She rang a bell and, almost immediately, a waiter wheeled a little trolley into the room with the tea things. They spoke of casual matters until they were alone again; then she reverted to her first topic.
‘I was wrong to give you the impression, Mr Foster, that I was entirely without friends. I have three, and they are very dear to me, but they are women. Elsa is one – unfortunately I do not see much of her these days – then there are two charming girls, Rosemary Meredith and Dora Reinwald, who act as my companions. Rosemary was at school with me, Dora I have known nearly all my life. I know they would do anything for me. But as I say, they are women. There are so many things a woman cannot do. I have no real man friend, one in whom I can put absolute trust. That is why,’ she added candidly, ‘I am glad that in you I have, at last, found one. You see, I know it, without asking you. One does know these things. Is that my woman’s instinct, I wonder!’
‘Your instinct has not played you false,’ he murmured, ‘but you talk as though you are in danger, or, at least, in trouble. Is it so?’
She laughed almost harshly.
‘I am in deadly danger,’ she declared, looking him full in the eyes. ‘Sometimes I am afraid, but not often. I am not quite sure what it is I fear.’
At once he had moved his chair closer to hers.
‘Tell me what it is,’ he urged earnestly, ‘and I swear to you, Baroness, I will do my utmost to protect you.’
She leant across and gently took his hand in hers.
‘There are things,’ she told him, ‘of which I cannot speak – at least not yet. Perhaps someday I will tell you. I am happy to receive your assurance that you will protect me if the necessity arises. I fear that I am only a very cowardly woman after all, and I had thought that I was different from the rest. It is very comforting to know that I have now a protector in the real sense. Since my husband died, there has been no man to whom I could turn for advice and assistance. I am afraid poor Kurt was not of much use. He was thirty years older than I, and rather self-centred. Ours was not exactly a love match, but he was my husband. Since his death, there has been no man in my life at all.’
A wave of sheer relief and delight flowed through Foster. No man in her life at all! Then his fears were groundless – the fears that had entered his heart as a result of the conversation he had overheard the night before. The Supreme Marshal of State might be in love with her, but he was not her lover. It did not enter his head to doubt, for a moment, her words. She might be a very clever woman, experienced in international intrigue, and playing a part in the political world, but she was frank and honest. Of that he was absolutely certain. She could have no possible object in asking for his friendship, except the very natural one of a woman in trouble desiring the support and protection of a man on whom she felt she could rely.
‘I cannot tell you,’ he proclaimed, ‘how glad I am that you have chosen me as your friend. You will never regret it, Baroness – at least, I hope you will not,’ he added as an afterthought, his profession and his duty flashing into his mind with uncomfortable emphasis at that moment.
‘Regret it!’ she echoed. ‘Of course I shall not. I confided in Elsa how badly I needed a friend. I am indebted to her for bringing you to me.’
Inwardly Foster felt inclined to curse Elsa, but decided at once that his feelings were unjustified. Surely he could be a real friend to the baroness and, at the same time, do the job that had been set him. Would he, after all, be betraying her, if he learnt from her the secrets she possessed and imparted them to his chief? In that way he would perhaps be helping to prevent another ghastly war, and she herself had declared to him that she was against war, asserting that another would be too terrible to contemplate. Foster suddenly felt that he was beginning to see daylight. It was conceivable that the plans of the Supreme Marshal had been told to her; that she had declared herself against them and, though too staunch to divulge them, was now in danger, because the man who was reported to be her lover feared that she might. That would explain why she was being watched. The reflection made him feel a great deal happier in his mind; he was perhaps not such a Judas after all. He decided to attempt to find out, if he could, what relationship, if any, actually existed between her and the Supreme Marshal.
‘You have a friend – a man friend,’ he remarked quietly, ‘who is also extremely powerful. Have you forgotten him?’
She eyed him questioningly, her brows meeting together in a little frown.
‘To whom do you refer?’ she asked.
‘The Supreme Marshal of State! Did you not admit that he was a friend of yours?’
