Chapter Twenty Four. Room Number 164.

Days, many anxious, fevered days, passed—bright winter days during which Hubert was frantically active in his efforts to discover some clue to the mystery of the stolen plans of the frontier fortresses.

Not a stone did he leave unturned in his quiet, patient endeavours, and aided by the faithful Pucci—to whom he still hesitated to reveal the exact object of his search—he kept constant watch upon the actions of His Excellency the Minister of War.

Suspicions were very strong against the latter. He had discovered one important point, namely, that within a week from the loss of the documents the sum of one hundred and sixty thousand lire was paid into the General’s account at the Banca Commerciale, and, further, that it appeared to have come from an unknown source.

Agents employed by Pucci had also watched the two secretaries, Lambarini and Pironti, but against neither was there any suspicious circumstance.

Several times had Waldron had audience with His Majesty, but was compelled to confess that he had nothing to report, while from Vienna came the secret information daily that, though a great army had been mobilised, the “manoeuvres” had not yet commenced.

The very silence was full of menace.

More than once—at Court, at the Embassy, and in the princely drawing-rooms of Rome—Hubert had met Her Highness. He had stood beside her full of love and admiration, at the same time puzzled at the paleness of her countenance and the constant anxiety which seemed ever expressed there. Since that night when he had delivered Pujalet’s note to her she had never seemed the same.

Yet she would tell him nothing—absolutely nothing. It was her secret, she said—a secret which she steadily declined to divulge.

“Why do you not take my advice and leave Rome?” she asked one night when she was dancing with him at a great ball at the Rospigliosi Palace. “You are in constant peril.”

“I have my duties here,” was his answer. “I cannot leave.”

She sighed, and as he held her in his arms he felt that she was trembling.

“Why won’t you heed me?” she implored, looking up at him with those wonderful eyes of hers. “Do.”

“Because I am not my own master,” was his reply. “Because I cannot.”

General Cataldi was there, in his fine uniform resplendent with stars and ribbons, and it chanced that at that moment his eyes fell upon the handsome pair.

He regarded them suspiciously, thoughtfully stroking his white moustache.

“That Englishman, Waldron, seems on very friendly terms with the Princess Luisa,” he remarked to the brilliant, handsomely dressed young woman at his side—the Countess Cioni.

“Yes,” was the answer of the lady in pink in the glittering tiara. “I, too, have noticed it. But Luisa is always making queer friendships.”

“He was whispering to her a moment ago, just before they commenced to dance,” the General remarked. “Has Her Highness ever mentioned him?”

“Oh yes. They met up the Nile, I understand, when Luisa was sent away from Court in disgrace.”

“Ah! then the friendship has been of some duration—eh?” grunted His Excellency, casting another strangely suspicious look at the pair as he turned away.

Late one night, about a week later, Hubert had been to an official dinner at the Russian Embassy, in the Via Gaeta, and the weather being bright and starlight he threw his cloak over his uniform and, lighting a cigar, started to stroll home.

It was past one o’clock and few people were astir in those narrow, ill-lit Italian streets with their high, dark houses. He had turned from the Via Gaeta into the narrow Via Curtatone on his way towards the Piazza del Cinquecento—which was the shortest cut to his rooms—when, ere he was aware of it, a dark figure lurched suddenly out of a doorway and he was dealt a stunning blow at the back of the head, causing him to reel, stumble, and fall.

His assailants, of whom there were two—who had apparently been lying in wait for him—bent quickly over his prostrate form with keen knives drawn, when Hubert’s hand shot out and next second one of the men staggered back with a revolver bullet in his stomach. So swiftly had the Englishman defended himself that the second man, ere he could use his knife, received a bullet in the cheek, whereupon the pair both wounded and in fear because of the alarm caused by the report of the explosions, slipped round the corner and were well out of sight before a policeman from the neighbouring piazza came running up eagerly to discover what was wrong.

The whole affair happened within a few seconds, but never had Hubert Waldron been nearer death than at that moment.

His presence of mind to draw his weapon which he had carried loose in the pocket of his cloak, and at the same time to fall heavily as though stunned and unconscious, had saved his life. Had he simply fallen back against the wall his assailants’ knives would, no doubt, have been buried in his heart ere he could have fired.

He had escaped death by an ace.

The policeman, on arrival, found him standing with his back to the wall, recovering from the sudden shock.

“Two men knocked me down,” he replied in answer to the police agent. “But I fired at them. Hit both the brutes, I believe,” and he laughed.

“Dio! Which way did they go?” asked the man.

“Round there, to the left, into the Via Vicenza, I believe. But you’ll never find them. Besides I didn’t see them well enough to be able to recognise them again.”

“The signore is a diplomat, I see. May I not know his name, for the purpose of my report?”

“No,” replied Waldron, for he was not anxious that Ghelardi should learn of the incident, as no doubt he would, if formal report were made that a British diplomat had been attacked in the streets. “It’s nothing,” he said. “They tried to rob me, that’s all.”

And then placing ten francs in the man’s hand he picked up his cocked hat and went his way.

What Lola had told him was the truth. But how could she possibly have known that such a desperate attempt was about to be made?

What motive could there be to seal his lips, save because he was endeavouring to see a solution of the mystery of the missing plans!

Was it possible that those two assassins whom Pucci knew to be two of the most desperate characters in Rome were the hirelings of General Cataldi?

