“Ebbene?” began the consul.
“For the Lord’s sake give me a cigarette,” said Francis Gordon.
He had no papers to prove his identity. His eyes kept closing all the time he talked. The hand which held the cigarette shook like a jelly on a plate. He would neither say whence he had come, nor why, nor how. But he knew exactly what he wanted: he wanted Mr. Towsey—he said it over and over again—to send a telegram, a telegram in Embassy cypher addressed to the British Foreign Office for transmission to I. D. War Office. Also, he wanted to go to bed until the answer arrived.
“But hang it all,” said the Consul, “I don’t know anything about you. You turn up at seven o’clock in the morning. You start by talking Italian. Then you ask for a cigarette in English. Now you want me to let you use our secret code-book, and to pay for the cable out of government funds. . . .”
“And after that,” yawned Francis, “I want to sleep in your spare bed-room till the answer arrives.”
Mr. Towsey felt himself in an awkward position. Italy was still neutral; the diplomatic situation growing hourly more complicated. Then he looked sharply at the bedraggled weary man in the black soutane; decided to take the risk.
“Here, write your telegram,” he said, pushing paper and pencil across the desk. “I suppose you don’t want to code it yourself.”
“Oh, Lord, no.” Francis, eyes dizzy with sleep, wrote rapidly. “Please inform I.D.W.O. that No. 63 has arrived consulate Milan with important information. Stop. Can arrangements be made for him to be met at Modane by car and proceed direct to G.H.Q. France. Stop. Please request consul here to advance one thousand lire for clothes and travelling expenses. End.”
Said Mr. Towsey, reading it, “I think I’d better address this to Mr. Montgomery. . . .”