21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
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not forgive.”
“Have you been looking for any particular sort of trouble, Martin?”
“Perhaps so. At any rate, I have this consolation. The goal towards which I have been working for years is worth while. Any man in the world would feel justified in devoting his whole life, every energy of his brain, every drop of blood in his body towards its accomplishment, yet I cannot even make up my own mind whether my last few months’ energies have been the energies of an honourable man. I should hate to be arraigned at any court in which my conscience would be the judge.”
“That damned Quaker streak in our family cropping up,” the young man muttered sympathetically.
“Perhaps so,” his brother agreed. “After all, it is the old question of whether the end can justify the means. Soon I shall be face to face with the results which will tell me that; then I shall know whether I shall ever be able to rid myself of the fetters or not.”
“I wonder,” Micky speculated, “what makes you so eager to get out of harness. You were always the worker in our family.”
“The same damned silly reason, I suppose, which has brought your diplomatic career to an end,” Fawley answered, with a note of savagery in his tone. “Within thirty seconds of knowing Elida di Vasena, I saved her from committing a murder. Within five minutes I had the evidence in my hand which would have sent her out to be shot as a spy, and within ten minutes I knew that I cared for her more than any other woman I have ever known.”
“Does she know?” Micky asked, with a note of reverence in his tone.
“Was there ever a woman who did not know when she had succeeded in making a fool of a man?” Fawley rejoined bitterly. “I have not told her, if that is what you mean. I doubt whether I ever shall tell her.”
Jenkins presented himself upon the threshold. He stood on one side as he opened the door.
“The Princess di Vasena, sir,” he announced.
CHAPTER XXI
It was evident from the moment of her entrance that Elida was not entirely her usual composed self. She was breathing rapidly as though she had run up the stairs. Her eyes darted restlessly around the room. The sight of Micky in no way discomposed her. She drew a sigh of relief, as though the thing which she had feared to see was absent. She nodded to the young man as she held out her hand to Fawley.
“You see that my brother is here to answer for his sins,” he remarked.
She sank into a chair.
“Poor Micky!” she exclaimed. “Some day I hope he will forgive me when he understands.”
“Oh, I forgive you all right,” Micky conceded. “I was just an ass. Didn’t quite understand what I was doing, I suppose.”
“Do any of us?” she lamented. “Please give me a cigarette, Martin. You have, perhaps, some brandy. I have been greatly disturbed and I am not well.”
Fawley produced cigarettes, touched the bell and ordered the liqueur. Elida took one sip and set the glass down. She looked half fearfully at her host.
“The little girl of Krust—Greta—she has not been here?”
“Not that I know of,” Fawley assured her. “I have not seen her since I left Berlin.”
“Nor Krust? Nor Maurice von Thal?”
“Not one of them.”
She seemed a trifle relieved. She threw open her cloak a little and tapped a cigarette upon the table. Her eyes were still full of trouble.
“I am almost afraid to ask my next question,” she confessed. “Pietro Patoni?”
Fawley shook his head. This time he was bewildered but grave. If Patoni was in London, there might indeed be trouble.
“I have not seen him,” he assured Elida, “since I was in Rome.”
“I know the fellow,” Micky put in. “Nephew of a holy cardinal, with eyes like beads. Looked like a cross between a stork and a penguin.”
Elida smiled despite her agitation.
“Kindly remember that he is my cousin,” she said. “Anyhow, I am thankful that he has not found you out yet, Martin. I have word that he is in London, and if he is in London, it is because he is looking for you. And if Krust is in London, or any of his emissaries, it is because they are looking for you. And if Greta or Nina are here, they are here for the same reason.”
“Well, my name is in the directory,” Fawley observed, “both here and in New York. I am perfectly easy to find. What do they want with me?”
“I think,” Elida confided, “that they all want to kill you—especially Pietro.”
“He looks just that sort of pleasant fellow,” Fawley remarked.
“He hates all of us Americans,” Micky grumbled. “He was never even decently civil to me.”
Elida took another sip of her fine, lit a second cigarette and relaxed. A slight tinge of colour came into her cheeks. Her lovely eyes had lost their tiredness.
“It is not so much that he hates Americans,” she explained. “He resents their interference in European politics. He has a very clear idea of how the destinies of Italy should be shaped and just now there are rumours passing across Europe which are stupefying everybody. I came over myself to see if I could learn anything of the truth. I am ashamed of what I did but I wanted so much to know.”
Her eyes were pleading with Fawley’s. He avoided their direct challenge.
“To revert to this question of Prince Patoni and his antipathies,” he said, “I should not think that America herself was very keen about any individual interference upon this side.”
“Please do not try to mislead me any more,” Elida begged. “I understand that I may not have your confidence—perhaps I do not deserve it—but you need not try to throw dust in my eyes. There is something else I have to say.”
She glanced at Micky and hesitated. He rose to his feet.
“I will be toddling off, Martin,” he announced. “Good night, Princess.”
“No ill will, Mister Micky?” she asked, smiling. “Those cables were terribly uninteresting. They did me no good whatever.”
He made a wry face.
“Sorry,” he rejoined gruffly. “They didn’t give me much of a boost!”
She waited patiently until the door was closed behind him then she turned almost hysterically to Fawley.
“Why have you not reported to Berati?” she cried breathlessly. “Tell me what has brought you here? Do you know that you are in danger?”
“No, I don’t think I realised that,” he answered. “One always has to watch one’s step, of course. I did not go back to Berati because I had not finished my job.”
“What part of it have you to finish here in England?” she demanded.
“I had most of my clothes stolen in Berlin,” he confided. “I had to come and visit my tailor.”
“Is that sort of thing worth while with me?” she protested. “Do you not understand that I have come here to warn you?”
He smiled.
“This is London,” he told her. “I am in sanctuary.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asked wonderingly.
“Of course I do.”
Elida