is one thing I do not like about this evening,” Dr. Schwarz remarked, leaning forward in his place. “It is the silence in the streets. When the Viennese is gay he sings; when he is sad he shuts himself up at home. To-night he does not make the promenade. Even the cafés are half empty.”
“Does anyone know,” the Princess Sophie, an ample lady who wore a single eyeglass and was scarcely ever a moment without a cigarette between her lips, asked, “whether the Von Liebenstrahl ball has been postponed?”
“I called at the Embassy on my way down,” Charles Mildenhall confided, “and everyone was preparing. Lady Tremearne is giving a large dinner for it.”
“You are going to the ball afterwards?” the Baroness asked eagerly.
“I believe so,” he answered.
“Fortunate man!”
“It is doubtless quite a spectacle, but there are still far more wonderful things to be seen in this house.”
“That depends, my friend,” she said. “For a woman, a great feast of colour, the latest models of all the dressmakers in Europe, a wealth of jewellery that is only seen once a year, the handsomest of all our men who put on their uniforms and deck themselves out for this one occasion—oh, it is a great sight!”
“You may be disappointed this time,” he remarked. “I came from Bucharest here. Two years ago special planes brought down the King and some of the Court. Nothing of that sort is happening now.”
“The old Prince,” she reflected, “is as stubborn as a mule. I think everyone hoped that it would be postponed. I do not like our lovely music here played to the accompaniment of bombing planes. The joys of peace and the horrors of war and revolution should be kept, I think, a long way apart.”
Mildenhall turned to the girl on his other side.
“They told me at the Embassy, Miss Grey, that the wonderful galleries here were closed for the present. Is that true?”
She looked at him a little doubtfully.
“I’m afraid so,” she answered. “It nearly broke my Chief’s heart, but they all thought that it was necessary.”
Mr. Benjamin leaned across the table.
“Is it true that you wished to see my pictures?” he asked.
“Indeed it is, sir,” Mildenhall acknowledged. “Believe me, though, I quite understand. You are the custodian of such beautiful things that for the sake of the next generation, as well as for the rest of ours, you must keep them without risk for saner times.”
Mr. Benjamin shook his head sorrowfully.
“It is not the mad people who parade the streets whom I fear,” he said. “Not even the worst of them would damage my home or do harm to my treasures. It is a colder, more calculating business altogether which places them in danger. I have been obliged to take steps—”
Patricia leaned across the table.
“Mr. Benjamin!” she begged.
He smiled at her gently.
“But, my dear,” he remonstrated, “to-night we are just a party of friends—so few of us—not a single stranger.”
“Mr. Benjamin!” she pleaded once more.
He glanced round the table.
“But, my dear Patricia,” he repeated, “I admire your zeal and you know that I appreciate your care for everything that is so precious to me, but my little explanation of why I have to refuse so simple and gracious a request was necessary. Surely I may exonerate myself?”
“Mr. Benjamin,” she said firmly, “the words you were about to utter should not be spoken. Everyone at this table is, of course, above suspicion. That does not matter. The words should not be spoken.”
Mr. Benjamin remained for a moment in a state of distressful indecision. Mildenhall leaned across to him.
“My dear host,” he begged, “I wish, if you please, to withdraw my thoughtless request. I have read what a very great man who stayed with you for a month wrote of your pictures and statuary, and his book is one of the few classics of my life, but believe me I should be perfectly miserable if I induced you to change any decision you have come to about your treasures or to alter your arrangements in any way. I have been perfectly honest. If you offered me your keys and yourself as cicerone I should put on my hat and walk out of the house for fear you would imperil the safety of any one of your—”
Mildenhall broke off in his speech. Louder than ever before that night they could hear the booming of heavy guns. Nearer at hand the rifle fire had become more persistent. For a moment a blaze of light filled the room so that the delicately shaded lamps seemed to exist no longer, and everyone covered his eyes. There was the sound of an explosion. Then silence. Mr. Benjamin smiled and patted the Princess Sophie’s hand.
“That mine,” he told her, “was at least ten miles away. It is our own people who are making all the disturbance. If the Germans enter the city to-night, believe me, they will do so in orderly fashion. They will be disciplined troops and we shall have nothing to fear from them except what we feel inside—the humiliation, the sorrow,” he concluded, with his hand over his heart, “which comes with the passing of a great nation. If all negotiations fail, if the Germans enter the city, we must face what lies before us, but for the moment, believe me, we are in no danger.”
“All the same,” Mrs. Schwarz said, wiping her eyes and rising to her feet, “I think we must go. The streets soon will not be safe.”
The Baroness pushed aside her ice and lit a cigarette.
“My car is not yet here,” she confided. “I agree with Mr. Benjamin. We are as safe here as anywhere. There will be no fighting in this quarter. If the Germans enter it will be as the result of negotiations.”
“Negotiations or no negotiations,” the Princess declared, “I should like my car, Leopold.”
“And I,” Mrs. Schwarz demanded.
The single manservant disappeared. The sound of the cars outside was heard almost at once. Coffee was served and, in the temporary absence of disturbing interruptions, everyone seemed to recover himself a little. Very few noticed the quiet entrance of Marius Blute through a door just behind the banker. He pushed a slip of paper into Mr. Benjamin’s hand and was gone in a moment, slipping behind the screen and out through the door. Leopold Benjamin, with a word of excuse to Mrs. Schwarz, with whom he had been conversing, read the single line, half closed his eyes and then looked across to where Patricia was watching him. The slightest inclination of his head was sufficient. In a moment she was standing by his side. He handed her the slip of paper. She read it and they passed out into the hall together.
Heinrich, the single manservant who had been visible during the service of dinner except for the seneschal and aide from the wine cellar, threw open the door.
“The automobiles await Her Highness the Princess von Dorlingen, the Baroness von Ballinstrode and Dr. and Mrs. Schwarz,” he announced.
The Baroness glanced around the room.
“But
