shall meet before long in one of the three capital cities of pleasure.”
“And they are?”
“Vienna, Paris or London—perhaps even in New York.”
The Count and Charles exchanged formal bows. The Baroness threw Charles a kiss from the tips of her fingers. She was a woman who knew how to express a great deal in a pout. She exercised her art as she left the room with that frankly voluptuous swing of the hips which had cost many a man his night of dreamless repose.
The very luxurious little saloon which the gilded youth of Vienna were accustomed to frequent for the purpose of having their nails manicured was almost empty when Charles presented himself. A lady in a gorgeous coiffure, who was seated at a table near the entrance, flashed a dazzling smile at him and indicated the line of shrouded chairs beyond. A young woman, becomingly attired in a black silk frock of Viennese design, motioned him into a small apartment which she had just left. She spoke in French.
“You are a little late. Monsieur Mildenhall.”
“It is unfortunately true,” he apologized. “Everyone, I think, is half-an-hour late in Vienna to-day. They are all getting ready to leave to-morrow. Nevertheless, I apologize.”
“I have waited for you,” she said simply. “You are a friend of Monsieur Lascelles?”
“Quite true. I have to bring you two farewell offerings. This one,” he added, handing her the thousand schilling note in an envelope, “and this,” raising her fingers to his lips.
“Monsieur Lascelles was more generous with his money than with his little caress,” she remarked.
“It is the only fault the genuine Englishman possesses,” he assured her. “We are a jealous race. My friend, I can tell you, left the city with much reluctance.”
“They told me before I came that everyone was always happy in Vienna,” she sighed. “I did not find it so in London, nor even in Paris. Here I do not think it will remain so. One feels the change coming.”
“Mademoiselle,” he agreed, “you are entirely right. If I were you I would at once return to Paris. The joys of Vienna are passing. Soon they will become history.”
She looked at him disconsolately.
“But you are depressing! Monsieur Lascelles, he told me that however seriously you really felt you had the gift of appearing light-hearted, that you made the world always seem a carefree place. He said that part of your success in your profession was that you seemed always to be a trifler, even when you were dealing with serious things.”
“Well, do you disapprove?” he asked. “One should not ask the world to share one’s sorrows.”
She glanced through the curtains to where her employer had been seated. Her chair was vacant. The lights of the place were burning dimly. She drew back the curtain and returned to the side of the client’s chair where Charles was seated. She slipped a little bowl of hot water into the ring for its reception.
“You are already tired, Mademoiselle,” he remarked.
“I am not proposing,” she said, “to attend to your nails. This is what they call in English a bluff. It is in case a chance client should present himself, although it is after hours. Did you know, Mr. Mildenhall, that your friend left a message with me for you?
“Not an idea,” he answered. “He said nothing about it.”
“That is rather like him. You were not formally attached to the Embassy, were you?”
“Not now,” he told her. “I am a free lance. I call in there whenever I am in Austria for old association’s sake.”
“Just so. Monsieur Lascelles had a fixed post there, had he not?”
“Certainly. He was First Secretary. Do you know, Mademoiselle,” Charles went on, “I dare say Monsieur Lascelles told you that I had queer habits and ideas. One of my ideas is that I do not like very much to talk about politics or what goes on at the Embassy, even though I have now no responsibilities.”
“I expected that speech,” she said smiling. “I am very much to be trusted, though, Monsieur Mildenhall. I might tell you something which would surprise you quite a great deal, but it is not necessary. You received from your friend. Monsieur Lascelles, to-day three black boxes with a request that you go through them and destroy everything that was worthless and preserve for your own transportation to London what you thought should be kept.”
Mildenhall’s stern grey eyes were fixed upon the girl. The smile had gone from his lips. She felt the difference at once. It was like a little draught of icy wind passing through the overperfumed atmosphere. He made no answer to her statement nor did he comment upon it. He simply waited.
“I tell myself,” she went on softly, “that tomorrow morning Monsieur Mildenhall will be leaving Vienna. It must be that he will come and see me to-night. I get your message. I wait.”
There was another pause. Charles knocked the ash from the cigarette that he had been smoking. It was his only movement. His face remained expressionless.
“In one of the three boxes,” she continued, “you found a sealed letter which you have without doubt preserved. The letter was contained in a long brown envelope sealed with green wax and addressed to Monsieur Lascelles at the Embassy.”
She paused.
“You will forgive me if I light another cigarette,” Charles observed. “The atmosphere of this place is a little overpowering.”
She accepted one from his case, struck a match and offered it to him.
“Well,” he said, “Mademoiselle Rosette, your little story about the three boxes is absolutely correct. Now what about this message?”
“The envelope addressed to Monsieur Lascelles,” she demanded breathlessly, “the brown envelope with the green seals—you have preserved that?”
There was again that uncompromising and brutal silence. She failed to penetrate it by gesture, the eloquence of her pleading eyes, the touch of her fingers. He remained stony and immutable.
“The message is simply this,” she went on. “I was to say that he had changed his mind with regard to the contents of that letter and that you were to hand it over to me just as it was. Monsieur Lascelles told me to say that the proof of my good faith would be the fact that I knew of its existence.”
For several moments Charles seemed absorbed in thought. Nevertheless, the girl, who was watching him closely, was conscious of a change. The quality of his silence was altered. Her fear of him was slowly passing. After all, he was human. He leaned over and felt her hand. She returned the pressure of his fingers eagerly. He felt her cheek. She crept nearer to him.
“Your fingers are icy cold!” he exclaimed. “So is your cheek! Yet the temperature of this place is almost overpowering. Mademoiselle Rosette, you are not well, I fear.”
“I am perfectly well,” she assured him. “For a moment or two you frightened me. Indeed—indeed, Mr. Mildenhall, it was that which did upset me very much. I had the idea that I was talking to a lay figure, to someone who listened only with his ears but not with
