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him, and you think that I may have papers. My little butterfly lady, you are very much an amateur at this sort of thing, aren’t you? Men do not carry papers nowadays. It is too dangerous. Besides, who am I to see what lies behind Berati’s mind?”

      “I tell you that I care nothing about Berati,” she cried suddenly. “I was weary of being alone and I came to see you.”

      She moved across and stood beside him. She was wearing some sort of negligée between golf and dinner costume, something in one piece with vivid flashes of scarlet and wide sleeves, and her arm rested affectionately upon his shoulders.

      “Please do not be horrid to me,” she begged. “Mr. Krust has been very kind to me. If we could help him—either Nina or I—we should do so, but not at your expense.”

      “You would have no chance, little Greta,” he told her, with a very gentle caress. “Since we seem to be arriving at an understanding, tell me what I can do for you.”

      “First of all,” she said, drawing her arm tighter around him, “try to believe that I am not the frivolous little idiot I sometimes try to appear. Secondly, believe also that when I came here this afternoon, the great thing in my mind was to see you, not to be like one of the adventuresses of fiction and pry about for papers; and thirdly, as I am left all alone, I thought perhaps you might take pity on me and ask me to dine—just you and I alone—only much later.”

      He looked out of the window, over which the curtains had not yet been drawn, at the flashing lamps of the square, and further away at the lights stealing out from the black curtain of the shrouded hillside.

      “My dear,” he protested, “you are inviting me to flirt with you.”

      “Is it so difficult?” she whispered. “I am much nicer than you think I am. I am much fonder of you than you could believe.”

      “It would not be difficult at all,” he assured her. “But alas, how would you feel when I told you, as I would have to very soon, that most of the time when I am not thinking of more serious things I spend thinking of another woman?”

      She stood quite still and he had a queer fancy that the soft palm which she had stretched out upon his cheek grew colder. It was several moments before she spoke.

      “I would be sorry,” she confessed. “But, after all, the days are past when a man thinks only of one woman. It was beautiful to read of and think of, but one scarcely hopes for it now. Who is she, please?”

      “What does it matter?” he answered. “I am not sure that I trust her any more than I trust you. The truth of it is I am a clumsy fellow with women. I have lived so long with the necessity of trusting no one that I cannot get out of the habit of it.”

      She hesitated for a moment.

      “I can be truthful,” she said earnestly. “With you I would like to be. It was not writing paper I searched for in your drawer and if I could have opened your box, I should have done so. I have a bunch of keys in my pocket.”

      “But what is it you are hoping to find?” he asked.

      “Mr. Krust,” she said, “thinks that you must know towards which party in Germany Berati is leaning. He thinks that you must know the reason why he is not allowed to go to Rome.”

      “Supposing I assured you,” he told her, “that I have not the faintest idea what lies behind Berati’s mind. He has not asked my advice or given me his opinion. I have learnt more from Mr. Krust than from him. I have not a single paper in my possession which would interest you in any way. If I might make a wild guess, it would be that Berati is afraid that Krust might gain access to and influence the greater man who stands behind him.”

      “Is that the truth?” she asked fervently.

      “It is the honest truth,” he assured her. “You see, therefore, that I am useless, so far as regards your schemes. Realising that, if you would like to dine with me, I should be delighted.”

      “If you want me to,” she consented eagerly. “I believe you think that I am very terrible. Perhaps I am, but not in the way you imagine. Do you want me to dine with you, Major Fawley? Would it give you pleasure?”

      “Of course it would,” he answered. “I warn you that I am a very wooden sort of person but I am all alone for to-night, at any rate, and you are not an unattractive young woman, are you?”

      She smiled a little oddly.

      “Well, I do not know,” she said. “I do not think that unless a clever man has a flair for women, we girls have much to offer. What time, please?”

      “Nine o’clock,” he decided. “You shall tell me about Germany and the life there. I am rather curious. I find the political parties almost impossible to understand. You may make a disciple of me!”

      “Perhaps,” she murmured, as she took her very reluctant leave, “we might find something even more interesting to talk about than German politics.”

      CHAPTER XI

       Table of Contents

      Fawley felt that fate treated him scurvily that evening. Some great European notable staying in the Hôtel de France had taken it into his head to entertain the local royalty, who seldom if ever was seen in public, and Greta and he had scarcely established themselves at their corner table before, amidst a buzz of interest, a very distinguished company of guests made their way towards the magnificently beflowered and ornamented table which had been reserved for them. There were princes and princesses in the gathering, dukes and duchesses, men and women of note in every walk of life and—Elida. She came towards the end of the procession, walking side by side with a famous English diplomat, and she passed within a yard or two of Fawley’s table. For the moment he was taken unawares. He half rose to his feet, his eyes even sought hers, but in vain. If she was surprised at seeing him there and under such circumstances, she gave no sign. She passed on without a break in her conversation, easily the most distinguished-looking figure of the party, in her plain black frock and her famous pearls.

      “What a beautiful woman,” Greta sighed, “and I believe that you know her.”

      Fawley, who had recovered from his momentary aberration, smiled.

      “Yes,” he admitted, “once upon a time I knew her—slightly.”

      “What will she think of you?” Greta reflected. “I wonder how long it is since you have met. Will she think that you have married, or that, like every one else who comes to this quaint corner of the world, you have brought with you your favourite companion?”

      “She probably won’t think of me at all,” Fawley replied. “We only met for one day and ours was rather a stormy acquaintance, as a matter of fact.”

      “She is more beautiful than I am,” Greta confessed naïvely. “She looks very cold, though. I am not cold. I have too much heart. I think that is the pity about Germans. We are abused all over the world, I know, but we are too sentimental.”

      “Sentimentality is supposed to be one of your national characteristics,” Fawley observed, “but I do not think your menkind, at any rate, allow it to stand in the way of business—of their progress in life, perhaps I should say.”

      “Adolf Krust is sentimental,” she continued, “but with him all his feelings seem to be centred on his country. He loves women, but they mean little to him. He is what I call a passionate patriot. At any cost, anyhow, he wants to see Germany stand where she did amongst the nations.”

      “Almost the same with you, isn’t it?”

      She shook her head.

      “Not quite. Very few women in the world have ever put love of country before love of their lover. I suppose we are too selfish. I am fond of Germany, although I see her faults, but she could not possibly occupy

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