He smiled. Cataldi, the unscrupulous, corrupt member of the Cabinet, who was feathering his nest so comfortably, had, perhaps, hired those two assassins to take his life. And he was invited to his reception. The situation was not without its grim humour.
Yes, he would go. He would watch further this man who was providing the brave, patriotic sons of Italy with uneatable beef and unwearable boots, in order that the Countess Cioni should be provided with funds.
He rung up Pucci on the telephone, telling him where he was going.
“You have entrée to the Ministry, Pucci, have you not?”
He heard the detective reply in the affirmative.
“I may want you. So go there.”
“I cannot go as guest, signore,” came the reply. “I will arrange, if you wish, to be on duty as a servant.”
“Good. And be as near His Excellency’s private room as possible. I will meet you there at midnight and give you instructions. The reception is at eleven—after the banquet at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His Majesty will, no doubt, be there, and other members of the Royal Family.”
“Benissimo, signore, I shall be in the corridor at midnight, acting as waiter.”
Then Hubert rang off, and passing into his bedroom, got into uniform with the aid of the queer, under-sized, hunch-backed little man who, for so many years, had been his faithful servant, and whose father before him had been valet to Hubert’s father.