“A flank movement,” he remarked coolly, closing the door behind him. “Now, young lady, please tell me what you are doing in my sitting-room and why you locked the door against me.”
She was speechless for a moment. Fawley crossed the room and stood on the other side of the table behind which she had retreated. His eyes travelled swiftly round the apartment. A large despatch box of formidable appearance had been disturbed but not apparently opened. One of the drawers of his writing desk had been pulled out.
“Is this an effort on your own behalf, Miss Greta?” he continued, “or are you trying to give your uncle a little assistance?”
“You are not very nice to me,” she complained pathetically. “Are you not pleased to find me here?”
“Well,” he answered, “that depends.”
She threw herself into an easy chair.
“Are you angry that I have ventured to pay you a visit?” she persisted.
He sighed.
“If only the visit were to me! On the other hand, I find myself locked out of my own salon.”
“Locked out,” she repeated wonderingly. “Just what do you mean? So far from locking you out I was wondering whether I dared come and disturb you.”
He moved across towards the double doors and opened them without difficulty.
“H’m, that’s odd,” he observed, looking round at her quickly. “I tried this inner door just now. It seemed to me to be locked.”
“I, too—I found it stiff,” she said. “I first thought that you had locked yourself in, then I found that it gave quite easily if one turned the right way.”
“You have been into my bedroom?”
She smiled up into his face.
“Do you mind? My uncle has gone away—no one knows where. Nina has gone motoring with a friend to Nice. I am left alone. I do not like being by myself. I come along here, I knock softly at the door of your sitting-room. No reply. I enter. Emptiness. I think I will see if you are sleeping. I open both those doors without any particular difficulty. I see you lying on the bed. I go softly over. You sleep—oh, how you were sleeping!”
Her eyes met Fawley’s without flinching. There stole into his brain a faint recollection that some time during that deep slumber of his there had come to him a dreamlike suggestion of a perfume which had reminded him of the girl, a faint consciousness, not strong enough to wake him, of the presence of something agreeable. She was probably telling him the truth.
“I had not the heart to wake you,” she went on. “I stole out again. I sat in your easy-chair and I waited.”
“I perceive,” he pointed out, “that a drawer of my writing-table is open and that my despatch-box has changed its position.”
Her eyes opened a little wider.
“You do not think that I am a thief?”
“How can I tell? Why did you open that drawer?”
“To find some notepaper. I thought that I would write some letters.”
“Why did you move my despatch-box?”
“For the same purpose,” she assured him. “I found it locked, so I left it alone. Do you think that I came to steal something? Can you not believe that I came because I was lonely—to see you?”
He smiled.
“To tell you the truth,” he admitted, “I cannot see what else you could have come for. I have no secrets from Mr. Krust.”
“But you have,” she exclaimed impetuously. “You will not tell him what he so much wants to know.”
“So that is why you are here,” Fawley remarked with a faint smile. “You want to see if you can find out for your uncle Berati’s disposition towards him, and you think that I may have papers. My little butterfly lady, you are very much an amateur at this sort of thing, aren’t you? Men do not carry papers nowadays. It is too dangerous. Besides, who am I to see what lies behind Berati’s mind?”
“I tell you that I care nothing about Berati,” she cried suddenly. “I was weary of being alone and I came to see you.”
She moved across and stood beside him. She was wearing some sort of negligee between golf and dinner costume, something in one piece with vivid flashes of scarlet and wide sleeves, and her arm rested affectionately upon his shoulders.
“Please do not be horrid to me,” she begged. “Mr. Krust has been very kind to me. If we could help him—either Nina or I—we should do so, but not at your expense.”
“You would have no chance, little Greta,” he told her with a very gentle caress. “Since we seem to be arriving at an understanding, tell me what I can do for you.”
“First of all,” she said, drawing her arm tighter around him, “try to believe that I am not the frivolous little idiot I sometimes try to appear. Secondly, believe also that when I came here this afternoon the great thing in my mind was to see you, not to be like one of the adventuresses of fiction and pry about for papers; and thirdly, as I am left all alone, I thought perhaps you might take pity on me and ask me to dine—just you and I alone—only much later.”
He looked out of the window, over which the curtains had not yet been drawn, at the flashing lamps of the square and farther away at the lights stealing out from the black curtain of the shrouded hillside.
“My dear,” he protested, “you are inviting me to flirt with you.”
“Is it so difficult?” she whispered. “I am much nicer than you think I am. I am much fonder of you than you could believe.”
“It would not be difficult at all,” he assured her. “But alas! How would you feel when I told you, as I would have to very soon, that most of the time when I am not thinking of more serious things I spend thinking of another woman?”
