Bertie Morris drained his glass and then folded the paper he had been reading with great nicety. The journalistic habit inspired a restless curiosity which would probe even the intimate affairs of his friends. He knew that the letter was of great importance, and was almost indignant that his great friend did not speak of its contents.
"Well," he said, with a pretence of a yawn, "I suppose it's time for me to be trotting. See you to-morrow, anyhow."
Faber thrust the letter into his breast coat pocket and lighted a new cigar.
"If I am here, why, yes; maybe I'll not be here."
"You'll not be here! But haven't you an appointment with General Heinstein, to say nothing of the Count?"
"An excellent pair; they can amuse my man of business. I guess I'm going to England."
Bertie whistled.
"You don't toe the mark for any ceremony, Faber. What about this White Cross?"
"Let them hang it round the neck of the little girl at the Alcazar. I've seen the Emperor, the one big man in this country, perhaps the one big man in Europe, unless you care to name Kitchener. The others are no good to me."
"Then you'll be going sure?"