Ten minutes later the brigadier re-entered and said excitedly:
“He’s gone! He had a motor-car awaiting him round in the Via del Duomo. It was a strange car, a long, grey, open one, they say. It had been waiting an hour. The chauffeur was a Frenchman. They left by the Porta Maggiore, and have evidently taken the direction of Bolsena. He took his hand-bag with him, and left a fifty-lire note for his hotel bill.”
“Then he must have overheard me!” gasped Waldron dismayed. “By Jove! he’s got away, and with the Princess’s letters in his possession. What bad luck!”
By this time, of course, Pucci was aware of the whole circumstances.
Hubert Waldron was a man of action. Without a second’s hesitation he rapped at the door of the next room, and confronting Lola, who almost fainted at his sudden and unexpected appearance, explained how he had followed her, and listened to the tragic story as revealed by her conversation with the notorious Mijoux Flobecq.
“Then you know, Mr Waldron! You know all!” she gasped, her face pale as death.
“Everything,” he answered hastily. They were alone together, for Pucci had gone out to hire a car. “But I have no time to lose. The spy has escaped us, and we must follow instantly if we are to be successful in preventing this exposure. Return at once to Rome, and behave just as though nothing whatever had happened. Trust in me, Lola,” he said, and looking straight into her eyes he took her small hand gently in his, and raised it in reverence to his lips.
“Yes,” she whispered in a low, intense voice. “You are my only friend, Mr Waldron. I will put my entire trust in you.”
“Then addio—for the present,” he said hastily. “I have not a second to spare. I will do all I can to save you from exposure and scandal, Lola. So remain calm, and leave all to me.”
“I do—I do,” she answered frantically. “Ah! what should I do at this moment without your kind aid?”