had not deceived him. The door was locked! Fawley stood back and whistled softly under his breath. The affair presented itself to him as a magnificent joke. It was rather like Elida, he decided, with her queer dramatic gestures. He pressed the bell. There was no response. Suddenly a familiar sound startled him—the anchors being drawn up. The Diesel engines were already beating rhythmically. A moment or two later they were moving. The grimmer lines in his face relaxed. A smile flickered at the corners of his lips.
“Abducted,” he murmured.
He looked out of the porthole and gazed at the idlers on the quay from which they were gliding away. There was a pause, a churning of the sea and a swing around. The Sea Hawk was evidently for a cruise. She passed out of the harbour and her course was set seawards. Fawley lit a cigarette and took up a magazine. It appeared to him that this was a time for inaction. He decided to let events develop. In due course, what he had expected happened—there was a knock at the door of the very luxurious and beautifully decorated green-and-gold cabin in which he was confined. Fawley laid down his magazine and listened. The knock was
repeated—a pompous, peremptory sound, the summons of the conqueror in some mimic battle determined to abide by the grim courtesies of warfare.
“Come in!” Fawley invited.
There was the sound of a key being turned. The door was opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man with sunburnt cheeks and a small, closely cropped yellow moustache presented himself. He was apparently of youthful middle age, he wore the inevitable mufti of the sea—blue serge, double-breasted jacket, grey flannel trousers and white shoes. He had the bearing of an aristocrat discounted by a certain military arrogance.
“Major Fawley, I believe?” he enquired.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” was the cool reply.
“My name is Prince Maurice von Thal,” the newcomer announced. “I have come for a friendly talk.”
“Up till now,” Fawley observed, “the element of friendliness seems to have been lacking in your reception of me. Nevertheless,” he added, “I should be glad to hear what you have to say.”
“Monte Carlo just now is a little overcrowded. You understand me, I dare say.”
“I can guess,” Fawley replied. “But who are you? I came to visit the Princess Elida di Vasena.”
“The Princess is on board. She is associated with me in our present enterprise.”
Fawley nodded.
“Of course,” he murmured. “I knew that I had seen you somewhere before. You were in the party who were entertaining the local royalties last night at the Hôtel de France.”
“That is so.”
Fawley glanced out of the porthole. They were heading for the open seas now and travelling at a great speed. On the right was the Rock, with its strangely designed medley of buildings. The flag was flying from the palace and the cathedral bell was ringing.
“Many things have happened to me in life,” he reflected, with a smile, “but I have never before been kidnapped.”
“It sounds a little like musical comedy, doesn’t it?” the Prince remarked. “The fact is—it was my cousin’s idea. She was anxious to talk to you, but the hotel is full of spies and she could think of no safe place in the neighbourhood.”
“I thought there was something fishy about that note,” Fawley sighed. “Is Princess Elida really on board?”
“She certainly is,” was the prompt reply. “Wait one moment. I will summon her. I can assure you that she is impatient to meet you again.”
He stepped back to the doorway and called out her name. There came the sound of light footsteps descending from the deck. Elida, in severe but very delightful yachting attire, entered the room. She nodded pleasantly to Fawley.
“I hope Maurice has apologised and all that sort of thing,” she said. “We had no intention of really keeping you here by force, of course, but it did occur to us that you might not want to be seen in discussion with us by your other friends here.”
“It might have been awkward,” Fawley admitted pleasantly. “It is humiliating, though, to be whisked off like this. Your designs might have been far more sinister and then I should have felt very much like the booby who walked into the trap. There is nothing I enjoy so much as a cruise. Wouldn’t it be pleasanter on deck, though?”
“As you please,” the Prince assented. “There is a little movement but that is not likely to hurt any of us. As a matter of form, Major, may I beg for your word of honour that you will not seek to call the attention of any passing craft to your presence here?”
“I give it with pleasure,” was the prompt acquiescence.
They found a sheltered divan on the port side of the boat. A white-coated steward arranged a small table and appeared presently with a cocktail shaker and champagne in an ice pail. The Prince drank the latter out of a tumbler. Elida and Fawley preferred cocktails. Caviare sandwiches were served and cigarettes.
“This is very agreeable,” Fawley declared. “May I ask how far we are going?”
The Prince sighed.
“Alas, it can be only a short cruise,” he regretted. “The Princess is unfortunately commanded to lunch.”
“Then I suggest,” Fawley said, “that we commence our conversation.”
Elida leaned forward. She looked earnestly at her opposite neighbour.
“We want to know, Major Fawley, whether it is true that you are going to Germany with Adolf Krust and his two decoys?”
“We should also,” the Prince added, “like to know with what object you are visiting that country and whether you are going as the accredited agent of Berati?”
“Would it not be simpler for you to ask General Berati?” Fawley suggested.
“You know quite well,” Elida reminded him, “that for the present I am not allowed in Italy. Believe me, if I were there, I should find out, but I may not go and I know well that my letters here are tampered with. Prince Patoni promised me news but nothing has come.”
Fawley reflected for a moment.
“How did you know,” he asked, “that I was going to Germany?”
She smiled.
“My dear man,” she protested, “I am, after all, in a small way doing your sort of work. I must have a few—what is it you say in English?—irons in the fire. Adolf Krust, I hear, is hoping for great things from the little girl. Are you susceptible, I wonder?”
Fawley looked steadily across at the Princess.
“I never thought so until about a month ago,” he answered. “Since then I have wondered.”
She sighed.
“If my hair were that wonderful colour and my morals as elastic, do you think I could throw a yoke of roses around your neck and lead you into Germany
