of the British crack regiments.”
“And how did you know that?” he asked swiftly.
She looked up at him with a little pout. Underneath the caress of her eyes he knew very well that she was annoyed with herself.
“I heard it somewhere. It must have been at the old Embassy. Perhaps you are right about the Lieutenant, though. I have kept him waiting already a quarter-of-an-hour. Shall I see you again?”
He shook his head dolefully.
“Alas, Baroness,” he said as he held her fingers for a moment to his lips, “I am compelled to say—I hope not. I am moving heaven and earth to get away by the eight o’clock train to-morrow. If not I shall be in trouble.”
“I will hide you,” she whispered.
“You have heard before now what happens to the men of my country in the world,” he said sorrowfully, “when they hide under the skirts of the ladies of their hearts after their country has declared war. But Baroness,” he added, after he had risen to his feet, “before we part there is one question I would like to ask.”
“I have no secrets from you.”
“Why were you so anxious to secure possession of my present from Mr. Benjamin, so anxious that you came back to my hotel and stole it?”
“I was piqued. Mr. Benjamin had promised me a copy of his marvellous catalogue. He had one copy left and he chose to present it to a stranger. It was not like Mr. Benjamin. It was an ungallant action.”
He seemed dissatisfied.
“It seems an insufficient reason,” he persisted. “What is the use of the catalogue without the pictures?”
“The catalogue in itself is a work of art,” she explained.
He remained apparently puzzled.
“To a person who was intending to dispose of the pictures,” he reflected, “I can quite understand that the catalogue might have been a priceless possession, otherwise—”
She rose to her feet.
“I am spoiling you,” she interrupted. “I stay here answering your questions and my host again seeks me. I will confess, if it makes you happier, that mine was a freakish and ill-conceived enterprise. I regret it. Banish your evil thoughts of me, Charles. I must fly.”
Charles crossed the hall, seated himself at a retired corner table in the restaurant, ordered a bottle of Gumpoldskirchner and sent for the waiter. With the help of a fragment of his roll he essayed and approved of the wine.
“Ober Kellner,” he said to the man who came hurrying up, anxious to serve personally a client who he knew held such a high place in the esteem of the management, “it is necessary that I eat something.”
“At this hour of the day, mein Herr,” the man replied, “it is a habit with many people to do so.”
“You see this simple wine which I have chosen and which I like—what shall I eat with it? I am reversing the usual custom of letting the wine blend with the food. I am seeking for food which will bring out the flavour of this unusual and very pleasant beverage.”
The ober Kellner smiled. For a Britisher he found Charles talkative.
“It should be something quite plain and of the English type, sir,” he suggested. “A grilled entrecôte with my own sauce, potatoes soufflé and beans of the country.”
“It will be a hearty meal,” Charles said a little doubtfully.
“It is as well sometimes to prepare for the day when meals will be less easy to obtain,” the maître d’hôtel pointed out. “To-morrow, for instance, both restaurant cars have been removed from the Vienna-Innsbruck Express. The train, already, one hears, is above the regulation length and there are still hundreds of people clamouring for tickets.”
“With the possibility of a day’s starvation in front of me,” Charles remarked with a twinkle in his eyes, “I will accept the luncheon you have offered. Afterwards I shall take a little mountain cheese and some fresh fruit.”
The ober Kellner disappeared with his order. Charles looked round without seeing a single familiar face except that of the Princess Sophie, who sat at her accustomed table. She caught his eye and beckoned him. He rose at once and paid his devoirs.
“It will be also farewell, Princess. I leave tomorrow.”
“You are one of those fortunate people who have obtained a seat on the last train?”
“I believe so.”
“You travel alone?”
“As there are over a thousand disappointed passengers I can scarcely hope for that good fortune.”
“I do not mean the companions of necessity,” the Princess said. “I saw you just now in the small cocktail bar with the Baroness von Ballinstrode. I have not seen her since our dinner party at Leopold Benjamin’s.”
“She said nothing of leaving Vienna in her conversation with me this morning.”
The Princess looked thoughtful.
“It is not my affair,” she continued, “but the Baroness was joined a few moments after you left by one of those German Nazi officers who have been thrust upon our city. Beatrice is always indiscreet. I have often reproved her for it.”
“She is a friend of yours, the Baroness?”
“My dear young man, she was a Von Bless, so how in Austria could one help it? Her father was a friend of mine, her grandfather was a great gentleman and our families have been connected for generations. Of Beatrice, who made an indiscreet marriage from which I am told she has never wholly escaped, I am bound to say that I have not a high opinion. I would not advise any young man for whom I had any regard to accept her close friendship.”
Charles was thoughtful for a moment.
“Tell me, Princess, why do you warn me about her?”
“Because, from a word she let fall as she passed me in the hall,” she confided, “I thought it possible that she might be on your train, and although it is pure assumption on my part she left me with the idea that she had been discussing your probable presence upon it with her companion.”
He looked round the room.
“They don’t seem to be lunching here,” he observed.
“She and her friend, I am told, are more often to be met with at Driegel’s, which is a more intimate place than this. However, do not take what I have told you too seriously,” she added. “It was perhaps scarcely worth mentioning. It did occur to me, though, that if you knew Beatrice as the daughter of a distinguished family here, which she undoubtedly is, you might be inclined to place more trust in her than she deserves. One might tolerate—in fact many of us do—her great friendship with one of our own people, but I am afraid that she has been indiscreet in other directions. I am a garrulous old lady, am I not, Mr. Charles
