“Well, I do not see that I should be betraying any confidence now,” he said. “The promise I gave was only binding for a short time, and now that she is to be seen openly with the Duchess de Montegarde, I suppose the embargo is removed. The young lady is the Princess Helène Frances de Bourbon, and the young man is her betrothed husband, the Prince of Ortrens!”
Piccadilly became suddenly a vague and shadowy thoroughfare to Wolfenden. He was not quite sure whether his footsteps even reached the pavement. Densham hastened him into the club and, installing him into an easy chair, called for brandies and soda.
“Poor old Wolf!” he said softly. “I’m afraid you’re like I was—very hard hit. Here, drink this! I’m beastly sorry I told you, but I certainly thought that you would have had some idea.”
“I have been a thick-headed idiot!” Wolfenden exclaimed. “There have been heaps of things from which I might have guessed something near the truth, at any rate. What a fool she must have thought me!”
The two men were silent. Outside in the street there was a rush for a special edition, and a half cheer rang in the room. A waiter entered with a handful of copies which were instantly seized upon. Wolfenden secured one and read the headings.
“MOBILIZATION DECLARED.
All Leave Cancelled.
Cabinet Council Still Sitting.”
“Densham, do you realise that we are really in for war?”
Densham nodded.