“And you won’t tell?” she begged.
“Not on your life. You leave it all to me.”
Marie Lou’s little face was grave as she hung up the receiver.
II
The Duke was in his dressing-gown, the brilliantly coloured robe of honour of a Chinese mandarin. The house telephone tinkled, and he picked it up. He thought that he had heard it ring a few moments before, when he was in his bath.
“Yes,” he answered. “This is the Duke de Richleau ... who? Herr Murenberg?... I don’t think that I ... what?... he says that I shall remember him as Fritz of the Baumgarten?... ah, yes, of course, let him come up.”
A few minutes later an official in a handsome uniform was shown into the Duke’s room.
De Richleau extended his hand. “My dear Fritz, this is an unexpected pleasure.”
Herr Murenberg took the Duke’s hand with marked deference, he clicked his heels and bowed low over it. “For me also, Altesse.”
“How many years is it since I have last seen you? Fifteen — no, twenty it must be — dear me, but you have prospered, my dear Fritz.” De Richleau patted the Austrian on the shoulder. “What a fine uniform you have got, to be sure.”