think that America herself was very keen about any individual interference upon this side.”
“Please do not try to mislead me any more,” Elida begged. “I understand that I may not have your confidence—perhaps I do not deserve it—but you need not try to throw dust in my eyes. There is something else I have to say.”
She glanced at Micky and hesitated. He rose to his feet.
“I will be toddling off, Martin,” he announced. “Good night, Princess.”
“No ill will, Mister Micky?” she asked, smiling. “Those cables were terribly uninteresting. They did me no good whatever.”
He made a wry face.
“Sorry,” he rejoined gruffly. “They didn’t give me much of a boost!”
She waited patiently until the door was closed behind him then she turned almost hysterically to Fawley.
“Why have you not reported to Berati?” she cried breathlessly. “Tell me what has brought you here? Do you know that you are in danger?”
“No, I don’t think I realised that,” he answered. “One always has to watch one’s step, of course. I did not go back to Berati because I had not finished my job.”
“What part of it have you to finish here in England?” she demanded.
“I had most of my clothes stolen in Berlin,” he confided. “I had to come and visit my tailor.”
“Is that sort of thing worth while with me?” she protested. “Do you not understand that I have come here to warn you?”
He smiled.
“This is London,” he told her. “I am in sanctuary.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asked wonderingly.
“Of course I do.”
Elida shook her head. She seemed very tired. There was a note of despair in her tone.
“That man Berati is always right,” she lamented. “He told me that the ideal Secret Service man or woman did not exist. They are all either too brave or too cowardly. If you have no fear, you have no caution. If you have no caution, you are to be caught by the heels. Very well. For you, perhaps, that may be nothing. Life must end with all of us, but for your work it is finality. The knowledge you have acquired is lost. You are a failure.”
“You really have a great gift of intelligence, Elida,” Fawley declared, in a noncommittal tone.
“It does not amount to intelligence,” she objected. “It is common sense. Very well. Let us continue. You think that you are safe in London, when you have failed to report to Berati, when there are rumours going about in Rome that you are not to be trusted, that you have all the time been working for a cause of your own, concerning which no one knows anything. Italy has sent over her spies. They are here now. In Germany, they have the same distrust. Krust has given word that you are to be removed and Krust has more assassins at his back than any man in the world. Maurice von Thal swore only three nights ago that this next time he would not fail. Even Behrling has doubts of you! In France it is almost as bad. They suspect you of double espionage and of selling some great secret of theirs of which even I know nothing.”
“It all sounds very unpleasant,” Fawley murmured under his breath.
She took a cigarette from the box. Her slim beautiful fingers were shaking so that she lit it with difficulty. Fawley bent over her and steadied her hand. She looked up at him pathetically.
“Now I shall qualify for the executioner’s bullet,” she went on. “There is one of Berati’s spies outside on the pavement at the present moment. Another one has applied for a position as valet in this building. I do not say that either of these men has instructions to proceed to extremes. I do not know. This I do know. They are to keep a faithful record of your movements hour by hour and minute by minute. Patoni, on the other hand, scoffs at such mildness. He, like Maurice, has sworn to kill you on sight. Krust’s men have the same instructions and they are clever—diabolically clever. You will see that the situation is not wholly agreeable, my friend.”
“It certainly is not,” was the grim reply.
“So now again I ask you,” Elida continued, “what are you doing in London, Martin, when you should be in Rome? You acquired a great deal of information in Berlin which Berati needs. You are his man. What are you doing in London?”
“That I cannot tell you just yet,” Fawley said gravely. “But, Elida, believe me when I tell you that I am not working for the harm of Italy or Germany or France. I may not have kept my word to the letter with any one of these countries, or rather with their representatives to whom I
have talked, but I have been aiming at great things. If the great things come, it does not matter what happens to me. And they may come. In the meantime, I can do so little. A single false movement and calamity might follow.”
“You speak in riddles,” Elida faltered, “but I trust you, Martin. None of the others do. I trust you, dear Martin. If I could help—if I could save you—I would give my life!”
For a moment he took her lightly and reverently, yet with a faint touch of the lover, into his arms. The worn look passed from her face. Her eyes suddenly lost their terrified gleam, a tremor of joy seemed to pass through her body. He drew quietly away but he kept her hand in his.
“Tell me,” he asked, “are you here officially?”
She shook her head.
“They do not trust me any more,” she confided.
“Then why are you here?” he persisted.
She lifted her eyes. Since those last few minutes they were so soft and sweet, so full of expression, that at that moment she was entirely and utterly convincing.
“Because I am such a big fool. Because I like to see you. Because I knew that you were in danger on every side. I had to tell you. You must have thought me such an ordinary little adventuress,” she said wistfully. “You will forgive me for that? All that I wanted to know I wanted to know for your sake—that I might help you—”
The door was suddenly half flung, half kicked open. Micky, in his pyjamas, swayed upon the threshold. All his fresh colour had gone. He was gripping the wainscoting as though for support. There was an ugly splash of colour on his chest.
“Fellow in your room, Martin,” he faltered. “Room—Jenkins told me I was to sleep. Must have been—hiding somewhere.”
Fawley half carried, half dragged his brother to a couch. Elida sprang to the bell and kept her finger upon it.
“Did you see the fellow, Micky?” Fawley asked.
“Looked like a foreigner. He came out from behind the wardrobe—only a few feet away—and shot at me just as I was getting into bed.”
Fawley gave swift orders to Jenkins, who was already in the room. Elida had possessed herself of a cloth and was making a bandage.