He was astonished at the expression which, for a moment, transformed her face. It was gone almost as soon as it had come, but he was watching her closely. It suggested hatred, naked, uncompromising. What had caused it he was unable to decide at that moment, and whether it was directed against von Strom or himself. He could not conceive any reason why she should hate him, unless, by some means, she had discovered the part he was playing; neither could he imagine why she should hate the man who, though he might not be her lover, was certainly on intimate terms with her. The look made him think deeply. He wondered if again he had been implusive by accepting her at his own valuation of her. Suddenly she laughed, with all the silvery cadence which was able to thrill him so deeply with its music, but he was now on his guard more, and thought he detected a strained note in it.
‘He is not a friend of the kind I need – like you, my friend,’ she told him. ‘Perhaps you also have believed the tales which have been told about him and me.’
‘What tales?’ he asked innocently.
‘I know it has been said by evil-minded people that we are lovers; that I am his mistress.’ Suddenly tears sprang to her beautiful eyes. ‘It is untrue,’ she cried vehemently, ‘utterly untrue. Never was anything more wicked concocted in the minds of jealous people. I have not cared much before that such things have been stated, but I cannot bear that you should believe them. You do not, do you?’
She looked at him imploringly, all at once very much of a young, appealing girl. He marvelled at the mood which could so quickly transform her. His frank, open smile did a lot in helping her to recover full control of herself.
‘I am inclined,’ he chided, ‘to feel insulted at your asking such a question of me, Baroness. Of course I do not believe such tales. I would never believe anything like that of you unless—’ he hesitated.
‘Unless what?’ she demanded quickly.
‘Unless you assured me they were true yourself.’
‘You would believe me?’
He nodded.
‘Yes; I would believe you, because I do not think you would ever tell me an untruth.’
The clouds cleared entirely away; she smiled at him now quite merrily.
‘You are very trusting, are you not?’
‘I trust you,’ he responded earnestly.
Her pale, creamy complexion became suddenly suffused with colour.
‘Oh, dear!’ she cried. ‘You and I have become all at once very intimate in our conversation. How surprised other people would be who knew that yesterday you and I met for the first time.’
‘That is the value of friendship – a real, genuine friendship,’ he reminded her.
‘You are right. It is because of our friendship also that I did not wish you to think evil of me. The opinions of others I do not mind, but the good opinion of the very dear friend I have found means so much to me.’
‘Thank you, Baroness,’ he murmured gently.
‘To you, I cannot be “Baroness”,’ she proclaimed. ‘It would be ridiculous. You shall call me Sophie, and I will call you Bernard.’
‘How did you know my name?’ he queried curiously.
‘Ah!’ she laughed. ‘How do I know so many things about you? A little bird with the name of Elsa whispered to me so much, Bernard.’
‘The Elsa bird seems to have been very busy,’ he grunted.
She helped herself to a cigarette,
and pushed the large silver box towards him.
‘I think I already owe a great deal to her. Yet what is the use?’ she suddenly cried in vehement tones. ‘It is wonderful to have your friendship, to know that I can depend upon your protection. But what use can it be to me?’
‘Why not?’ he asked in profound surprise.
‘I am only in this country for a few days. Next week I go to Budapest, afterwards to Berlin again. How can your friendship help me when I am no longer in London.’
‘I shall no longer be in London myself,’ he told her quietly. ‘Wherever you go, I will follow. I shall always be at hand – at least, while danger threatens you.’
Her eyes opened wide. In them he was certain he recognised dawning hope.
‘Do you really mean that?’ she asked.
‘I certainly do, Sophie.’
There was a little caressing note in his pronunciation of her name for the first time. She noticed it, and again the colour stole into her cheeks.
‘But this is too good – too wonderful of you!’ she exclaimed. Once more, however, her manner changed. She shook her head peremptorily. ‘It cannot be,’ she declared almost sharply. ‘You must not come.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you would be endangered. No, Bernard, you must keep away.’
He laughed.
‘Do you think,’ he asked, ‘that I would stay back, because I might otherwise go into danger? Can’t you think that I would account any danger that might threaten me through you as nothing, so long as I were at hand to protect you?’