She stood quite still and he had a queer fancy that the soft palm which she had stretched out upon his cheek grew colder. It was several moments before she spoke.
“I would be sorry,” she confessed. “But, after all, the days are past when a man thinks only of one woman. It was beautiful to read of and think of, but one scarcely hopes for it now. Who is she, please?”
“What does it matter?” he answered. “I am not sure that I trust her any more than I trust you. The truth of it is I am a clumsy fellow with women. I have lived so long with the necessity of trusting no one that I cannot get out of the habit of it.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“I can be truthful,” she said earnestly. “With you I would like to be. It was not writing-paper I searched for in your drawer, and if I could have opened your box I should have done so. I have a bunch of keys in my pocket.”
“But what is it you are hoping to find?” he asked.
“Mr. Krust,” she said, “thinks that you must know towards which party in Germany Berati is leaning. He thinks that you must know the reason why he is not allowed to go to Rome.”
“Supposing I assured you,” he told her, “that I have not the faintest idea what lies behind Berati’s mind. He has not asked my advice nor given me his opinion. I have learnt more from Mr. Krust than from him. I have not a single paper in my possession which would interest you in any way. If I might make a wild guess, it would be that Berati is afraid that Krust might gain access to and influence the greater man who stands behind him.”
“Is that the truth?” she asked fervently.
“It is the honest truth,” he assured her. “You see, therefore, that I am useless so far as regards your schemes. Realising that, if you would like to dine with me I should be delighted.”
“If you want me to,” she consented eagerly. “I believe you think that I am very terrible. Perhaps I am, but not in the way you imagine. Do you want me to dine with you, Major Fawley? Would it give you pleasure?”
“Of course it would,” he answered. “I warn you that I am a very wooden sort of person, but I am all alone for to-night at any rate, and you are not an unattractive young woman, are you?”
She smiled a litt
le oddly.
“Well, I do not know,” she said. “I do not think that unless a clever man has a flair for women we girls have much to offer. What time, please?”
“Nine o’clock,” he decided. “You shall tell me about Germany and the life there. I am rather curious. I find the political parties almost impossible to understand. You may make a disciple of me!”
“Perhaps,” she murmured, as she took her very reluctant leave, “we might find something even more interesting to talk about than German politics.”
Chapter XI
Fawley felt that fate treated him scurvily that evening. Some great European notable staying in the Hôtel de France had taken it into his head to entertain the local Royalty, who seldom if ever was seen in public, and Greta and he had scarcely established themselves at their corner table before, amidst a buzz of interest, a very distinguished company of guests made their way towards the magnificently beflowered and ornamented table which had been reserved for them. There were Princes and Princesses in the gathering, Dukes and Duchesses, men and women of note in every walk of life, and—Elida. She came towards the end of the procession, walking side by side with a famous English diplomat, and she passed within a yard or two of Fawley’s table. For the moment he was taken unawares. He half rose to his feet, his eyes even sought hers, but in vain. If she was surprised at seeing him there and under such circumstances she gave no sign. She passed on without a break in her conversation, easily the most distinguished-looking figure of the party, in her plain black frock and her famous pearls.
“What a beautiful woman,” Greta sighed, “and I believe that you know her.”
Fawley, who had recovered from his momentary aberration, smiled.
“Yes,” he admitted, “once upon a time I knew her—slightly.”
“What will she think of you?” Greta reflected. “I wonder how long it is since you have met. Will she think that you have married or that, like everyone else who comes to this quaint corner of the world, you have brought with you your favourite companion?”
“She probably won’t think of me at all,” Fawley replied. “We only met for one day and ours was rather a stormy acquaintance, as a matter of fact.”
“She is more beautiful than I am,” Greta confessed naïvely. “She looks very cold, though. I am not cold. I have too much heart. I think that is the pity about Germans. We are abused all over the world, I know, but we are too sentimental.”
“Sentimentality is supposed to be one of your national characteristics,” Fawley observed, “but I do not think your menkind at any rate allow it to stand in the way of business—of their progress in life, perhaps I should say.”
“Adolf Krust is sentimental,” she continued, “but with him all his feelings seem to be centred on his country. He loves women, but they mean little to him. He is what I call a passionate patriot. At any cost, anyhow, he wants to see Germany stand where she did amongst the nations.”
“Almost the same with you, isn’t it?”
She shook her head.
“Not quite. Very few women in the world have ever put love of country before love of their lover. I suppose we are too selfish. I am fond of Germany, although I see her faults, but she could not possibly occupy all my affections.”
