"Lola," he cried at last, unable to stand the sight of her tears and
despair, and equally unable to restrain--himself longer. "Lola! Let me
help you--let me know the real facts, however ugly they may be--and I
will get you out of this difficulty! I implore you to do this,
because--ah! you force me to confess to you, though I have believed
myself strong enough to preserve my secret--_because I love you_!"
She started quickly and drew back, staring at him in surprise through
her tear-dimmed eyes.
"You!" she gasped.
"Yes," he answered in a quick, low whisper, grasping her small hand in
his. "I know that I have no right to speak to you thus, but I cannot
hold my secret longer. My love for you is forbidden, and besides I
know, alas! too well, that your affection is centred upon another--Henri
Pujalet--the man who loves you."
Mention of her lover's name seemed to electrify her. She snatched away
her hand, turned her head and ejaculated:
"No, no. Do not mention that man's name, I beg of you?"
This caused Hubert considerable surprise. Was it actually possible that
they had quarrelled? He recollected that Pujalet had told him that he
had come to Rome to meet her.
"I regret, Lola, if I have annoyed you," he said quickly in deep
apology, "but the fact remains that I love only you--you, my love!"
"You have forgotten your Spanish dancer--eh?" she asked in a strange
tone of reproach.
"I took your advice," was his simple reply; "and in doing so I gradually
grew to love you, Princess, yet knowing that my affection could only
bring me, a lonely man, grief, pain and despair."
She was silent. Her little, white-gloved hand was again in his, and he
had raised it reverently to his lips.
Ah! that was to him a moment of extreme ecstasy, for her hand lay inert
and he saw that though her head was turned to conceal her emotion, her
chest heaved and fell convulsively. She was sobbing.
He placed his arm tenderly about her small waist, and slowly she turned
her tear-stained face to his. Their gaze met, but no second glance was
needed to show that the passionate affection was reciprocated, though it
remained unspoken, unacknowledged.
For some moments he held her in his strong, manly embrace, and though no
word passed between them their two hearts beat in unison.
Alas! it was but a false paradise. Yet are not our lives made up of
such? And we, all of us, are prepared to sacrifice years of weariness
and of grief for five brief minutes of sweet illusion.
He did not speak. He knew not what to say. The serious nature of that
theft on the previous night he realised, alas! too well. Had that
intricate key plan passed from her hand, then the whole truth would have
been out, and Europe must have been suddenly aflame.
As it was, his duty remained towards her, to strive to stifle the
scandal and prevent the story either reaching the King's ears or
becoming public property.
Cataldi knew that the key had been stolen, and would probably inform His
Majesty, in which case Hubert would be hastily summoned to audience and
closely questioned.
In such circumstances what could he explain? Ay, what?
For fully five minutes the pair stood there motionless, save that with
his hand he had softly stroked her cheek. Then, unable to repress the
passion that arose within his bursting heart, he bent until his lips
touched hers in a fierce, passionate caress.
She turned her great, expressive eyes upon his, those eyes that were so
deep and fathomless, and sighed heavily as he kissed her. Her beautiful
head was thrown back, displaying her slim white throat, around which was
a thin platinum chain from which was suspended a tiny platinum locket
encrusted with diamonds, a gift of the Tzarina. She was inexpressibly
sweet and refined, her soft beauty seeming the more perfect as she stood
there inert in the man's strong arms.
Again his lips met hers. Then to his boundless joy he felt that, at the
same instant she kissed him in return.
Yet next second, as though annoyed that she should have flung discretion
to the winds, she gently disengaged herself from his embrace, saying in
a low, pained voice:
"No, Hubert--I--I mean Mr Waldron--this is madness. I--we can never be
anything but friends, alas! though I--"
She broke off short, and hot tears again filled her splendid eyes.
Then, covering her face suddenly with her hands, she burst into a fit of
sobbing.
Hubert crossed and turned the key in the door in case Peters might
enter.
Then, returning to her, he strove to comfort her. He implored her, with
all the pleading he could summon, to reveal to him the whole story of
the plans and the reason she had abstracted them.
But she gravely shook her head, and still preserved a resolute silence.
The man stood bewildered. He saw himself in a terrible quandary.
Within a few hours the King might get to know, or Cataldi might
inadvertently mention the mysterious theft of the key plan.
The Press--and more especially the scurrilous section of it on the
Continent--has an ingenious way of ferreting out details regarding
scandals which is gravely disconcerting to those who are trying to
suppress them.
Of his love Hubert Waldron made no further mention. Her mild reproof
held him tongue-tied. He knew, alas! too well, the bitter truth of her
simple remark. They could never be more than friends, for she must
marry a Prince of the blood-royal. The pride of the Royal House of
Savoy would never admit or sanction a morganatic marriage.
For fully another quarter of an hour she remained there. He saw,
however, upon her face traces of tears, and when she grew calmer he
opened the door of his room, into which she passed, and there bathed her
eyes with eau-de-Cologne.
When she again emerged she was her old self, though still very pale and
nervous, and just before one o'clock she drew on her long gloves and,
taking up her blue, morocco hand-bag which bore the royal cipher in
gold, bade him a low, half-whispered "_Addio_."
"Not farewell," he said, bending and kissing her hand. "Keep a stout
heart, Lola. Do nothing rash. Act with great caution and discretion,
and I, on my part, will do all I can to preserve silence." She shook
her head despairingly.
"That does not remove the terrible stigma upon me," she said. "It does
not remove my guilt!" And with those words upon her white lips she
passed through the door which Hubert unlocked for her and down the
stairs to the busy street; he following in silence.
In order not to attract notice she would not allow him to call a
_vettura_, but preferred to walk. Therefore, slipping out of the door
with another whispered adieu, she was instantly lost to his sight.
