Then, covering her face suddenly with her hands, she burst into a fit of sobbing.
Hubert crossed and turned the key in the door in case Peters might enter.
Then, returning to her, he strove to comfort her. He implored her, with all the pleading he could summon, to reveal to him the whole story of the plans and the reason she had abstracted them.
But she gravely shook her head, and still preserved a resolute silence.
The man stood bewildered. He saw himself in a terrible quandary. Within a few hours the King might get to know, or Cataldi might inadvertently mention the mysterious theft of the key plan.
The Press—and more especially the scurrilous section of it on the Continent—has an ingenious way of ferreting out details regarding scandals which is gravely disconcerting to those who are trying to suppress them.
Of his love Hubert Waldron made no further mention. Her mild reproof held him tongue-tied. He knew, alas! too well, the bitter truth of her simple remark. They could never be more than friends, for she must marry a Prince of the blood-royal. The pride of the Royal House of Savoy would never admit or sanction a morganatic marriage.
For fully another quarter of an hour she remained there. He saw, however, upon her face traces of tears, and when she grew calmer he opened the door of his room, into which she passed, and there bathed her eyes with eau-de-Cologne.
When she again emerged she was her old self, though still very pale and nervous, and just before one o’clock she drew on her long gloves and, taking up her blue, morocco hand-bag which bore the royal cipher in gold, bade him a low, half-whispered “Addio.”
“Not farewell,” he said, bending and kissing her hand. “Keep a stout heart, Lola. Do nothing rash. Act with great caution and discretion, and I, on my part, will do all I can to preserve silence.” She shook her head despairingly.