Majesty was making an inquiry. What isit about?" he asked, gazing from the detective to the Englishman.
"At present it is confidential," replied Pucci, rather lamely. And thenhe introduced Waldron as a foreign diplomat, and explained that thematter concerned diplomacy, and that the King desired the affair to bekept entirely secret.
The curiosity of the bearded official was at once curbed. Cigaretteswere lit by all three, and the Questore suggested that Pucci and hiscompanion should go to the Hotel Europe and await word from Cimino.
"I will give orders that at any hour when a wire may arrive a copy shallbe sent over to you," he promised.
"Excellent," exclaimed Hubert, thanking the Chief of Police, and tenminutes later the pair left the Prefecture and drove to the hotel toawait developments.
Hubert telegraphed to Lola, giving her brief word of what he had done,and signing himself "Your Friend." He feared lest somebody might openthe dispatch, because for aught he knew she might have left Rome toattend the Queen upon some public function or other, as she was so oftenforced to do. She scarcely knew from one day to another where she mightbe, for King Umberto's Queen was a capricious lady, and somewhat erraticin attending the public ceremonies which were so frequent, and entailedsuch long and tedious journeys from end to end of the kingdom, one dayin Bari, the next in Pisa, and the next in Como. Often Their Majesties,in the fulfilment of their public duties, travelled the wholetwenty-four hours in order to arrive at a memorial, to lay afoundation-stone, launch a battleship, or inspect a corps of veterans--and those twenty-four hours of train journey in summer were often thereverse of pleasant. Truly the King worked as hard as any daily toilerwithin his kingdom.
The Europe, overlooking the big, wide piazza in Turin, proved a quietplace, and Hubert was glad of a stretch on the bed--in his clothes--after the wild motor journey of the previous night.
About twenty-four hours later came the eagerly awaited message from theItalian detective, reporting that Flobecq had installed himself in asmall obscure establishment called the Hotel Weber in the Rued'Amsterdam, close to the Lazare Station in Paris, and that he wasapparently in treaty with a person named Bernard Stein, a journalist ofevil reputation.
"He is negotiating the sale of the Princess's letters!" Hubert gaspedwhen he read the copy of the detective's telegram.
Therefore, within an hour, accompanied by Pucci, he was in the express,climbing that steep railroad which leads up to Bardonnechia, and thelong tunnel of the Mont Cenis.
The train was not an international one, therefore they were compelled tochange at Modane, the frontier, where they took the P.L.M. _rapide_ forParis.
After another night journey across France, the two men alighted from ataxi at the Hotel Weber, a small, uninviting-looking place with a dingycafe beneath. It was then eight o'clock in the morning, and the valetde chambre, a clean-shaven man in shirt-sleeves and green baize apron,showed them two barely furnished rooms with the beeswaxed floorsuncarpeted. They held consultation, being joined at once by thedetective, Cimino, a short, stout man with small black eyes, and rathershabby clothes.
A few words sufficed to explain the situation.
He had followed Flobecq, unobserved, and had ascertained that on theprevious day he had met in the Cafe de la Paix, a man named Stein, whomhe afterwards found was an unattached journalist who wrote for certainof the most unprincipled of the Paris journals.
The two men spent several hours together, and were apparentlybargaining. No agreement, he believed, had been arrived at, and theyhad arranged to meet again that day.
Hubert listened in silence to the man's story, then, taking a taxi, hedrove first to the British Embassy, and thence to an apartment near theArc de Triomphe, where he was closeted for half an hour with Colonel GuyMaitland, the British military attache.
Thence, just after half-past ten, he drove to the French Ministry ofForeign Affairs on the Quai d'Orsay, and there interviewed one of thepermanent staff.
When he emerged he was accompanied back to the Hotel Weber by a thin,insignificant-looking little man, wearing a bowler hat and grey gloves.The net was gradually being drawn around the famous spy, who had not yetleft his room, and was still unconscious of how completely he was nowsurrounded. Truth to tell, the thin man in black was Berton, adetective inspector of the political department of the Surete, attachedto the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Thus the four men waited impatiently in the hotel, Berton of the Suretehaving telephoned from the little bureau of the proprietor for twoplain-clothes agents from the nearest _poste_ of police.