She regarded him for a moment, a look of tenderness in her eyes.
‘Why do you feel like that about me?’ she asked softly.
He looked down at the carpet under his feet; felt his own face grow hot and flushed.
‘Please do not ask me, Sophie,’ he murmured. ‘I might say something foolish.’
For several moments there was a profound silence in the room. The tick of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to grow incredibly loud. He looked up to find her eyes fixed on him with such a look of tender yearning in them that he was startled. He half rose; then threw himself back in his chair.
‘To think,’ he heard her say gently, ‘that twenty-four hours ago you and I did not know each other. It seems impossible.’
‘It is impossible,’ he retorted, and was astonished to find how husky his voice had become. ‘I believe you and I, Sophie, have been friends since the beginning of time. We have only just discovered it, that’s all.’
‘What a very nice thought! I think perhaps you are right.’ The determination returned to her manner and voice. ‘Nevertheless,’ she persisted, ‘you must not go with me to Berlin.’
‘That’s a pity,’ he returned easily. ‘I should much have preferred to travel with you. However, if you forbid it, I shall have to follow.’
‘You are determined?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You are a much more resolute person that I first imagined,’ she declared with a little smile.
‘And you,’ he retorted, ‘are far less of the cold, experienced woman of the world.’
‘I am glad you have found that out about me. And now, Bernard, much as it distresses me, I must send you away. I have many engagements. Perhaps tomorrow—’
‘Tomorrow,’ he declared, as he rose, ‘whether you have engagements or not, I will call at eleven in the morning, and kidnap you. I will drive you out of London, and we shall spend a day in the country.’
‘Oh,’ she sighed, ‘how delightful that will be!’
‘You won’t mind being kidnapped?’
‘I shall love it.’
He departed, without seeing anything of her maid or of the two companions. He wondered if the former had been listening to the conversation. If so, she had heard nothing of any particular significance, unless she considered that the decidedly sentimental turn that the conversation had taken, and Foster’s avowed determination to accompany Sophie to Berlin and act as her friend and protector, would interest her employer. The young man smiled grimly as he reflected that it would probably interest him very much indeed. Well, let it. He felt he knew how to look after Sophie and himself as well. He would have been convinced that there was nothing at all of the cold, experienced woman of the world about the baroness had he seen her just after he left. She stood for some moments gently stroking the hand on which he had imprinted a kiss, her eyes, in which was the softest light imaginable, gazing into vacancy. At length she stirred, went into her bedroom, threw herself on the bed. ‘Sophie,’ she murmured, to herself, ‘what a little fool you are!’ Her maid entered quietly to find her lying there weeping gently, and stole out again, her woman’s heart torn between affection and duty. Duty, that cold, unfeeling monster, won. Thus the conversation between Foster and the baroness was reported to the fellow called Carl, who relayed it to Berlin. The recipient of it, a man who had an iron grip on all Germany, promptly went into a towering rage, and began to hatch in his mind a scheme which eventually had dire consequences to more than one person.
Foster duly called for the baroness next morning, and found her awaiting him. He drove her into the beautiful byways of Surrey and Sussex, and she was enchanted. They had a simple but marvellously cooked luncheon at an old inn, tea at a charming farmhouse. When eventually they returned to the Carlton, to find to their amusement that a stream of callers had been enquiring for the baroness, she declared that she had never been happier or had had a more delightful time in her life.
Thereafter Foster took her somewhere almost every day during the remainder of her stay in London. In consequence, he became decidedly unpopular with the people who felt they had a right to a certain amount of her society. However, they were forced to be content with meeting her at the receptions, balls, and at homes which she could not avoid. Foster seldom attended these. He disliked formalities of that kind; besides which, he knew he could not expect to have Sophie to himself at them, and matters had now reached such a pass that he hated being one of a crowd round her. He and she spoke no more of the danger which she had hinted was threatening her. She volunteered no information concerning it, while he made no effort to question her. Her remark that there were some things of which she could not yet speak, but perhaps someday would tell him, had caused him to hope that voluntarily she might give him the information which it was his business to obtain. He was a trifle puzzled by her. During their trips together she spoke often of Austria, and it was not difficult to gather that she possessed a deep, abiding love for the country of her birth. This caused him all the more to wonder why she continued to reside in Berlin, since her husband was dead, and, above all, associate with von Strom and the German Chancellor, who, although of Austrian descent himself, was believed to have no particular affection for that country. It was quite well known that his ambition was to unite Austria and Germany, and make of them one large nation. Baron von Reudath had, shortly before his death, been very friendly with the Supreme Marshal. It was because of that that Sophie had been whirled into international politics, her shrewd common sense and keen judgement having, thereafter, proved of great value to von Strom; so much so that he had come to place immense reliance in her and discuss his problems with her.
