“Have I ever broken it? Never again will I sing in this City. It is so.”
Bellamy looked around. The garden of the villa was enclosed by high gray stone walls. They were secure here, at least, from eavesdroppers. She rested her fingers lightly upon his arm, holding up the skirts of her loose gown with her other hand.
“I have spoken to you,” he said, “of Dorward, the American journalist.”
She nodded.
“Of course,” she assented. “You told me that the Chancellor had promised him an interview for to-day.”
“Well, he went to the Palace and the Chancellor saw him.”
She looked at him with upraised eyebrows.
“The newspapers are full of lies as usual, then, I suppose. The latest telegrams say that the Chancellor is dangerously ill.”
“It is quite true,” Bellamy declared. “What I am going to tell you is surprising, but I had it from Dorward himself. When he reached the Palace, the Chancellor was practically insane. His doctors were trying to persuade him to go to his room and lie down, but he heard Dorward’s voice and insisted upon seeing him. The man was mad—on the verge of a collapse—and he handed over to Dorward his notes, and a verbatim report of all that passed at the Palace this morning.”
She looked at him incredulously.