"What?" Trent demanded. "Are you sure?"
The American Embassy! What had he to do with that? Once behind the doors he was on American soil and subject to her jurisdiction.
"It was a message saying that the ambassador must see you at once. I took the liberty of saying I thought you could get there by half past nine. A motor will be waiting when you have dressed."
Anthony Trent sat on the edge of his bed and saw all his high hopes dashed to earth. Someone must have told the ambassador of this young fellow countryman of his who was on intimate terms with a cabinet minister. And the ambassador with the aid of his intelligence department must have run him to earth.
For a moment he wondered whether it would not be wiser to make a run for it. Maitland now assured of his bona fides would not hesitate to take him with him and land him at some lonely spot on the Italian coast by night. He had money and his wits. It would be beginning life over again but it would be better than disgrace here in London.
Then his fighting side asserted itself. He would not be frightened into flight before he was convinced flight was necessary.
There was another visitor in the American ambassador's waiting room, a man of middle age who smoked an excellent cigar. He turned as Trent entered.
"Morning," said Trent morosely. He was annoyed to find that he had to speak. It was the publisher of a chain of magazines for one of which Trent used to write when engaged in the manufacture of light fiction. He had often smoked one of the millionaire's celebrated cigars.
"Good morning," said the publisher graciously. "It's a long time since I saw you."
"The ambassador keeps extraordinary hours," Trent commented.