“Come out into the conservatory. I want to have a word with you,” said the Ambassador, and the pair strolled together to the end of the room, where, cunningly concealed, lights showed beneath the feathery foliage of the palms of the great winter-garden.
“Well?” asked Sir Francis, when they were alone together; “I’ve heard nothing more concerning that alarming report from Vienna. Have you learnt anything?”
“Nothing,” was Hubert’s reply, “except one fact—that the rumour was also afloat in Brussels.”
“Ah! Some Bourse conspiracy, then!” was the Ambassador’s quick remark, for he was a shrewd and well-seasoned diplomat, who knew all the subtle moves in the game of international politics.
“I cannot quite determine.”
“Then you’ve been in Brussels?”
“Yes. In the interests of the matter which we were discussing.”
“Curious that what is a secret here should be rumoured there!” remarked the British Ambassador. “But a week has now gone, Waldron, therefore we can only hope the storm-cloud has blown over.”
And at that moment the Russian Ambassador, in his brilliant uniform, passed, and Sir Francis joined him, leaving the secretary again alone.
As he returned to the ballroom he met the old yellow-toothed Marchesa Genazzano face to face, and though he endeavoured to avoid her—for she was such a terrible gossip and bore—he was compelled to bend over her hand and stop to chat.