At last Flobecq, on descending the stairs, was met by a waiter who toldhim that a gentleman was awaiting him in the little private _salon_ onthe first floor.
In surprise, he turned into the room indicated, and there came face toface with Hubert Waldron. His cheeks went pale, and he started at theunexpected encounter.
"Ah, m'sieur!" he exclaimed, with a strenuous attempt to conceal hissurprise. "It is you--eh?"
"Yes, M'sieur Flobecq," replied Hubert, at once closing the door. "Ihave great pleasure in meeting you again. You see your identity iswell-known to me, and I require a few minutes' private conversation withyou."
And as he uttered these words he placed himself between the spy and thedoor.
"Well, and what, pray, do you want with me?" asked Flobecq in French,his dark brows quickly knit with a hard, evil expression.
"I want you to hand over to me those letters you have of the PrincessLuisa of Savoy," Waldron said boldly.
The man laughed. He was well-dressed--a good-looking, easy-going figureof that type which always made an impression upon women, but which meninstinctively hated.
"I have followed you here from Italy. And at Her Highness's request Iask you for those letters. I know that you are in treaty with thejournalist, Stein, regarding them. He is a dealer in scandals, and ifhe purchases them will, no doubt, have a ready market for them," Hubertadded.
"Your audacity is really amazing, M'sieur Waldron."
"It may be. But I have, fortunately, gained knowledge of your heartlessdeception. I know the whole of the bitter circumstances; of yourpretended affection for the Princess, and how you have compelled her toact as your cat's-paw and become a thief. Further," and he hesitatedfor a few seconds, "further, I am also well aware of your position assecret agent of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at Vienna--a fact ofwhich they are also aware, here in Paris--at the Quai d'Orsay!"
"My dear m'sieur," laughed the other, folding his arms deliberately andfacing the Englishman. "If you think you can bluff me, you are quitewelcome to the illusion. The Princess is my friend--as you well know--you admitted it when we met at Brussels."
"She was your friend. But to-day, you having been revealed as a spy ofItaly's enemy, she is no longer your friend. I am still her friend.And that is the reason of my presence here to-day. You were very cleverin your escape from Orvieto, when you left her there in expectation.But there are others equally as evasive, I may assure you." Waldronstood with his hands stuck deep in the pockets of his blue serge suit inan attitude of triumph. He could play the game of bluff equally withanyone, when occasion demanded.
"I shall act exactly as I think proper," was the spy's indignant reply.
"You will think proper to hand me over those letters--letters of aninnocent girl who has been misled by as clever and cunning a plot as hasever been conceived in the whole history of espionage. I admit thatyou, Mijoux Flobecq, are an artist. But in this case, you have beenbetrayed by the patriotism of your unfortunate victim."
"Ah! She has told you then!" he remarked with a smile of contempt.
"No, I watched and found out for myself," was Hubert's reply. "The keyplan of which you had so ingeniously contrived to obtain possession, issafe in my hands, and--"
"Because she handed it over to you!" he cried. "Because she grew afraidat the last second. All women do! It seems that her love for mewaned," he added in a strange voice.
"That may be. But can a woman ever really love a man who is suddenlyrevealed to her as an enemy?" queried the diplomat. "No. You wereamazingly clever, M'sieur Flobecq, but your estimate of human nature wasentirely wrong. As soon as she knew that you were a spy of Italy'shereditary enemy, Austria, her love turned to hatred. That was butnatural."
"And she betrayed me?"
"No, she did not. There, you are quite mistaken," was Hubert's quickresponse. "It will surprise you to know that I was in the Hotel BelleArti and overheard every word that passed between you. It was there,for the first time, that I realised the truth. And--" He lookedstraight into the eyes of the spy. "... and I tell you openly andfrankly that I am her friend!"
"Then it was