On his way homeward that theory became more than ever impressed upon him. His Excellency was guilty of connivance at the theft, and knowing that he was near arriving at a solution of the mystery, intended that his mouth should be closed.

After he had bathed the injury to his head, he threw himself into his chair and sat for a long time pondering, trying to make up his mind how, in face of the present situation, he should act. Was it possible that Lola, being friendly with the Countess Cioni, had somehow learned of the General’s fears, and had obtained information as to the projected plot? If so, why did not Her Highness, so friendly was she, reveal to him the whole strange truth?

No. There was some curious element of mystery in her attitude towards him. She was concealing something—but what it was he could not in the least discern. He loved her—ay, better than any man had ever loved a woman. He regarded her as his sole ideal, for before her all other feminine beauty faded. He, who had run the whole gamut of gaiety in the exclusive Society of the capitals; he who had trodden the diplomatic stage of Europe ever since a child, had at last met the one woman who was sweet perfection; the one woman before whom he had thrown himself upon his knees and worshipped—on that fatal night when his enemy had, alas! discovered him.

And yet the situation seemed so utterly hopeless. His love was, after all, but a hollow mockery, and could only lead to grief and black despair, while his utter failure to trace the hand which had stolen the plans was, he knew, causing His Majesty to lose all faith in him. He had been in Brussels upon a mysterious errand instead of carrying out His Majesty’s desire.

Italy was at that moment menaced on every side. Complications had arisen with Turkey during the past week or two, while her relations with France were not of the best regarding certain Customs tariffs which France had suddenly risen in order to further strangle Italian trade.

Yes, indeed, the time was now absolutely ripe for Austria to strike her long-premeditated blow. And if she did, then Italy, in her state of unpreparedness, and her serious quarrel with Turkey regarding Tripoli, must, alas! succumb.

Next morning, when Peters brought Hubert the Tribuna in bed as usual, he saw an announcement that His Excellency General Cataldi, Minister of War, was leaving that evening for Lyons, to visit his brother, who was lying dangerously ill there.

Why that sudden journey? he thought. The news had no doubt been communicated to the Press by His Excellency himself.

During the day he reflected upon the matter many times, until at six o’clock that evening, dressed in an old tweed suit, and presenting the appearance of a ten-day-ten-guinea tourist, he entered a second-class compartment of the Paris rapide—having first watched the General into the sleeping-car.

That evening he dined upon a roll and a piece of uncooked ham which he bought at the station, and that night he spent crossing the wild, dreary Maremme marshes in sleepless discomfort, for the Italian railway administrative are not over-generous towards the second-class traveller.

By Pisa, with a glimpse of its white Leaning Tower, Carrara with its dazzling white marble quarries, Genoa, Turin, and the glorious scenery of the Mont Cenis, they at last gained France, until at last, late on the following day, they arrived at the long, inartistic station of Culoz, and there, watching intently, he saw the General in his fur-lined overcoat and felt hat descend, and change into the train for Lyons, an action which he himself followed.

On gaining Lyons, however, His Excellency, who was alone and quite unconscious that he was being followed, entered the big buffet of the terminus, and having waited there an hour, purchased a ticket for Tours.

The story of the invalid brother was at once exploded! He had left Italy with some other object in view.

Travelling by a slow train across the mountains, they did not arrive in the pretty capital of Touraine until early next morning, and then the General, entering the omnibus of the Hôtel de l’Univers, drove down the wide Boulevard Heurteloup, while Hubert went to a rival house, the Metropol, in the Place du Palais-de-Justice.

An hour later, however, he called at the Univers, and by means of a judicious tip to the under-concierge—the concierge being absent—discovered that the Italian gentleman who had arrived had given the name of Conio—Emilio Conio, of Milan, he had written in the register.

The Englishman now saw that the object of the Minister’s journey was, no doubt, to keep some secret appointment. Therefore he decided to risk detection and transfer his quarters to the Univers, which he promptly did.

Through all the day he watched the General very closely. During the morning, overcome by his journey, His Excellency slept, and not until four o’clock did he come down to idle in the lounge. Then after half an hour he crossed the Place and entered one of the cafés there for a vermouth.

His attitude was as though he expected someone who had not arrived.

Hubert smiled within himself when he reflected how he had followed this man who had bribed assassins to take his life, and how utterly unconscious he now was of being watched.

“The Italian gentleman is expecting a certain Herr Steinberg, of Berlin, to-night,” the assistant concierge whispered to Hubert when he entered the hotel just before dinner. “He is to arrive at ten o’clock to-night.”

And then, as his hands closed over the louis which the Englishman produced, he added:

“I will let you know, by a note to your room, m’sieur.”

Hubert, fearing to meet His Excellency in the salle à manger, went out and dined at the Curassier, a noted restaurant in the Rue Nationale, and did not return before half-past ten.

In his room he found a scribbled line as arranged.

Then, descending by the lift, he sought the assistant concierge, and from him discovered that the pair were in consultation in room Number 164.

“Yes, I believe there is a door between that and the next room, m’sieur,” the man replied.

“Good. Then get me the key for an hour or so, and I will make it all right with you.”

The profession of concierge is synonymous of bribery. No concierge in Europe lives upon his stipend. Hence within ten minutes Hubert was crouched against the door of the adjoining room, listening to the conversation of the Italian Minister of War and the stranger from Berlin—a conversation which certainly proved highly instructive.