“You are rather intriguing, aren’t you?” he remarked. “I should like to know you better.”
“Ask me questions, then,” she suggested.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Where were you educated?”
“In London, Paris, Dresden, a short time for my voice in Milan. I may be anything you like to fancy, but I have never known poverty.”
“And Krust—he is really your uncle?”
She hesitated.
“We are rather on delicate ground,” she remarked, “because Nina is in this, of course. No, he is not our uncle. Nina and I have both developed a passion for politics. Nina worked for some time in a public office without salary. It was through her that I became interested. Now I honestly believe politics—we use the word in Germany in a broader sense than you do—have become the great interest of my life. I want Krust to be Chancellor and, more still, I want him, when the proper time comes, to decide how Germany shall be governed.”
“What about the President?”
“A stupid office. One man is enough to rule any country. If he fails, he should be either shot or deposed. Adolf Krust is the only man whom the great mass of Germans would trust. What we need in Central Europe is a shock. People would make up their minds then quickly. At present we are drifting. That is why Krust, who hates to leave his work for a moment, who hates games and the sunshine of foreign places and gambling and all recreations, has come down here to be nearer to the one man who seems to hold the fate of Europe in his hand just now. He will be disappointed. I feel that. His rival has powerful agents at work in Italy.”
“I am a little confused about German affairs,” Fawley confessed. “Who is his rival?”
She glanced at him for permission and lit a cigarette. Their dinner had been well chosen and excellently served, but she had eaten sparingly. She took a long draught of champagne, however.
“Heinrich Behrling.”
“The communist?” Fawley exclaimed.
She shook her head.
“Behrling is no communist. He is not even a socialist. He is the apostle of the new Fascism.”
“Krust, then?”
“If I am telling you secrets,” she said, “I shall be very ashamed of myself. I do not think, though, that Adolf Krust would mind. He has tried to make a confidant of you. Krust is for the re-establishment of the monarchy.”
“Heavens!” Fawley murmured. “I thought that General von Salzenburg was the head of the aristocratic party.”
“So does he,” she replied simply. “This is our trouble, you see. We are not united. Come to Berlin and you may find out. Why do you not get Berati to give you a freer hand? Then I think that we could convince you.”
“But, my dear child,” Fawley protested, “I am nothing to General Berati. I am just an agent who was out of work whom he has trusted to make a few observations. I have never even met his chief. I am a subordinate without any particular influence.”
She shook her head.
“You may deceive yourself, or you may think it well to deceive me,” she said. “Adolf Krust would never believe it.”
“By the by,” Fawley asked, “where has your reputed uncle hurried off to?”
“You tell me so little and you expect me to tell you everything,” she complained. “He has gone to San Remo to telephone to Berati. If Berati permits it, he will go on to Rome—that is what he is so anxious to do. To go there and not be received, however, would ruin his cause. The other side would proclaim it as a great triumph. Von Salzenburg, too, would be pleased.”
“You seem to have a very fair grasp of events,” Fawley remarked, as they entered upon the last course of their dinner. “Tell me, do you believe in this impending war?”
Again she showed signs of impatience. She frowned and there was a distinct pout upon her full but beautifully shaped lips.
“Always the same,” she exclaimed. “You ask questions, you tell nothing, and yet you know. You take advantage of the poor little German girl because she is sentimental and because she likes you. Ask me how much I care and I will tell you. What should I know about wars? Ask a soldier. Ask them at the Quai d’Orsay. Ask them at Whitehall in London. Or ask Berati.”
“These people would probably tell me to mind my own business,” Fawley declared.
Her eyes twinkled.
“It is a very good answer.…”
They had coffee in Fawley’s salon—an idea of Greta’s. She wanted to be near if Adolf Krust should return in despair. But time passed on and there was no sign of Krust. They sat in easy-chairs watching the light
s in the gardens and listening to the music from across the way. They sat in the twilight that they might see Krust’s car more easily should it put in an appearance. Conversation grew more spasmodic. Fawley, he scarcely knew why, was suddenly tired of speculations. The great world over the mountains was moving on to a crisis, that he knew well enough, but his brain was weary. He wondered dimly whether for the last few years he had not taken life too seriously. Would any other man have felt the fatigue he was feeling? He half turned his head. The outline of the girl in her blue satin frock was only just visible. The vague light from outside was shimmering in her hair. Her eyes were seeking for his, a little distended, as though behind their sweetness there lay something of anxious doubt. The swift rise and fall of her slim bosoms, the icy coldness of her hand resting lightly in his, seemed to indicate something of the same emotion. Her fingers suddenly gripped his passionately.
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