begin again. I would so much sooner take you somewhere else, where Behrling is not likely to appear, and ask you a few questions which you would find quite easy to answer.”
A brilliant smile parted her lips.
“Now you talk more as I had hoped,” she confided. “Indeed, if you would let me, I would wish to be your companion all the time that you are here. All the devotion I can offer is at your command but I will be honest with you—there are still a few things I want to know.”
“Elida,” he said, “I do not believe that there is a single thing in the world I could tell you that you do not know already. For instance, heaps of people must have told you that you have the most beautiful hazel-brown eyes in the world.”
She patted his hand.
“If I were Nina or Greta,” she observed, “I should throw my arms around your neck. You would wish it—yes?”
They were very beautiful arms but he shook his head.
“It is absurd of me,” he confessed, “but I should be afraid that you were not sincere.”
“How very Anglo-Saxon,” she meditated. “What on earth has sincerity to do with it?”
“To the sentimentalist—” he began.
“My dear new friend Martin,” she interrupted, “do not let us spoil everything before we begin. We are neither of us sentimentalists. We are both just playing a game: fortunately it is a pleasant game. I am afraid that you mean to win. Never mind, there are pleasures—But do not speak about sentiment. That belongs to the world we leave behind us when we take our country into our hearts.”
“The wrong word, I suppose,” he admitted. “On the other hand, I do confess to being a trifle maudlin. If I had any secrets to give away, you would succeed where Behrling would fail.”
“But you have none?”
“Not a ghost of one,” he assured her.
Her face suddenly lost its softened charm. She was looking past him towards the door. He leaned forward and followed her gaze, then, though nothing audible escaped his lips, he whistled softly to himself. It was Krust who had entered with Fräulein Nina, Krust in bulging white shirt front and waistcoat, his dinner coat tightly stretched across the shoulders, his beautifully shaven face pink and white, his hair brushed smoothly back. He recognised Fawley instantly. He deposited his companion at their table and made his way up the room. For the first part of his progress the most beatifically welcoming smile parted his lips. Then he saw Elida and the good humour faded from his face. His lips took an unpleasant curve, his eyes seemed to recede into his head. Again the mask fell. He came towards them with outstretched hands. The smile reëstablished itself.
“My friend Fawley,” he exclaimed. “I have an opportunity, then, of making my apologies for leaving your salon so abruptly. An engagement of the utmost importance came into my mind as I heard your friends at the door.”
He shook hands with Fawley and looked questioningly at Elida.
“I believe, Princess,” he ventured, with a stiff bow, “that I have had the pleasure.”
She shook her head.
“I am afraid that you are mistaken,” she said coldly.
Krust was not in the least discomposed. He pointed down the room to where Nina waved her hand gaily at Fawley.
“My work here is finished,” he confided. “Others more capable are taking it over. I return to-morrow to Monte Carlo. The thought of it has made the little one very happy. And you, my friend?”
“I am never sure of my movements,” was the vague reply.
“If I had not found you so charmingly occupied,” Krust continued, “I would ask you to join us.”
“As you see, it is impossible,” Fawley pointed out, a trifle curtly.
Krust, his good humour apparently completely restored, took his leave. He had only proceeded a few steps, however, when he came to a pause on the edge of the dancing floor. There was the sound of commotion from the entrance hall of the place, a tangle of angry voices, a peremptory command given in an official tone, a glimpse of grey uniforms and the flash of arms. The music stopped, the dancers at that end of the room hurried towards the doorway. Krust followed their example, but he was too late. A heavy black curtain which hung over the entrance was drawn by some unseen hand, the sound behind was partially deadened. Suddenly the manager pushed the curtains back and appeared upon the floor.
“Ladies and gentlemen—honourable clients of mine,” he announced, “the slight disturbance outside is over. Kindly resume your seats. Some young men, members of a recently inaugurated society, endeavoured to enter in uniform—which is strictly against the rules. The police interfered and they have been sent to their homes.”
There was a brief silence. Few people understood the exact nature of the disturbance. Here and there, however, was an angry snarl of voices. The veins were standing out on Krust’s forehead. He strode up to the manager in a fury.
“Who sent for the police?” he demanded.
“There was no need to send for them,” was the prompt reply. “The young gentlemen were followed here from the Garden.”
“Did you refuse them entrance to your restaurant?” Krust persisted.
Every one seemed to be holding their breaths. There was a queer strained silence in the luxurious little place.
“It is against the law for any one to enter, wearing an unrecognised uniform,” the manager declared. “I told them so. Whilst we were discussing the matter, the police appeared.”
“You will bow down to that uniform before many days have passed,” Krust prophesied furiously.
“Ach, that or another!” was the equally angry reply.
Krust stepped forward as though to deal a blow. Nina, who had left her place, silently threw her arms around his neck. She whispered something in his ear. He suffered himself to be led away. The orchestra struck up again. The dancing recommenced…
“Behold,” Elida exclaimed, as she watched the waiter filling her glass with champagne, “a tableau! A situation which might have become more than dramatic. Krust—the monarchist spy—with one of his little butterflies. Major Fawley, the Italian mercenary, the trusted agent of Berati. I, Elida di Rezco di Vasena, who have gone over at the peril of my life to the new order. We line the walls of this restaurant. What are we playing at? I scarcely know. We are all just a little hysterical these days. The restaurant is likely to be raided by the communists if Behrling comes, by the monarchists if the refusal to admit those officers is reported at their headquarters, or by Behrling’s own men. What will our friend Berati say when he hears that you have been seen in such an environment?”
“He will probably realise,” Fawley replied, “that I am going about my business and his in my own way. Mercenaries, as I dare say you know, are never over-officered. They are left with a certain measure of initiative. If one were to indulge in speculations,” he went on, after a momentary pause, “one might wonder what Krust does here. From the fact that Behrling suggested it as a rendezvous, one might gather that this place is frequented by his followers.
