Ten times within our present twentieth century has Europe been upon the verge of a great and bloody war. Orders have been given to mobilise, and armies have stood ready to come to grips. Yet only the Embassies have known, and there, most happily, secrets can be kept, even in these get-rich-quick days of bribery and dishonesty.
Europe has slept in her bed in calm, blissful ignorance that at any hour the terrible weapons of modern warfare might provide a cruel awakening, or perhaps a long and fatal sleep!
Such were the thoughts which floated through Hubert’s mind as Peters came in one morning after five days of uncertainty and vain inquiry, and placed the letters at his master’s elbow.
Among them was one bearing a Spanish stamp—a long and regretful letter from Beatriz.
He read it through twice, and then tore it into little fragments and cast it upon the fire with a brief sigh.
The telephone bell rang, and he rose and answered it.
A girl’s voice spoke. It was the Princess Luisa.
“I say, Signor Waldron,” she exclaimed in English, when he had told her that it was he who spoke, “the appointment is all right. To-night at eight-thirty—eh? I want to see you most urgently.”
“I shall be there,” he replied. He did not address her as “Highness,” as he feared lest the telephone girl should be curious.
“Benissimo. Addio!” was her reply, and then she rang off.