LITMIR.BIZ

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his throat that passionate outburst of dismayed sympathy. He even kept it from his tone. It was a heaven-directed impulse.

      “Well, all I can say is,” he declared, taking both the girl’s hands in his, “thank God I have found you! Put that damn’ thing down and come and sit down here, Blute. Miss Grey—Patricia!”

      She was sobbing quietly into her handkerchief. No one took any notice. They were accustomed to tears nowadays. Blute stumbled over the broken cane chair on the outside and sank on to the divan. Charles took them both by the arm and some kindly fate seemed to have sent a waiter within calling distance.

      “Waiter,” Charles ordered. “Listen! I shall give you for your service—listen!—the biggest trinkgeld you ever had in your life. I have money—see,” he added, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing it out. “I want two bottles of the best wine you have in the place—Hungarian Carlowitz, if you have it. Something good, mind. Bring brandy, too—a bottle of brandy. Rolls and butter…Something to get us out of this place,” he explained to the other two in English, “until I can take you somewhere where we can eat.”

      The waiter set down a tray he had been carrying and departed at a gentle run, pushing his way wherever he met with an obstacle, his senses dazed by the memory of that handful of money. Charles drew his protégés closer to him. Patricia had tried twice to speak but found it impossible.

      “I know all about it without a word,” Charles said firmly. “There are hundreds just in the same plight—can’t get a schilling of cash in this damned country. I was very nearly in the same box myself. Luckily I have friends always in the hotels. I left some money with Herodin when I was here last and as I heard someone say the other day,” he went on, dropping his voice although indeed there was no one within hearing, “the Germans would elbow a Bishop on one side, but a famous hotel proprietor was always sacred.”

      “It’s Mr. Charles!” Patricia gasped. “It’s Charles Mildenhall!”

      “I know,” Blute said feebly. “I recognized him but I couldn’t speak. Day by day for months I have walked these streets looking for a friendly face and been scowled at by strangers. I’ve hung about the banks, I’ve argued at the tourist places. Charles Mildenhall, are you not afraid we shall murder you where you sit for that pocketful of money?”

      “Write me your I.O.U.‘s, if you like,” Charles invited, drawing out notes from his pocket. “Oh, we can do all that later on. Here’s the wine. My God, that fellow’s a hustler! Thank heaven this is Vienna and not an English city. It’s good wine.”

      The waiter’s hand was shaking so that he could scarcely draw the cork. Charles leaned over and took the bottle from him, reached to another table for a third glass and poured out three brimming tumblersful.

      “The rolls,” he said. “You’re a bright fellow, I can see,” he went on, as the man began to beam upon them. “Never mind about the butter. Rolls.”

      They came. Cheese came. Delicatessen followed. Butter that was eatable made its appearance. Neither of the two made the slightest hesitation about proving to their host the horrible truth—they were starving. He ate bread himself—coarse bread—and found it delicious. He had no need to be polite about the wine. It was good. Patricia set down her tumbler half empty. Already a little colour was flushing her cheeks.

      “Go steady with the rolls,” Charles advised them both. “I shall carry you away from this place for dinner.”

      “Dinner,” the girl faltered. “Just say that over again, Mr. Mildenhall. Dinner—something that smells good, perhaps!”

      “Schnitzel à la Viennoise“ he said light-heartedly, “in my private sitting-room at Sacher’s. How will that go with you, Blute?”

      Blute had a roll in either hand. He put one down and took a long draught of wine. For the first time he spoke coherently. He jerked out the words. They spelled their own tragedy.

      “I have been in prison for six months,” he groaned. “Towards the end of it we ate the filth the warders refused.”

      Charles would have nothing to do with sympathy. He nodded as though Blute’s was quite an ordinary confidence.

      “Hard luck! I just escaped prison myself this time. The world’s gone mad,” he added, patting Blute’s back and taking a fervent grip of Patricia’s hand. “Never mind. Thank heaven Fritz and I found the right place!”

      “You were looking for us?” she asked eagerly.

      “I should jolly well think I was,” he answered. “You don’t suppose I dropped in here to have a light meal, I hope? I knew things must have gone terribly for you when I discovered all about the currency restrictions, that Mr. Benjamin had completely disappeared and Dr. Schwarz was in prison. You see, I did my best to trace you. Don’t bother to tell me all about it yet. We must start another chapter of living again. Just get the ugly things out of your minds. A cigarette each? There we are! Now I’m the only conversationalist. I’m running this show. I’ve a taxi-cab outside. I take you under my charge. I’m taking you to the back entrance of my hotel—the manager loves me so much that he would give it to me if I asked him! By a route which I know quite well you will come with me to my sitting-room. I guarantee that within a few minutes of arriving there we shall be safely enclosed from any intruder.”

      “There will be police—and soldiers—” Patricia faltered.

      “Not within my four walls,” he declared, and his voice was full of confidence. “Now then, waiter—supposing I settle with you. How much for the wine and rolls and all the rest of it?”

      The man handed him a strip of paper. Charles put down the amount.

      “And now tell me,” he went on. “What is the largest tip you have ever received?”

      “A piece of gold,” the man faltered in a voice that was scarcely audible. “The patron who gave it to me was drunk.”

      “Well, I am sober,” Charles told him, “and I am very happy. There is the equivalent of five pieces of gold. Keep some for your wife and children.”

      They left the man supporting himself against the marble-topped table and stammering out his thanks. Charles held Patricia and Blute firmly by the arm, led them out into the street and tucked them into the taxi. He gave Fritz his orders and in seven minutes they were in the back regions of the hotel. They entered by the staff door and mounted quickly to the first floor. One turn to the left along the corridor and they were in Suite Seventeen. Charles threw his hat into the air.

      “Arrived!” he cried. “Joyfully and safely! Sit down. Wait for my orders. I am in command of this expedition.”

      His protégés were utterly numb. Speech would have meant a breakdown. Charles stood pressing the bell and beaming upon them. Servants came hurrying in. There was a valet, a waiter and a chambermaid. Never did Charles feel more thankful for his glib use of the Viennese patois.

      “Greta,” he directed, pointing to a door, “that is my bathroom. Take this young lady in there. My friends have been in distress like many others in this city. They have lost their baggage—everything. Prepare a bath for Fräulein, fetch anything she asks for and wrap her in a dressing-gown. Do not leave the suite until after you have seen her into her bath and then come to me for orders. Come here, Franz,” he went on, turning to the valet. “Take this gentleman into my bedroom and turn on a bath for him. Take linen, underclothes and socks from my suitcase and put them out for him. See that he has everything he needs—you understand?”

      “Perfectly,” the valet replied. “If the gentleman will come this way.”

      Blute followed the man out with shaking footsteps. Charles drew a long breath and lit a cigarette.

      “Kellner,“ he asked, turning to the waiter, “what is best for us to eat? My friends, you understand, have been starving.”

      The waiter smiled sympathetically. He had

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