He turned to the waiter answering the summons.
"Bring me a Continental Bradshaw."
"Do you come in for anything?" asked the practical Bethune.
"Anything?"—the young man laughed with a touch of excitement. "I'm the only one left. There's a palace in Siena ... and a flat in Rome ... and a villa somewhere. And a lot of land, vines and olive groves and a nice fat income ... and—Bethune—don't roar!—I'm the present Marquis. They actually address me..." he choked with mirth—"as the Illustrious Marquis Maramonte!"
"Good for you." Bethune leaned across and the two shook hands. "I'm jolly glad. It'll make old Cadell sit up a bit—you've a dead cert there." He chuckled with glee.
"Splendid—I forgot that." His face sobered suddenly. "Although I've half a mind ... yes!—Look here, Bethune—keep this between ourselves—it's not likely to leak out—and I'd rather win Cydonia as plain Peter McTaggart."
His voice softened on the girl's name. What a setting for her—this palace in Siena!
"All right, old man. I quite understand. You can count on me to keep my mouth shut."
The waiter returned and they fell to ways and means, wrestling with the Bradshaw, discussing the route.
"I'll come back and give you a hand with your packing. You'll be wanting a car now, Monsieur le Marquis?"