“I was only scratched,” said Triona. “A week or two afterwards I was back in the Russian service.”
“I see,” said Wedderburn with unexpected frostiness.
He turned to greet a woman of his acquaintance standing near, and husband and wife were left for a few seconds alone.
“You never told me about serving with the British forces.”
“It was just an interlude,” said he.
The hostess came up and manœuvred them apart. Dinner was announced. The company swept downstairs. Olivia sat between her host and Colonel Onslow, Lady Aintree opposite, and next her, Captain Wedderburn. For the first time in her married life Olivia suffered vague disquiet as to her husband’s antecedents. The rugged-faced, bright-eyed man on the other side of the table seemed to hold the key to a phase of his life which she had never heard. She wished that he were seated elsewhere, out of sight. It was with a conscious effort that she brought herself to listen intelligently to her host who was describing his first meeting with the now famous Alexis Triona, then valiantly driving hireling motor-cars under the sobriquet of John Briggs. She felt a touch of ice at her heart. For the second time that night she had heard the unfamiliar name. Alexis had told her, it is true, of his early struggles in London while writing Through Blood and Snow, but of John Briggs he had breathed no word.
The talk drifted into other channels until she turned to her neighbour, Colonel Onslow, who after a while said pleasantly:
“I’m looking for an opportunity of a chat with your husband, Mrs. Triona. From his book, he seems to have covered a great deal of my ground—and it must have been about the same time. It’s strange I never came across him.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “His Secret Service work rather depended on his avoidance of other European agents.”
Colonel Onslow yielded laughingly to the argument. Of course, that was quite understandable. Every man had his own methods. No game in the world had more elastic rules.