“In Rome, I think; but I am not certain,” was the response. “Some little time ago I met Lord Barmouth’s daughter, with a view to bringing them together as friends, for by so doing I saw that we might gain some valuable information,” Wolf said. “The project, however, unfortunately failed, because of Ingram.”
“May an accident occur to him!” exclaimed Bertini, using an Italian oath. “He stands in our way at all times. I have not forgotten how cleverly he tricked me in Brussels and obtained the negatives of half a dozen documents from other embassies.”
“He is more dangerous to our plans than Kaye and the whole British secret service put together,” Wolf remarked. I could hear that, by way of emphasis, he struck the table heavily as he spoke these words. “If we could only contrive to suppress him!”
“Ah, but how?”
A silence fell between the pair.
“In some countries,” remarked Wolf in a low voice, “he would die suddenly. Here, in Paris, it would be dangerous.”
These men were actually plotting to take my life; I stood there motionless, my ears strained to catch every word, my feet rooted to the spot. “Why so dangerous?” asked the Italian.
“Because the English girl might betray us, or, failing her, there is the Princess.”
“The Princess! Bah!” ejaculated Bertini.
“She would never utter a syllable. She has too much to gain by silence.”