The Lost Ambassador; Or, The Search For The Missing Delora

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

I was conscious of a distinct sense of relief. The thought that she might have told me a falsehood had given me a sudden stab.

"Where is Mr. Delora, then?" I asked.

"That we can guess," Louis said. "We want you to go to him."

"Very well, Louis," I said. "I am perfectly agreeable, only you must tell me who this Mr. Delora is, why he is in hiding, and who you mean when you say 'we'."

"Monsieur," Louis said, "if it rested with me alone I would tell you all these things. I would give you our confidence freely, because we are a little company who trust freely when we are sure. The others, however, do not know you as I know you, and I have the right to divulge only certain things to you. Mr. Delora has come to this country on a mission of peculiar danger. He has a secret in his possession which is of immense value, and there are others who are not our friends who know of it. Mr. Delora had a signal at Charing Cross that there was danger in taking up his residence here. That is why he slipped away quietly and is lying now in hiding. If monsieur indeed desires an adventure, I could propose one to him."

"Go ahead, Louis," I said.

"Let it be understood that Mr. Delora has returned.—As I have already told you, he has not returned. The door of his room is locked, and no one is permitted to enter. It is believed that to-night an attempt will be made to force a way into that room and to rob its occupant."

"The room is empty, you say? There is no one there?" I interrupted.

"Precisely, monsieur," Louis said, "but if some one were there who was strong and brave it might be possible to teach a lesson to those who have played us false, and who have planned evil things! If that some one were you, Captain Rotherby, we should consider—Monsieur Decresson and the others would consider—that your debt to them was paid!"

I whistled softly to myself. I began to see Louis' idea. I was to enter, somehow or other, the room in which Mr. Delora was supposed to be, to remain there concealed, and to await this attack which, for some reason or other, they were expecting. And then, as the possibilities connected with such an event spread themselves out before me, my sense of humor suddenly asserted itself, and, to Louis' amazement, I laughed in his face. I came back from this world of fanciful figures, of mysterious robberies, of attempted assassinations, to the world of every-day things. It was Louis—the maître d'hôtel, the man who had ordered my Plat du Jour and selected my Moselle—who spoke of these things so calmly in my own sitting-room, with a menu card in his hand, and a morocco-bound wine list sticking out of his breast pocket. I was not in any imaginary city but in London,—city of tragedies, indeed, but tragedies of a homelier sort. It was not possible that such things could be happening here, in an atmosphere which, through familiarity, had become almost commonplace. Was I to believe that Louis, my favorite maître d'hôtel, my fellow schemer in many luncheon and dinner parties, my authority upon vintages, my gastronomic good angel, was one of a band of conspirators, who played with life and death as though they had been the balls of a juggler? Was I to believe that there existed even in this very hotel, which for years had been my home, the seeds of these real tragical happenings which sometimes, though only half disclosed, blaze out upon the world as a revelation of the great underground world of crime? I found it almost impossible to take Louis seriously. I could not focus my thoughts.