The door-keeper stared as Maurice alighted from the car and approached him. A puzzled look appeared on his face, then a smile of recognition. He saluted; Maurice stepped into the hall. In a few minutes he returned with his chief, who listened with amazement to the outlines of his adventures. Maurice introduced him to George, who had remained in the car. Then, lifting the bonnet, George produced a soiled envelope which had lain concealed in the mechanism.
“The despatch, sir,” he said, handing the document to the agent.
Chapter XVI
RECONCILIATION AND REWARDS
It would be too much to say, perhaps, that the receipt of the despatch prevented a European war; but certain it is that within a few days afterwards the troops which had been mobilising on the frontier disbanded, and the British Foreign Office was credited with an unusually successful stroke of diplomacy. Among the telegrams that passed between London and Sofia was one from the Foreign Secretary warmly complimenting Mr. Buckland on his achievement, and another from the editor of a well-known paper asking for a detailed narrative, a request which, by the rules of the Service, Maurice was bound to refuse.
The Bucklands were for a week or two the lions of Sofia society. They were dined, danced, invited to receptions and reviews; George was introduced to the King, who honoured him with two words and a cigarette. Then, in response to an agitated letter from the Honourable Mrs. Courtenay-Greene, he one day left by train for Constantinople, the gyro-car being conveyed on a truck, and thence returned home by steamer.
He had just come down from Cambridge for his first vacation when he received a letter from Maurice that threw Mrs. Courtenay-Greene into a fresh state of agitation. His leave having been cut short in the summer, Maurice had been recompensed with a fortnight at Christmas, and had decided to avail himself of this opportunity to revisit the hospitable Albanian and reward him, or, if his pride forbade the receipt of pecuniary compensation for the losses he had suffered, to thank him in person for the services he had rendered. George at once announced his intention of joining his brother, and despatched a telegram asking where they could meet. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene protested against being left to spend Christmas without her nephew’s society, but George was determined, averring that Christmas in Albania would be much better fun than in London. Sheila called him a pig, but in the next breath said he was quite right, and she only wished she could go too.
The brothers met at Trieste, went thence to Scutari by steamer, and engaging a trustworthy guide, set off on horseback for Giulika’s dwelling in the hills.
It was a bright, cold afternoon when they jogged along the high road from Elbasan. The weather for the last week had been rainy, and George was aware for the first time that mud is not at its worst in London. On the low ground the road was sometimes impassable, and the riders had to pick their way where the mud was at least fathomable. When they came into the hills they found that their journey was scarcely less dangerous than it had been in summer with the gyro-car, for the horses slipped often on the rocky, frosted track, and the riders had to dismount and lead them.
They had nearly arrived at the path leading from the road to Giulika’s little village, and were resting at the top of a steep ascent, admiring the scene of wild grandeur outspread before them, when suddenly their ears were caught by the sound of a shot.