Chapter Twenty Nine. Reveals the Bondage.

On his return home Hubert sat at his table, and very carefully broke open the stolen envelope.

To his surprise, he found that it merely contained several pieces of tracing linen upon which were many lines, angles, and numbers, all of which were quite unintelligible.

There were four small sheets, each about twelve inches square and as far as he could make out, they related to certain plans—or else they were plans in themselves. The scale seemed very small; therefore, after a long examination, he came to the conclusion that they must form the key to other plans, and had been reduced purposely, so that they could not be used without considerable preparation.

If they formed a key, this, no doubt, would be done in order that no improper use might be made of them.

The four pieces of tracing linen were practically covered with cabalistic signs and numbers, short lines, long lines, and all sorts of carefully ruled angles at various degrees. Yet there was nothing whatever upon them to show what they were.

There, during the night, beneath his shaded reading-lamp he strove to puzzle out their import.

Upon one he discovered that the various calculations appeared to be heights in metres and centimetres, and certainly in another were measurements concerning reinforced concrete.

Suddenly a startling thought flashed across his mind. The plans of the new fortresses on the Austrian frontier had been stolen, but as far as he could gather no use had been made of them. True, the army of Austria-Hungary had been mobilised and was held in secret, hourly ready for attack. Yet no formal representations had been made from the Vienna Foreign Office to Rome, and all inquiries had failed to establish that the reason of the secret mobilisation was actually due to the alleged act of war on the part of Italy.

Was it possible, therefore, that the plans stolen were worthless and conveyed nothing without that neatly executed key which lay spread on the blotting-pad before him? Would Her Highness, when she met him next day, reveal to him the truth?

For the present he had imposed silence upon his enemy, the crafty old Ghelardi. But how long would that last—how long before Italy, and indeed the whole of Europe, rang with the terrible scandal of a Royal House!

That night he locked away the envelope with its precious contents safely in his steel dispatch-box and still in his clothes, cast himself upon the bed to sleep. But it was already nearly five in the morning, and he failed even to close his eyes.

The discovery of Lola’s treachery had utterly bewildered and unnerved him. Surely she could not want money—and the temptation of money alone makes the traitor. He loved her still. Yes, after that first revulsion of feeling at the moment when he had caught her in the very act it had become more than ever impressed upon him that by her sweetness and beauty she held him in her toils—that he loved her with a mad, profound passion, a deep and tender love, such as he had never before experienced, not even in the case of that brilliant-eyed Andalusian who had been so near dragging him down to his ruin.

Ay, he loved her, even though the bitter truth how stood revealed in all its naked hideousness. Yet, alas! he could not tell her of his love. No. He dare not! Between them there existed a wide barrier of birth that was of necessity unsurmountable. She, a princess of the blood-royal, could never be permitted to marry a mere diplomat, any more than she could marry the man to whom she had given her heart, Henri Pujalet.

Thoughts of the latter brought reflections that he was in Rome. That fact was very curious, to say the least.

Had not the Frenchman urged him to keep his presence a secret from Lola? Why? He had, he said, arranged to meet her.

Feelings of the most intense jealousy and hatred arose within Hubert’s heart, for did he not remember that passionate love-scene he had witnessed beneath the palms in far-off Wady Haifa.

At nine o’clock the telephone bell rang, and he replied to it.

It was Renata, Lola’s maid, who explained that Her Highness would be unable to go out to Frascati, but would call upon him at noon—an appointment which he eagerly confirmed.

Just before eleven Waldron called upon General Cataldi and was shown at once into the Minister’s private room.

Without much preliminary he said in Italian:

“I am anxious to know whether another document of very great importance has disappeared from Your Excellency’s safe?”

The General looked at him keenly, in wonder at his meaning.

“I confess I scarcely follow you,” he replied.

“Well, I have suspicion that, during the reception last night another valuable confidential document was abstracted—an envelope containing several sheets of tracing linen.”

His Excellency, quickly taking the safe key attached to his watch-chain, rose eagerly and opened the big steel door.

“Yes,” he gasped, turning pale, “it’s gone! What do you know about it, signore?”

“No,” laughed the Englishman; “this is not quite so serious, for though it was actually stolen last night I already have it safe in my possession.”

“You!”

“Yes. I recovered it. But first please tell me to what the tracing refers.”

“Why, to the plans of our new fortresses along the Austrian frontier,” was his prompt reply. “I doubt if they would be understood without that key. Pironti declares they would be valueless.”

“Then the same person who stole the key would have stolen the original plans—eh?”

“Without a doubt. Who was the thief? You know, signore! I can tell it from your face.”

“True, I do know, but at present Your Excellency must excuse me if I remain silent. I hope in His Majesty’s interest—indeed in the interest of the Italian nation to be able to avoid a scandal.”

“But surely you can tell me in confidence. Signor Waldron,” the General protested. “The plans disappeared and I know from my own personal observations that His Majesty held me in suspicion, as responsible for their safe keeping.”

“No suspicion can further attach to you, General Cataldi,” the Englishman assured him, “nor to your secretary. But I have called to ascertain exactly the nature of the key plans.”