The knowledge of this caused Foster to feel thoroughly amazed as he observed her keen enjoyment of their trips together. It was not a pose. She took an almost childlike pleasure in the outings. They certainly did her an immense amount of good. Two years previously, he learnt, she had had a bad accident, which had caused her heart to be severely strained. For a time her life had been despaired of, but a great physician in Vienna had pulled her through. He announced, however, that she would have to be careful, and would be more or less an invalid for the rest of her life. His prognostications had happily not been fulfilled. Gradually she had become stronger, though subject, from time to time, to fainting fits, especially when in a crowd. It was for that reason that she invariably took her maid, who was a trained nurse among other
things – one of which Foster knew, and she did not, was membership of the German Espionage Department – to receptions, balls and theatres with her. She had come to London partially to consult a famous specialist in order to obtain a final opinion on the condition of her heart. Her doctor in Vienna had told her that she was now quite cured, a specialist in Paris had agreed with him. She pinned all her hopes on the diagnosis of the famous man in Wimpole Street. Foster and her maid Hanni accompanied her on the eventful visit, waiting anxiously in an anteroom. She came to them at last, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks glowing.
‘It is true – there is no doubt!’ she cried joyfully. ‘He was very careful, very thorough, and he says I am in perfect health – my heart is now as sound as a bell. How I love your English idioms, Bernard.’ She threw her arms round the maid’s neck. ‘How relieved you will be, my Hanni,’ she laughed. ‘No more need you accompany me to the receptions and fetes which must have bored you so much. I will not faint again – that is certain.’
‘It a long time is since you did zat,’ remarked Hanni in laboured English.
‘I know, but there was always the doubt. You will be glad to be relieved of that irksome duty – yes?’
‘Never am I tired of mine duty doing.’
‘Noble Hanni,’ applauded Sophie.
Foster felt he could apply another and far more deserved, as well as descriptive, adjective to the woman’s name, but for obvious reasons refrained. He told Sophie with simple sincerity of his great delight at the doctor’s verdict. She took his arm happily.
‘Come!’ she bade him. ‘We will go and celebrate.’
Foster met the two companions, of course, and liked them both. It was not long before he found that they were entirely devoted to the baroness. Once, when he looked up from some snapshots the latter was showing him, he found Rosemary’s gaze fixed on him. In her eyes he read sorrow and compunction; guessed that she found the task set her by the department she served as distasteful as he was doing. He wished he could have talked the matter over with her, but that was forbidden. He had been instructed to hold nothing but the most casual intercourse with her. She and Dora Reinwald presented a great contrast. Rosemary had beautifully waved brown hair, grey eyes, a slightly retroussé nose, and naturally scarlet lips that were most attractive in their shapeliness. She was, as a rule, vivacious, merry, and bright. Dora was of the pure Hebrew type. She had black hair parted in the middle and drawn back from her tiny ears. Her face was pale and serene, oval in shape, and perfect in every feature. Her eyes were large and dark containing in their depths that suggestion of remoteness which is so typical of her race. In her figure and all her movements she was amazingly graceful. Knowing of the unpopularity of Jews in Germany, Foster wondered how it was that Sophie retained in her service, apparently without question, a girl who was so obviously Hebrew. The three women were great friends – not once did her attitude towards the other two suggest that the baroness was mistress, they her paid companions, and Foster liked her all the better for it.
Wallace Intervenes Page 5
