"And now tell me something of your methods," said I, as we sat down to meat.
Wilbur promptly grabbed me by the collar and dragged me after him under the table.
"What's the matter now?" I gulped.
"Fool!" he hissed. "The waiter is a Bulgarian spy."
"Let's arrest him then," said I.
Wilbur groaned. "Oh, you amateurs, you would stampede everything and ruin all!"
I apologised meekly and we issued from cover again and resumed our meal, silently because (according to Wilbur) the peroxide blonde doing snake-charming tricks with spaghetti at the next table was a Hungarian agent, and there was a Turk concealed in the potted palms near by.
I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled.
Then followed stirring days. Rome at that time, I gathered, was the centre of the spy industry and at the height of the sleuthing season, for they hemmed us in on every hand—according to Wilbur. I was continually being dragged aside into the shadow of dark arcades to dodge Austrian Admirals disguised as dustmen, rushed up black alleys to escape the machinations of Bolshevick adventuresses parading as parish priests, and submerged in fountains to avoid the evil eyes of German diplomats camouflaged as flower girls—according to Wilbur.
I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled and thrilled, bought myself a stiletto and a false nose.