“I am much relieved if suspicion has been lifted from my shoulders, signore,” was the General’s reply. “I know that both you and our friend, the Commendatore Ghelardi suspected that someone in the Ministry had connived at this act of espionage.”

“The theft has been committed by a person outside the Ministry.”

“Who—do tell me who, signore,” he cried eagerly.

“Not at present. I can say nothing. I am only here to obtain further information, so that I may make a complete report to His Majesty and explain of what assistance Your Excellency has been to me.”

The General—the man who had accepted bribes from every quarter—hesitated for a few seconds. This man whom he had hitherto regarded as his enemy was, he thought, evidently his friend, after all!

“The tracings of the key were purposely upon a smaller scale, so that they would have to be enlarged by photography, or re-drawn, to be of any use,” he said. “Three days ago they were examined by the Committee of National Defence in view of the theft of the plans themselves; my secretary placed them in the safe prior to being returned to the Department of Fortifications.”

“Then I take it that the missing plans are quite useless to any outsider without the measurements and calculations upon the key?”

“That is so.”

“You have never stated this before,” remarked Waldron in surprise.

“No question has been put to me.”

“But the plans were stolen and the consequences extremely grave.”

“And Ghelardi has been in search of the thief. He is no friend of mine,” said the General with an expressive smile.

“Hence you have not mentioned the key—eh?” His Excellency smiled again in the affirmative. “Then, if the key is safe, the plans are, after all, useless?”

“Exactly, Signor Waldron. Indeed I question whether a foreign Power could make out what new construction were intended—and certainly they could not—without the tracings you refer to—discover the strength of the armaments of the forts.”

“Then that is all I require to know at present,” Hubert said, and a few moments later, as Pironti entered, he took his leave.

At noon he was standing in his room when the crooked-backed Peters ushered in Her Royal Highness. She was dressed smartly, but neatly, in deep black, with a large hat which suited her admirably, though her face was white as paper.

“I was unable to go out to Frascati,” she explained, as she put out her gloved hand to him. “So I thought it better to risk being seen and to call on you, Mr Waldron.”

The door was closed and they stood alone.

His eyes were fixed upon her, and for some seconds he did not reply.

“Lola,” he said at last, “I—I really hardly know what to say. The whole affair of last night is too terrible for words.”

“I know, Mr Waldron. Ah! I—I feel that I cannot face you, for what excuse can I make? I have no excuse—none whatever.”

“But why in Heaven’s name have you betrayed your country—why have you placed yourself so utterly and entirely in the hands of your enemies?” he cried in blank dismay.

“Because—ah! because I have been compelled.”

“Compelled to hand Italy’s secrets over to the hands of her enemies?” he asked in bitter reproach.

“Yes. But, at the time, I was in ignorance of what I was doing—of the fateful consequences—until, alas! too late.”

“And then?”

“Then, when I realised what! Had done—when I knew that I had made such a terrible mistake, and, further, that you were in search of the thief, I became horrified. Ah! you do not know what I have suffered—how horrible, how awful it has all been; in what constant dread I have lived all these long months, forced as I was to betray my country which I love.”

“Forced—what do you mean?” he asked with a very grave look.

“I was forced, because I was utterly helpless,” she gasped, her gloved hand upon the back of a chair to steady herself. “Last night I failed, because—because of you, Mr Waldron, and that failure means to me but one thing—death—death by my own hand!”

He stared at her, starting at her strange words. “Why, what do you mean, Lola?” he asked quickly. “Are you really in your right senses that you should say this?”

“I tell you quite openly and frankly, that I have come this morning to see you, because of my promise of last night—but it is to see you for the last time. Now, when I leave you I shall go back, and before to-day is out, I shall have bidden farewell to you—and to all!”

“No, no. You are not yourself to-day,” he said. “You—a Royal Princess—contemplating suicide! It’s absurd! Think of the terrible scandal—of your family, of the Royal House.”

“The scandal would be greater, if I dared to live and face exposure.”

“But why face exposure?”

“There is no other way. Last night, just as I was within an ace of releasing myself from the terrible bondage, you entered and discovered the disgraceful truth. Ghelardi, too, knows it. He will tell His Majesty—for he hates both you and I, as you well know.”

“Your Highness may rest absolutely assured that he will say no word to the King—he dare not.”

“Dare not? Why? Ghelardi will dare anything.”

“He will not dare to utter a syllable regarding the events of last night,” said Waldron. “Therefore this affair remains between you and me.”

And he looked her straight in the face, much pained at that tragic interview.

“Be frank with me, Lola—do!” he urged after a moment’s pause. “Tell me the real truth, and I may yet be able to save the situation.”

“No,” she cried, wringing her hands frantically. “You cannot. I have come to bid you good-bye—you, my good friend. Ah! I have been too foolish; I have disregarded all good counsels, and have gone down—down to my death! Yet only; because I have loved. Had I not had the misfortune to have been born a princess I should have loved and been happy. But, alas! happiness is impossible for me, unfortunate as I am—only death—death!”

And she stood, her white nervous lips moving in silence, her fine eyes fixed straight before her as though looking into the Unknown, horrified, transfixed.