“But that letter,” she faltered, still dubious—“that letter of the Princess!”
“I do not love her, dearest. I have never loved her,” I declared earnestly. “I am yours, and yours alone.”
She turned quickly, kissing me fondly, and shedding tears of joy. We were both free at last, and that peaceful hour of our new-found happiness was full of that ecstasy which comes to man and woman only once in a lifetime, at the moment when two hearts first beat in unison.
But why need I dwell upon the supreme happiness of that calm and glorious evening high up above the tideless sea, except to say that it was then each read the other’s heart openly and truly; then that we discovered how best to interchange a perfect and fadeless affection.
And you ask how this strange romance of an Englishman in his Sovereign’s service ended? Well, Edith became my own queen within two months. We were married in London, and since my promotion and transfer to the Embassy at St. Petersburg our lives have been idyllic in their happiness. Edith likes the Russian capital, where everyone is so hospitable and the fêtes are never-ending. I also prefer it to the artificiality and glare of Paris which is to me a city of bitter memories.
As for the Princess, she is one of Edith’s warmest friends. She was married four months ago to Prince Stroganoff, a charming Russian whom everyone knows in Moscow and the capital, and who lives at the great Stroganoff Palace in St. Petersburg, where we are frequent visitors Lord Barmouth’s failing health compelled him to retire from the Diplomatic Service after the lamented death of Her Majesty, and he is now living in London once more, after so many years of compulsory exile; while the World, a few weeks ago, announced Sibyl’s engagement to the Hon. Jack Willoughby, who is well known as a rising politician and Member for one of the Metropolitan Boroughs. Her ladyship has written to me, declaring it to be a most excellent match.
Bertini, the spy and traitor, having been condemned by the military court in Milan to imprisonment for life, is at this moment languishing in the convict prison at Orbetello. Assuredly Europe is well rid of such an ingenious and unscrupulous scoundrel.
Nothing appeared in the English newspapers regarding Wolf’s death, beyond the statement that he had committed suicide rather than suffer arrest. For what reason the police raided Cypress Cottage never leaked out. It was kept a close secret, in order that the discovery of the headquarters of the French spies should not create undue public alarm. Hence all of the foregoing incidents long remained a secret chapter of England’s history; and the gigantic conspiracy on the part of our nation’s enemies is here related for the first time by one who was himself a principal actor in the stirring drama of diplomacy, and who has been fortunate enough to secure peace, happiness, and the love of a gentle and happy woman.
The End.