LITMIR.BIZ

      Charles crossed the hall, seated himself at a retired corner table in the restaurant, ordered a bottle of Gumpoldskirchner and sent for the waiter. With the help of a fragment of his roll he essayed and approved of the wine.

      “Ober Kellner,” he said to the man who came hurrying up, anxious to serve personally a client who he knew held such a high place in the esteem of the management, “it is necessary that I eat something.”

      “At this hour of the day, mein Herr,” the man replied, “it is a habit with many people to do so.”

      “You see this simple wine which I have chosen and which I like—what shall I eat with it? I am reversing the usual custom of letting the wine blend with the food. I am seeking for food which will bring out the flavour of this unusual and very pleasant beverage.”

      The ober Kellner smiled. For a Britisher he found Charles talkative.

      “It should be something quite plain and of the English type, sir,” he suggested. “A grilled entrecôte with my own sauce, potatoes soufflé and beans of the country.”

      “It will be a hearty meal,” Charles said a little doubtfully.

      “It is as well sometimes to prepare for the day when meals will be less easy to obtain,” the maître d’hôtel pointed out. “To-morrow, for instance, both restaurant cars have been removed from the Vienna-Innsbruck Express. The train, already, one hears, is above the regulation length and there are still hundreds of people clamouring for tickets.”

      “With the possibility of a day’s starvation in front of me,” Charles remarked with a twinkle in his eyes, “I will accept the luncheon you have offered. Afterwards I shall take a little mountain cheese and some fresh fruit.”

      The ober Kellner disappeared with his order. Charles looked round without seeing a single familiar face except that of the Princess Sophie, who sat at her accustomed table. She caught his eye and beckoned him. He rose at once and paid his devoirs.

      “It will be also farewell, Princess. I leave tomorrow.”

      “You are one of those fortunate people who have obtained a seat on the last train?”

      “I believe so.”

      “You travel alone?”

      “As there are over a thousand disappointed passengers I can scarcely hope for that good fortune.”

      “I do not mean the companions of necessity,” the Princess said. “I saw you just now in the small cocktail bar with the Baroness von Ballinstrode. I have not seen her since our dinner party at Leopold Benjamin’s.”

      “She said nothing of leaving Vienna in her conversation with me this morning.”

      The Princess looked thoughtful.

      “It is not my affair,” she continued, “but the Baroness was joined a few moments after you left by one of those German Nazi officers who have been thrust upon our city. Beatrice is always indiscreet. I have often reproved her for it.”

      “She is a friend of yours, the Baroness?”

      “My dear young man, she was a Von Bless, so how in Austria could one help it? Her father was a friend of mine, her grandfather was a great gentleman and our families have been connected for generations. Of Beatrice, who made an indiscreet marriage from which I am told she has never wholly escaped, I am bound to say that I have not a high opinion. I would not advise any young man for whom I had any regard to accept her close friendship.”

      Charles was thoughtful for a moment.

      “Tell me, Princess, why do you warn me about her?”

      “Because, from a word she let fall as she passed me in the hall,” she confided, “I thought it possible that she might be on your train, and although it is pure assumption on my part she left me with the idea that she had been discussing your probable presence upon it with her companion.”

      He looked round the room.

      “They don’t seem to be lunching here,” he observed.

      “She and her friend, I am told, are more often to be met with at Driegel’s, which is a more intimate place than this. However, do not take what I have told you too seriously,” she added. “It was perhaps scarcely worth mentioning. It did occur to me, though, that if you knew Beatrice as the daughter of a distinguished family here, which she undoubtedly is, you might be inclined to place more trust in her than she deserves. One might tolerate—in fact many of us do—her great friendship with one of our own people, but I am afraid that she has been indiscreet in other directions. I am a garrulous old lady, am I not, Mr. Charles Mildenhall? Forget all that I have said. Remember only the warning that lies underneath.”

      She gave him a little nod which he accepted as one of dismissal and returned to his place. His light-heartedness of the morning had to some extent disappeared. The more serious side of the adventure to which he was committed was assuming a more definite place in his thoughts. He had just finished his luncheon and ordered his coffee when a familiar figure entered the room, looked round for a moment or two and then made his way to Charles’s table. He was a middle-aged man, grey-bearded and bespectacled, carefully dressed and of not unpleasing presence. Charles had met him several times before, but their acquaintance was only a slight one.

      “Mr. Porter, isn’t it?” Charles asked as they shook hands. “Sit down for a moment. Perhaps you will join me in some coffee?”

      The visitor handed his hat and cane to the page who had followed him in but retained the despatch case which he was carrying.

      “You are very kind. I will take some coffee certainly. Very trying times, these, Mr. Mildenhall.”

      “They are indeed,” Charles agreed, summoning his waiter. “What about a cigar?”

      “If I could have one of the light ones, native growth,” he begged. “To tell you the truth I haven’t smoked for two days. His Excellency gave me so many small things to finish up for him at the Embassy—semi-personal, of course, some of them—that with those to look after and our own curious position to consider I’ve been a trifle overtaxed lately.”

      “You still have a staff of some sort, I suppose?”

      “Yes, but half of them are Austrians,” Mr. Porter explained, “and a great many of them have been called up. However, I don’t want to bother you with outside affairs too much. I’ve just had a long despatch from Lascelles, brought by plane from Munich. I have found all the papers he refers to and I have brought them for your attention. I suggest that you read the note from Mr. Lascelles, then you can give me a receipt for the papers and I can get back to work. If it’s true, as they tell me, that you are leaving to-morrow for Switzerland, you will have all you can do to get through them.”

      The Consul leaned back in the chair, lit his cigar and sipped his coffee and the glass of light but very pleasant liqueur brandy which Charles had ordered. Every now and then he looked out into the street. He was a native of Hull, the son of a well-to-do merchant captain, he had served in Rotterdam, Marseilles and Vienna and he had made up his mind as he sat there that he had had enough of it. Consular life in these days had become too strenuous. His pension was due in a few months. A farmhouse in Northumberland, two hundred acres of shooting and a seat on the Parish Council, perhaps, would be like a dream of Paradise after this restless continental existence. He watched Charles Mildenhall, a young man for whom he had a great respect, decode and read his letter at the same time,

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