THE SPY PARAMOUNT - E. Phillips Oppenheim

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am not going to tell you who it was.”

      “Capital,” Berati exclaimed. “Just what I should have expected from you. Put back your cigarette case, my young friend. After all, you probably saved my life, for, thanks to you, there was no second shot.”

      “You know who it was?” Fawley asked, a little bewildered.

      “Perfectly well,” Berati confided. “I joined my wife’s guests,” he went on, “chiefly for the pleasure of seeing whether you showed any embarrassment when you were presented to a certain one of our Roman beauties. My congratulations, Major. You have some of the gifts necessary in our profession, at any rate. Let me offer you a whisky and soda.”

      Fawley thanked him and helped himself. Berati’s intonation as well as his manner seemed to have become curiously Anglo-Saxon.

      “Listen, my friend,” he continued, “when an attempt is made upon my life, I never, if I can help it, allow anything to appear in the journals. You do not wish to give away a beautiful lady any more than I want to admit to the indignity of having been nearly wiped off the earth by so frail an instrument.”

      “I think, sir, that you are a very brave and a very forgiving man,” Fawley declared, with an impulsiveness which was absolutely foreign to his character.

      Berati laughed almost gaily.

      “No man,” he said, “who is in touch with the great affairs of the world can afford to be made ridiculous. An attempt on my life by my wife’s niece, by the Princess Elida, is a thing to smile at. Nevertheless,” he went on, his tone becoming a trifle graver, “I have reason to believe that the Princess was carrying with her a paper of some importance.”

      “She was,” Fawley admitted.

      “You discovered it?” Berati snapped out with a trace of his former manner.

      “I discovered it,” Fawley confessed. “Its purport is at your disposal.”

      “And the paper?”

      “I returned it to the Princess.”

      Berati’s air of bonhomie temporarily disappeared. He scowled.

      “An amazing act of gallantry at my expense,” he sneered.

      “Bad enough in my position, I admit, but not quite as bad as it seems,” Fawley pointed out. “I have already told you that the purport of that paper is at your disposal.”

      “It was signed by one who used to bear a great name in Germany?” Berati asked.

      “It was,” Fawley assented.

      “And in return for certain action on your part you were offered—?”

      “I can tell you specifically, if you like.”

      Berati shook his head.

      “A copy of the proposed agreement reached me ten minutes ago. My mind is not made up. I have decided to wait until you have visited Germany. Your reports from there will influence me. At present I have an open mind. The Princess Elida has been bitterly disappointed,” he went on, “by what she thought was a point-blank refusal on my part. She believes that I lean towards Behrling. She has the usual woman’s fault—she jumps at conclusions.

      “Is it permitted to ask what your intentions are with regard to the Princess?”

      Berati grunted.

      “Nothing venomous, I can assure you. I do not make war on women. She is now on her way to Vienna in the safest of my airships. I regret the necessity for such discipline, but she will not be allowed to cross the frontier again for a year. This need not disturb you, my friend, for I doubt whether you will spend much of your time in this country. You will recognise the fact, I am sure, that however much I may choose to risk in the way of danger, I cannot afford to be made ridiculous.”

      “I think that you have behaved very generously,” Fawley declared.

      Berati rose to his feet and touched the bell.

      “The car in which you arrived is waiting for you, Fawley,” he announced. “Your place is taken in the night train for Monte Carlo. You have thirty-five minutes. Good luck to you. Carlo,” he added in Italian, to the servant who had answered the bell, “show this gentleman to his automobile. He goes to the Central Railway Station. By the by, Fawley, your luggage has all been registered and your small things put in your compartment. Once more—good night and good luck to you.”

      Fawley lingered for a moment until the servant was out of hearing.

      “How do you propose to communicate with me, General?” he asked.

      “Concerning that you need not worry,” was the bland reply. “I do not approve of the telephone or the telegraph and I like even less letters which go through the post. Live your own perfectly natural life. Some day you will find in your salon a blue envelope.”

      CHAPTER VII

       Table of Contents

      The blue envelope!

      Fawley threw down the tennis racquet he had been carrying, turned the key in the lock of his sitting room door at the Hôtel de France and moved swiftly to the writing table on which the letter had been placed. He tore it open, read it very deliberately—for it was in a somewhat curious cipher which he had only just committed to memory—and then, lighting a match, watched it slowly consume to ashes. Afterwards he lingered for a few minutes on his balcony, looking up towards the misty peaks eastwards of Mont Agel. He no longer regretted the fortnight’s idleness, the nonappearance of Krust, the almost stagnant calm of his days. He had thoroughly established himself as a leisure-loving American with a passion for games. He now busied himself at the telephone, cancelling a few social engagements, for Fawley, reserved though he was by habit, was a man always sought after.

      “A few days’ golf up at Sospel,” he told every one, after he had packed his clothes.

      He wondered a little grimly whither those few days’ golf would lead him. Perhaps to the same place as Joseffi, who had been found in the gardens with a bullet through his heart and a revolver by his side, but who had never been known to enter the Casino in his life.

      “You are not leaving us, sir?” the valet de chambre enquired, as he answered the bell.

      “Only for a few days,” Fawley assured him. “I am keeping on my rooms.”

      “You are not leaving us, Major Fawley, I trust,” the smiling and urbane manager asked him in the hall.

      “Only for a few days,” Fawley repeated. “I am going to explore your

      hills and try another golf links. Back about Sunday, I should think. Keep my letters.”

      “I wish you a pleasant and successful expedition,” the manager remarked, with a final bow.

      Fawley’s smile was perhaps a little enigmatic. He waved his hand and drove off without further speech.

      * * * * *

      Fawley, some five days later, driving his high-powered Lancia car through one of the many passes of the lesser Alps between Roquebrune and the frontier, suddenly swung around a corner to find himself confronted by a movable obstruction of white freshly painted rails and an ominous notice. A soldier in the uniform of the Chasseurs Alpins stepped forward, his rifle at a threatening angle.

      “There is no road this way, Monsieur,” he announced curtly.

      Fawley, who had brought his car to a standstill, leaned forward and produced a map. He addressed the soldier in his own language.

      “My young friend,” he protested, “I fancy that you are mistaken.

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