The Ambassador handed him back the volume and sighed.
“That will do, Ottavio,” he said. “I should like, during the next few days, to have an interview arranged with the American Ambassador.”
“The matter shall be attended to, Excellency. In the meantime, I am charged with a somewhat serious communication from the Captain Varzi, Commander Borzacchini and Air Pilot Nuvolari. They desire to know whether they may pay their respects or whether it would be better for them to take leave of absence without announcement.”
Again there was silence. The Marchese looked up wearily. He seemed suddenly conscious of the gloom of the apartment, with its drawn curtains and closed windows.
“It was a message by wireless a few hours ago, Excellency. They would wish, subject to your permission, to attend the ball at Dorrington House to-night and to leave separately before morning.”
“I have no jurisdiction,” the Marchese pronounced. “They must obey such orders as they have received. Have you any further information?”
“None, Your Excellency, except a hint that the urgency is not so great as might seem. About the middle of next week, perhaps, we may expect official news. Is it permitted to ask Your Excellency a question?”
“With the proviso that he answers it only if he feels inclined to,” was the weary reply.
“The Department has received a very cautiously worded enquiry as to this American, Major Martin Fawley,” the young man confided. “It seems that he has been in Rome and on the French Riviera, from which one understands that he had to make a precipitate departure. Then he turned up in Berlin and if our information is correct, Excellency, he was seen once or twice with Her Highness the Princess Elida. We have been asked quite unofficially whether we can give any information as to the nature of his activities.”
“Well, you know the answer well enough,” the Marchese replied irritably. “I have no knowledge of Major Fawley. Of my niece’s acquaintances or companions I naturally can keep no count. If he is a suspected person, I regret her association with him; otherwise there is nothing to be said.”
The young man took silent and respectful leave of his chief. The Ambassador, who was a very much worried man, lit a cigarette and studied the neatly typed list of his engagements for the next few days with a groan.
CHAPTER XIX
It was the moment for the sake of which Elida had made many sacrifices. She had, for the first time in her life, disobeyed certain instructions issued from a beautiful white stone and marble building in the Plaza Corregio at Rome, instructions signed by the hand of a very great man indeed. Not only that but, in quartering herself upon a relative whom she loved better than any other amongst her somewhat extensive family, she had involved him in many possible embarrassments. As she sat there, she felt that she had offended against the code of her life and, listening to the music in the distant rooms, the hum of joyous voices, watching men in brilliant uniforms and beautifully gowned women pass back and forth, she felt conscious of a sense of shame. Yet it all seemed worth while when young Hartley Stammers, second secretary at the American Embassy, the acquaintance of a few hours, from whom she had begged this favour, and Fawley, a quietly distinguished-looking figure in his plain evening clothes amongst this colourful gathering, suddenly appeared upon the threshold. The light which flashed for a single moment in his eyes filled her with a sort of painful joy. For the first time, she felt weak of purpose. She was filled with a longing to abandon at that moment and forever this stealthy groping through the tortuous ways of life, to respond instead to that momentary challenge with everything she had to give. Perhaps if the mask had not fallen quite so quickly, she might have yielded.
“This is indeed a great pleasure, Princess,” Fawley said courteously, as he raised her fingers to his lips. “I had no idea that you thought of coming to London.”
“Nor I until—well, it seems only a few hours ago,” she said. “My aunt has not been well and my uncle—you know him, I dare say—he is our Ambassador here—begged me to pay him a flying visit. So here I am! Arrived this evening. Will you not sit down, Major Fawley? I should like so much that we talk for a little time.”
The younger man took regretful leave. Elida smiled at him delightfully. He had fulfilled a difficult mission and she was grateful.
“You will not forget, Mr. Stammers, that we dance later in the evening,” she reminded him. “You must show me some of your new steps. None of our Italian men can dance like you Americans.”
“I will be glad to,” the boy promised a little ruefully. “I have a list of duty hops down here which makes me tired. I’ll surely cut some of them, if I can. Being sort of office boy of the place, they seem to leave me to do the cleaning up.”
He took his leave, followed by Elida’s benediction. The quiet place for which she had asked fulfilled all its purposes. It was an alcove, as yet undiscovered by the majority of the guests, leading from one of the smaller refreshment rooms. Fawley sank onto the divan by her side.
“Why have you come to London?” he asked quietly.
“Is this bluntness part of the new diplomacy they talk about?” she retorted.
“It is the oldest weapon man has,” he declared. “It is rather effective, you see, because it really demands a reply.”
“What you really want to know,” she reflected, “is whether I followed you.”
“Something of the sort. Perhaps you may have had quite different ideas. I can assure you that so far as I am concerned—” he left the sentence unfinished. A very rare thing with him.
“I came here expressly to see you,” she suddenly confessed. “It is quite important.”
“You flatter me.”
“You know all your people in Rome, of course?”
“Naturally. We Americans always know one another. We do not keep ourselves in water-tight compartments.”
“Mr. Marston is a great friend of mine,” she said. “Poor man, just now he seems so worried.”
“What? Jimmie Marston?” Fawley exclaimed. “That sounds quaint to me. I don’t think I ever saw him when he did not look happy.”
“He is what you call in your very expressive language a bluffer,” she answered. “I know what the matter is with him now. He is terrified lest at any moment he may find himself in the imbroglio of a European war.”
Like a flash the relaxation passed from Fawley’s expression. His tone was unchanged but he had relapsed into the stony-faced, polite, but casual guest, performing his social duties.
“Our dear old friend,” he observed, “is probably having an unfortunate love affair. He is the only one of our diplomats who has achieved the blue ribbon of the profession and remained a lover of women. They really ought not to have given him Rome. It was trying him too high.”
“Yet not long ago,” she reminded him, “you were pursuing your vocation there.”
“Ah,
