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Fawley declared. “May I ask how far we are going?”

      The Prince sighed.

      “Alas, it can be only a short cruise,” he regretted. “The Princess is unfortunately commanded to lunch.”

      “Then I suggest,” Fawley said, “that we commence our conversation.”

      Elida leaned forward. She looked earnestly at her opposite neighbour.

      “We want to know, Major Fawley, whether it is true that you are going to Germany with Adolf Krust and his two decoys?”

      “We should also,” the Prince added, “like to know with what object you are visiting that country and whether you are going as the accredited agent of Berati?”

      “Would it not be simpler for you to ask General Berati?” Fawley suggested.

      “You know quite well,” Elida reminded him, “that for the present I am not allowed in Italy. Believe me, if I were there, I should find out, but I may not go and I know well that my letters here are tampered with. Prince Patoni promised me news but nothing has come.”

      Fawley reflected for a moment.

      “How did you know,” he asked, “that I was going to Germany?”

      She smiled.

      “My dear man,” she protested, “I am, after all, in a small way doing your sort of work. I must have a few—what is it you say in English?—irons in the fire. Adolf Krust, I hear, is hoping for great things from the little girl. Are you susceptible, I wonder?”

      Fawley looked steadily across at the Princess.

      “I never thought so until about a month ago,” he answered. “Since then I have wondered.”

      She sighed.

      “If my hair were that wonderful colour and my morals as elastic, do you think I could throw a yoke of roses around your neck and lead you into Germany myself?”

      “A pathetic figure,” Fawley observed. “I will go with you to Germany at any time you invite me, Princess. But, I should carry out my work when I got there in exactly the way I intend to now.”

      “I want you to meet General von Salzenburg,” she murmured.

      “The world’s fire eater,” Fawley remarked.

      “These damned newspapers!” Von Thal exclaimed angrily in his deep bass voice. “What is it to be a fire eater? Fire purges the earth. God knows Europe needs it!”

      “I am not a pacifist, by any means,” Fawley protested, accepting a cigarette from Elida. “In the old days war was the logical method of settling disputes. There was no question of reparation. The victorious nation cut off a chunk of the other’s country and everything went on merrily afterwards. Those days have gone. War does not fit in with a civilisation the basis of which is economic.”

      Von Thal stiffened visibly. One could almost feel the muscles swelling underneath his coat.

      “It seems strange to hear an ex-army man, as I presume you are, Major Fawley, talking in such a fashion,” he declared. “To us war is a holy thing. It is a means of redemption. It is a great purifier. We shall not agree very well, Major Fawley, if you are going to tell us that you are a convert of Krust.”

      “I am not going to tell you anything of the sort,” Fawley replied, helping himself to another sandwich. “As a matter of fact, I have had very little conversation with Herr Krust. Between our three selves, as the Princess here has had proof of it, I am working on behalf of Italy. All I have to do is to make a report of the political situation in Germany as I conceive it. The rest remains with General Berati and his master. Besides,” he went on, “it would be very foolish to imagine that my reports would be more than a drop in the bucket of information which Berati is accumulating. He is a very sage and far-seeing man and he is collecting the points of view of as many people as he can.”

      Von Thal grunted.

      “I am afraid,” he pronounced, “that our conversation is not approaching a satisfactory termination.”

      “You see,” Elida murmured softly, “our information does not exactly match with what you tell us. We believe that Berati is prepared to shape his policy according to your report. The great national patriotic party of Germany, to which my cousin here and I belong and of which General von Salzenburg is the titular chief, is the only party which we believe in, and for our success we must have the sympathy of and the alliance with Italy.”

      “And war?” Fawley queried gravely.

      “Why should I deny it?” she answered. “And war. You do not know perhaps how well prepared Germany is for war. I doubt whether even Adolf Krust knows; but we know. War alone will free Germany from her fetters. This time it will not be a war of doubtful results. Everything is prearranged. Success is certain. Italy will have what she covets—Africa. Germany will be once more mistress of Europe.”

      “Very interesting,” Fawley conceded. “You may possibly be right. When I get back from Germany, I shall very likely be in a position to tell you so. At present, I have an open mind.”

      Von Thal poured himself out a glass of wine and drank it. He turned to Elida. His expression was unpleasant.

      “This conversation,” he said, “has reached an unsatisfactory point. The Princess and I must confer. Will you come below with me, Elida?”

      She shook her head slowly.

      “For what purpose, dear cousin? We cannot stretch this obstinate gentleman upon the rack until he changes his mind.”

      “Neither,” Von Thal said savagely, “can we turn him loose to hobnob with Krust to destroy the golden chance of this century. It must be Von Salzenburg who signs the treaty with Italy—never Adolf Krust or any other man.”

      “That,” Fawley observed quietly, “is not for us to decide.”

      Von Thal, a mighty figure of a man, took a quick step forward. Elida’s arm shot out, her fingers pressed against the lapels of his coat.

      “There is nothing to be done in this fashion, Maurice,” she insisted. “Major Fawley is our guest.”

      “It is not true,” Von Thal declared. “He is our prisoner. I, for one, do not believe in his neutrality. I believe that he is committed to Krust. He is for the bourgeoisie. This is not a private quarrel, Elida. It is not a private affair of honour. We must do our duty to the party for which we work, for the cause which we have made ours.”

      “It seems to me a most unpleasant way of ending a mild argument, this,” Fawley ventured. “I told you that I have given no pledges. My mind is not made up. It will not be made up until I have visited Germany. I have accepted your invitation to discuss the matter. You are displeased with me. What is there to be done about it? You are not, I presume, thinking of murder.”

      “To kill a man who is an enemy to one’s country is not murder,” Von Thal shouted.

      “To kill a guest,” Fawley retorted, “is against the conventions, even amongst savages!”

      “You are not a guest,” Von Thal denied. “You are the prisoner who walked into a trap. That is a part of warfare. It seems to me you are to be treated as a man enemy.”

      “Have it your own way,” Fawley yielded. “Anyway, those are the best caviare sandwiches I ever ate in my life.”

      Elida laughed softly. She laid her hand upon Von Thal’s arm.

      “Maurice,” she pleaded, “yours is a hopeless attitude. Major Fawley is too distinguished a personage to be treated without due consideration, and I, for one, have no wish to see the inside of a French prison.”

      “What am I here for, then?” Von Thal demanded angrily. “I

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