“This is not news to me, Pucci,” replied the diplomat, pretending to button his white glove. “I am keeping observation upon His Excellency the Minister, so be near me to-night, and keep a sharp look-out. It is in the personal interests of His Majesty. Is he here?”
“Si, signore. He arrived a quarter of an hour ago. I saluted him and he recognised me—even in this garb. His Majesty never forgets the faces of those whose duty it is to be his personal guardians.”
“All right, Pucci. Be near in case I require you—I trust you.”
“Bene, signore. I shall be there if you want me, never fear,” was the reply; of the faithful police agent.
And then the British diplomat strolled up the corridor, leaving the waiter to bustle along in the opposite direction.
Pucci was full of resource. He had been attracted to Hubert Waldron because he had seen that he was a fine, strong character, a man of high ideals, of dogged courage, and of British bull-dog perseverance. Waldron, of the stock that had made the Empire what it is, commanded respect. He was a man of action and of honour. Though clever, far-seeing, and with a keen scent for mystery, yet he was honest, upright, and once he made a friend that friend was his for always. His only fault was that he was too generous towards his friends, or to those who were in want. He would give his last half-sovereign to anyone who told him a tale of poverty.
In this connection he had often been imposed upon. He knew it, but always declared that, after all, he might have done one really charitable action, though others who had told their stories were impostors.
Like most men possessed of keen wits, he had been very badly imposed upon at times. Yet often and often, by his sympathetic feelings, he had spent the greater part of his pay in the relief of real cases of distress.
The Waldrons had ever been charitable, for they were always English gentlemen in the truest sense of the word.
In the great Council Chamber with the huge crystal chandeliers, where the walls were hung with the ancient tapestries brought from the Palazzo Communale at Siena—the chamber in which the sittings of the Council of Defence were held, and where the lost plans had been discussed—the King stood, the brilliant, imposing centre of His Excellency’s guests.