Then followed stirring days. Rome at that time, I gathered, was the
centre of the spy industry and at the height of the sleuthing season,
for they hemmed us in on every hand--according to Wilbur. I was
continually being dragged aside into the shadow of dark arcades to
dodge Austrian Admirals disguised as dustmen, rushed up black alleys
to escape the machinations of Bolshevick adventuresses parading as
parish priests, and submerged in fountains to avoid the evil eyes of
German diplomats camouflaged as flower girls--according to Wilbur.
I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled and thrilled, bought myself a
stiletto and a false nose.
However, after about a week of playing trusty Watson to Wilbur's
Sherlock without having effected a single arrest, drugged one
courier, stilettoed a soul, or being allowed to wear my false nose
once, my thrillings became less violent, and giving Wilbur the slip
one afternoon, I went on the prowl alone. About four of the clock my
investigations took me to Latour's. At a small marble table lapping
up ices as a kitten laps cream, I beheld Temporary Second Lieut.
Mervyn Esmond.
You all of you remember Mervyn Esmond, he of the spats, the eyeglass
and grey top-hat, the Super-Knut of the Frivolity Theatre who used to
gambol so gracefully before the many "twinkling toes" of the
Super-Beauty Chorus, singing "Billy of Piccadilly." You must
remember Mervyn Esmond!
But that was the Esmond of yore, for a long time past he has been
doing sterling work in command of an Army Pierrot troupe.