LITMIR.BIZ

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Benjamin was just saying that he had only been to three private collections in Europe and it was your uncle’s—I think he said in Norfolk—which pleased him best.”

      “Why are you speaking in the past tense?” he asked her suddenly. “Mr. Benjamin hasn’t gone away, has he?”

      “Please don’t ask me that,” she begged.

      “But surely they wouldn’t have touched him?”

      “What did they do to the Rothschilds?”

      “The Rothschilds were more or less politicians,” he reminded her. “Our own Ambassador here has told me that Mr. Benjamin has never taken any part in the life of the city except to interest himself in every work of philanthropy and charity of every sort.”

      “I’m afraid that doesn’t seem to go for much with Germans. Anyhow, I will tell you what has happened. That message Mr. Blute brought to-night was peremptory.”

      “Who the mischief is Mr. Blute?” he asked.

      “Another time,” she answered restlessly. “The Baroness is waiting for you outside. I want to show you something. Come this way, please.”

      He followed her obediently. She led him into the farthest corner of the room and through a heavy door into a smaller apartment, also lined to the ceiling with books but with a desk in a corner and more signs of habitation. In a few seconds she paused.

      “Would you please close your eyes tightly,” she begged.

      He obeyed at once, raising his hands and pressing them against his eyeballs. A moment later she passed him. He felt the swish of her gown and caught a whiff of the perfume of roses. Then she called to him from a few yards away. She was standing with the handle of a door between her fingers, a door which comprised a portion of the bookcases themselves. Beyond was what seemed to be a vast apartment as black as night.

      “Come here quickly,” she enjoined.

      He hurried to her side. She leaned forward and touched an electric switch in the wall. A few lights shone out in the room, which must have been at least a hundred and fifty feet long. He stared into its shadows in amazement. Then the walls themselves disclosed their secret.

      “This is the main picture gallery,” she whispered. “You see?”

      There were plenty of spaces on the walls where pictures had hung, but of pictures there was not a trace. She looked up into his face.

      “You understand now?” she asked.

      “I understand,” he replied.

      She led him back again into the smaller room and passed out of it into the main library. She was a little breathless and she listened intently before she spoke.

      “Quite half of the most valuable pictures have gone,” she said.

      “Safely out of Austria?”

      There was distress in her eyes as she answered him.

      “Not yet. We have sworn that they shall be got out, or Mr. Benjamin would never have left. He ought to have gone weeks ago. His wife is in Paris. I can’t tell you how wonderful Mr. Blute has been, and how clever, but nothing would make Mr. Benjamin leave this place until the very last moment. He knows now that his name is first on the list of the Jews who are to be thrown into prison. The Nazis may come to-night. Certainly they will be here tomorrow. All we have to pray for is that he will get away safely.”

      “Wonderful!” he murmured.

      “Mr. Benjamin is a miracle man,” Patricia went on. “You will think so if ever the truth comes out. His enemies will think so when they seize his bank and go through his books. Now, one thing more and you must go. He left you a present.”

      “A present?”

      She unlocked a drawer, pushed back a sheet of tissue paper and showed him a flat volume with gilt edges exquisitely bound in white vellum.

      “There were only six of these made,” she confided. “It is the catalogue—the complete catalogue—of the pictures, the statuary and the tapestries. You will realize its importance later on. Mr. Benjamin himself said it would be one of the world’s treasures. It is his recompense to you because he could not show you his pictures. Take great care of it, Mr. Mildenhall. It is the last one in this country. Here is a case for it.”

      She slipped it into a plain brown leather wrapper.

      “Now you must go,” she insisted. “I have been as quick as I could, but the Baroness must have been hating me for the last ten minutes!”

      “But can’t we—shan’t we meet again?” he begged.

      “I haven’t time to think of anything of that sort just now.”

      She pushed him very gently towards the door.

      “You must go,” she went on. “We may meet again somewhere—sometime. Who knows—and does it matter?”

      Suddenly he felt that it did matter. That delightful little tremulous mouth and the sad eyes which looked as though they were really made for laughter and happiness suddenly seemed to make a new appeal to him.

      “Of course it matters,” he declared. “To-morrow—next day—anywhere—at any place.”

      “I have work to do,” she sighed. “It isn’t ordinary work. It is sacred. Until it is finished I have no time for any other thought. Please go.”

      They had reached the hall. Heinrich came respectfully forward.

      “The Baroness is getting very impatient, mein Herr.” he said.

      Charles Mildenhall held out his hand. Patricia’s fingers were like ice.

      “Take care of yourself during the next few days,” she advised. “Even for foreigners Vienna will not be a happy place.”

      “You must tell me—” he began.

      She had suddenly turned away. Her hand was almost snatched from his. He caught a glimpse of the gathering tears in her eyes. She flew up the great staircase, slim and wonderfully graceful in those rapid movements.

      “You will pardon me, mein Herr,” a voice sounded in his ears. “The Baroness is leaving.”

      Patricia had disappeared. Mildenhall followed Heinrich to the door.

      “I am an angry woman,” the Baroness declared, throwing him a portion of the rug which covered her knees but retiring a little farther into her corner.

      “I beg you to excuse me,” he said. “Really, the message was quite important.”

      “And you have a present,” she observed.

      “Yes.”

      “Really, of all the men I know you are the most ungallant,” she pronounced. “You go away to flirt with that little girl and leave me here shivering. What am I to expect from you in the future if you treat me like this so early in our acquaintance?”

      “It is a relief to me to know that there is to be a future,” he replied.

      “You do not deserve one—with me.”

      The rug slipped. He stooped to replace it. Somehow or other their hands came into collision. He retained his hold upon her fingers.

      “How amiable I am!” she sighed. “Why should I allow you to hold my hand when you have been so rude to me?”

      “The greatest privilege a woman possesses is the privilege of forgiving” he reminded her.

      “That was never written by a writer of romance,” she told him. “Forgiveness should be earned.”

      “Teach me how to earn it, please.”

      She sighed again.

      “Well,”

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