seemed to be connected, ringing somewhere in the realms of darkness beyond, he felt almost inclined to beat a retreat. It was a night of terror in the city. In the far distance he could hear the rat-tat-tat of machine guns and overhead the droning of planes. The streets were rapidly becoming deserted. To present oneself for an informal dinner party when all Vienna was shaken with tremors of fear, seemed a little ridiculous. He was, as a matter of fact, on the point of turning away when he became aware of a sudden blaze of light shining through the windows on either side of him. There were footsteps from within. The door was suddenly opened. A bowing manservant welcomed him and closed the door immediately upon his entrance.
“Mr. Benjamin is, I think, expecting me for dinner,” Mildenhall announced, “or perhaps—” he hesitated. “The city is in such a disturbed state—”
“Der gnãdiger Herr is expected,” the man assured him, collecting his coat and hat with another low bow. “Be so good as to follow me.”
Mildenhall looked around him in astonishment. The great hall, which was more like the nave of a cathedral, was beautifully but softly illuminated by hundreds of shaded lamps. There were pictures hanging everywhere—Old Masters, many of them. The world-famous portrait of Frederick the Great dominated the wall on his right. Back in the shadows was the no-less-famous marble statue of Shunach’s Venus. There were treasures on either side of him on which he had no time to bestow more than a casual glance as he followed his guide into the great reception room.
“Herr Mildenhall,” the man announced.
At first Mildenhall thought that the huge apartment was empty. Then a girl, who had been curled up in an easy chair, threw down her book, shook out her skirts and rose to her feet. She came forward to meet him with a delightful smile of welcome.
“I’m so sorry that Mr. Benjamin is a few minutes late,” she apologized as she held out her hand. “You will please excuse him, Mr. Mildenhall, and talk to me for a moment. My name is Patricia Grey. I am one of Mr. Benjamin’s secretaries.”
“I am delighted to meet you. Miss Grey,” Mildenhall said. “To tell you the truth, after that bewildering walk from the front entrance it is rather a relief to find something of normal size.”
She laughed gaily.
“Do you know,” she told him, “half the people who come here as strangers and face the splendours of the hall for the first time arrive in this room in rather a dazed condition. It is more like a museum than a private house, I admit. Do sit down, please. There will be a cocktail directly. Tell me—is it quiet outside?”
“Not very,” he admitted. “And by-the-by, half of Vienna believes that Mr. Benjamin left the city this morning. I’m afraid things don’t look very good.”
“I think they look horrible,” she agreed. “You know, of course, from my accent that I am an American. We are used to noise in the streets in New York, but this is all different. It’s terribly upsetting. We’ve been trying hard to get Mr. Benjamin to leave, but he’s very obstinate sometimes. He always feels that he might be of help to some of his own people here.”
“But what could he do?” Mildenhall asked. “The place seems to be in an uproar already. I really wondered whether I ought to come to-night. I would not have ventured but I went into the bank this afternoon and they told me there that Mr. Benjamin was not thinking of leaving.”
