“Benissimo!” exclaimed the Admiral, much gratified. “Then the enemy will not yet know of its capture. In the meantime we must act. The submarine belongs to Fiume, therefore, my dear Vivarini, she must return to Fiume.”
“Go back?” echoed the Captain.
“Yes. She must sail again to-night with an Italian crew,” said the Admiral. “She will enter Fiume harbour flying her own flag, but at the same time she will discharge torpedoes at as many of the vessels of war lying there as she can. You understand?”
“Santa Vergine! What a plan,” exclaimed the Captain enthusiastically. “Most excellent, Signor Marchese.”
“All must be done in strictest secrecy,” said the other, lowering his voice. “Not a single word must leak out, for there can be no doubt that there are spies here in Sarzana. News of our intentions gets across the Adriatic in an astounding manner sometimes. Not a syllable must be known, either regarding our capture or our intentions. Number 117 must return to-night.”
“Not a whisper,” the Captain agreed, whereupon the Marchesa, a tall, slim figure in a dinner-gown of carnation pink, and wearing a velvet bow of the same shade in her hair, slipped back again to the salon, where she awaited her husband, pretending to read.
“Well, Captain Vivarini,” she exclaimed, greeting their visitor merrily as the two men entered. “Some new development, I suppose, eh?”
“Yes, Marchesa,” replied the handsome naval captain, bowing low over her hand with that peculiar Italian courtesy. “A little confidential matter,” and he laughed. Then, after a cigarette and a tiny glass of green certosa, the Admiral and the chief of his staff left.
As soon as they had gone, Elena rushed to her room, slipped off her dining-gown, and, putting on a tweed skirt and blouse, hurried from the house.
She slipped along the dark, narrow side street, until suddenly she emerged on to the moonlit promenade, and ascended the dimly lit stone stairs which led to the room occupied by Carlo Corradini. In response to her ring, the spy of Austria at once admitted her.