When he returned upstairs the telephone bell was ringing, and he
responded.
He heard the detective, Pucci, speaking.
"You missed me, signore--eh?" he said cheerily, though the voice sounded
far away. "I am at Orvieto--at the Hotel Belle Arti--eighty miles from
Rome. I could not communicate with you before leaving. Can you come
here? It is most important. I cannot leave."
"Neither can I," Waldron replied. "Why have you gone to the country?"
"I am keeping observation upon a friend of yours, signore."
"A friend of mine! Who?"
"The gentleman whom you spoke with at the station in Rome last night--a
foreigner."
Waldron started. Could he mean Henn Pujalet?
"A Frenchman?"
"_Si, signore_. His behaviour was curious, therefore I came here with
him. I have made a discovery. Will you come here? If you leave by the
two-eighteen from Rome--the Milan express--you can be here soon after
five. I would return to Rome but I have no one here whom I can trust to
follow if he leaves," Pucci explained.
Waldron felt that in the circumstances to leave Rome was impossible--and
yet on further reflection he saw that if the King summoned him to
audience would it not be best to be absent from the capital and thus
gain time for action? The brigadier, Pucci, was not a man ever to
follow false scents. He must have discovered something gravely
mysterious. Was it possible that he had found out that the elegant
Frenchman was the lover of Princess Luisa!
He had only a few seconds to make up his mind. "Very well, Pucci. If
you think it necessary I will leave by the train you mention. Meet me
at the station."
"_Benissimo, signore_," answered the voice faintly dying away, as it
does upon some trunk-telephone lines.
Waldron tried to question him further, when the querulous voice of the
female clerk at the Exchange declared that the time was up, and promptly
cut him off without further ceremony. Telephone operators are no
respecters of persons, whether one Is in Paris, Pekin, Petersburg, or
Paddington.
Swallowing a sandwich at the station buffet, and travelling without
luggage, Hubert Waldron entered a first-class compartment of the
express, which that afternoon was well-filled by foreigners leaving Rome
for the north--the reason being that the Roman season, now over, Society
was making for Paris and London, as fast as it could. There is always a
headlong rush at the end of the season, be it in Egypt, on the Riviera,
from Algeria or from any French or German watering-place. It is always
helter-skelter to the capitals, regardless of comfort or of expense, and
the Compagnie des Wagons-lits reaps a rich harvest always.
The journey from Rome up the wooded valley of the winding Tiber, through
a country rich in ruins of the ancient Etruscans, lay through the real
heart of Italy, delightfully picturesque, yet for Hubert in his state of
mind it held no attraction. He sat in the compartment together with two
elderly Englishwomen of the quiet, _pension_ type, and a young and
rather foppish German student, impatient to meet the detective, and hear
from him the result of his observations.
Orte, high up amid its most delightful surroundings, was passed at last,
and then, after several stoppages--though the train was termed an
express--Orvieto, situate upon the top of its steep rock was reached, a
Gibraltar on land, an invulnerable fortress in the days of the Etruscan
League, and in mediaeval times a great stronghold of the Guelphs, and
often affording refuge to the Popes.
The station lay below the town, which latter was reached by a funicular
railway through a long, dark tunnel beneath the fortress. And upon the
platform, as the train ran in, Hubert discerned a rather
insignificant-looking man in shabby black and somewhat down at heel--a
man at whom no one would cast a second glance. It was the brigadier,
Pucci.
Hubert descended and crossed towards him, but to his surprise the
detective turned away and did not appear to recognise him.
Indeed Pucci hurried off quickly as though business had called him
elsewhere, and ere the diplomat could approach he was already out of the
station.
In a secluded corner, away from the view of other arriving passengers,
the detective halted, saying with relief:
"_Madonna mia, signore_! That was a narrow escape of being detected."
"Why?" inquired Hubert in surprise.
"Why, did you not see who arrived by the train with you?"
"No," replied the Englishman. "I was not watching."
"Her Royal Highness the Princess Luisa alighted from your train."
"Her Highness?" he gasped utterly dumbfounded.
"Yes; but I hope she has not seen you," Pucci remarked dubiously.
"Then Pujalet is here--still at the hotel," said Hubert, for he at once
realised the object of Lola's visit there.
"_Si, signore_. Presently I will tell you what I have by the merest
chance discovered," Pucci replied. "But we must be extremely wary--or
the Princess may see us. She is evidently on her way to the hotel to
meet your friend the Frenchman. We will let her go, and follow quickly
afterwards. Last night a complot was afoot--some desperate plot--But my
suspicions were aroused, and by some action of yours--I know not what--
it was frustrated."
"But what do you know, Pucci?" Hubert Waldron demanded breathlessly.
"Tell me quickly."
"I will tell you presently--after we have ascertained the motive of this
journey of Her Highness," replied the detective quietly. "Ah! I am
glad you have come here, Signor Waldron. There is something in progress
which is an entire mystery to me--something which I believe that you
alone will be able to explain."
"But you have said there was a plot which was frustrated last night. Of
what was its nature?" The detective did not reply. His head was turned
towards the roadway, which his quick eyes were watching intently.
"Her Highness has gone up to the hotel," he said. "Let us hasten and
watch. I will explain all later. Come--we have not time to lose. This
fellow, Flobecq, is a very slippery customer."
"Flobecq!" echoed Hubert Waldron, starting in amazement.
"Yes. His name is Flobecq, yet I suppose that is not the name by which
you know him--eh?"
"Flobecq!" gasped Hubert Waldron. "You are dreaming. Surely that is
not his name."
"Yes, signore, I tell you it is. His name is Mijoux Flobecq!"