“I can quite believe,” said Anthony, “that the Obolovitch may have been a trifle high-handed now and again. It runs in the blood. But people in England expect that sort of thing from the Balkans. I don’t know why they should, but they do.”
“You do not understand,” said the Baron. “You do not understand at all. And my lips sealed are.” He sighed.
“What exactly are you afraid of?” asked Anthony.
“Until I have read the Memoirs I do not know,” explained the Baron simply. “But there is sure to be something. These great diplomats are always indiscreet. The apple cart upset will be, as the saying goes.”
“Look here,” said Anthony kindly. “I’m sure you’re taking altogether too pessimistic a view of the thing. I know all about publishers—they sit on manuscripts and hatch ’em like eggs. It will be at least a year before the thing is published.”
“Either a very deceitful or a very simple young man you are. All is arranged for the Memoirs in a Sunday newspaper to come out immediately.”
“Oh!” Anthony was somewhat taken aback. “But you can always deny everything,” he said hopefully.
The Baron shook his head sadly.
“No, no, through the hat you talk. Let us to business come. One thousand pounds you are to have, is it not so? You see, I have the good information got.”
“I certainly congratulate the Intelligence Department of the Loyalists.”