Behind the Throne. Le Queux William

and so I have but little opportunity of meeting my wife’s English friends. But,” he added, in very good English, after a slight pause, as he readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and looked harder at the young man, “if I am not mistaken, we have met before, have we not? I seem to recognise your face.”

      “Yes, your Excellency,” laughed Macbean, whereupon both Mary and her father started in surprise, for it was apparent that their visitor was aware of Morini’s true position. “I had the honour of having an audience of your Excellency in Rome. I am secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason, and accompanied him to Rome on the deputation which waited upon you regarding the concession of supplying army stores in Abyssinia.”

      “Of course, of course!” exclaimed the Minister, suddenly interested. “I recollect quite well. You introduced the deputation, and I remember remarking how well you spoke Italian for an Englishman. Ah yes. I could not give the concession, as it had already been given to a German firm,” he added, omitting, however, the real reason, namely, because the English company had offered no secret commission. “And you are secretary to Morgan-Mason? He is a deputy, I believe.”

      Macbean explained that his employer sat for South-West Norfolk, and in response to other inquiries gave certain information concerning his politics and his social influence, facts of which the clever Minister made a note; for an idea had occurred to him that the monied provision-dealer whose pompousness had struck him as he had sat in his private cabinet at the Ministry of War might be one day of service to him.

      All through his career it had been part of Camillo Morini’s creed to note persons who might be of assistance to him, and to afterwards use their influence, or their weaknesses, to his advantage. A keen judge of character, he read men’s minds as he would an open book. He had recognised the weakness of that white-waistcoated Englishman who was struggling into society, and he resolved that one day both the Member of Parliament and his secretary should be put to their proper uses.

      “Mr Macbean called to see Count Dubard, who is a friend of his,” his daughter explained.

      “Oh, you are acquainted! How curious!” exclaimed His Excellency. “Dubard unfortunately left this morning – because he received a letter which recalled him at once to Paris. But as my valet tells me that no letters arrived for the count this morning, I can only surmise that he was tired of us here, and found country life in England too dull,” he laughed knowingly. “I’ve received the same fictitious letter myself before now, when I’ve been tired of a host and hostess.”

      And they all three laughed in chorus. His Excellency was of course unaware of the real reason of Jules Dubard’s flight, and the young Englishman smiled within himself as he reflected upon the staggering surprise it would cause that calm, astute man who was such a power in the south of Europe if he knew the actual truth.

      “Of course,” added Signor Morini, turning to the young man, “you will do me one kind favour? You will not mention to anyone here my true position. I come to England each year for rest and quiet, and if I am unknown no political significance can be attached to my summer visits – you understand?”

      “Certainly, your Excellency, I shall respect your wishes,” was Macbean’s reply, and a few minutes later he took leave of the great statesman and his daughter, and, full of strange conflicting reflections, rode out upon the broad highway back to Thornby.

      Chapter Six

      Discloses Certain Strange Facts

      As Big Ben boomed forth twelve o’clock over London that same night the supper-room at the Savoy was filled to overflowing with a boisterous, well-dressed crowd of after-theatre revellers. The scene was brighter and gayer perhaps than any other scene at that hour in all the giant city. The “smart set,” that slangy, vulgar result of society’s degeneration, was as largely represented as usual; the women were fair, the jewels sparkled, the dresses were rich, and in the atmosphere was that restlessness, that perpetual craze for excitement which proves so attractive to habitués of the place.

      Every table in the great room was engaged, and the company was essentially le monde ou l’on s’amuse. But you probably have sat there amid the hurrying of the waiters, the hum of voices, the loud laughter of “smart women,” the clinking of champagne-glasses, that babel of noise drowned by the waltzes played by the Hungarian band. The air was heavy with the combined odour of a hundred perfumes, the fresh flowers drooped upon the tables, and the merry company crowded into that last half-hour all the merriment they could before the lights were lowered.

      At such places one sees exhibited in public the full, true, and sole omnipotence of money – how it wins the impoverished great ones to be guests of its possessor, how it purchases the smiles of the haughtiest, the favours of the most exclusive.

      Lazily watching that animated scene, the two men who had been guests at Orton, Dubard and Borselli, were sitting apart at a small table near the window. A bottle of Krug stood between them, and as they leaned their elbows on the table they criticised their fellow-guests, speaking in Italian, so that their remarks should not be understood by their neighbours.

      The band had just concluded Desgranges’ “Jalouse,” that air so reminiscent of the terrace of the Café de Paris at Monte Carlo, the leader had bowed to the company, and the waiters were busy collecting the banknotes with which the bills were in most cases paid, when the Italian drained his glass, saying —

      “Let us go! I’ve had enough of this! Come on to Claridge’s with me for a final cigar.”

      “A moment?” exclaimed Dubard, his eyes fixed across the room. “Do you see over there, just behind the column, two ladies with a stout man with grey side-whiskers? One of the ladies is in blue. What a terrible vulgarian the fellow is! I’ve been watching him.”

      The general glanced in the direction indicated and replied —

      “Oh yes, I noticed him as we came in. You’re right, my dear Jules, that fellow is a vulgarian. I met him once in Rome. His name is Morgan-Mason, a deputy and very wealthy.”

      “Morgan-Mason!” echoed the Frenchman, looking hard at him. “Ah!” he added, “I’ve heard of him, of course. Yes. Let us go,” and they both rose, descended by the lift, and drove in a hansom to Claridge’s.

      In the Under-Secretary’s elegant little sitting-room – the room wherein that afternoon he had accepted the German contractor’s bribe on Morini’s behalf – he drew forth a box of choice cigars, and they both commenced to smoke.

      A brief and rather painful silence fell between them. Both men had that evening exhibited towards each other a strained politeness, each knowing that the other hated him. Dubard’s defiance on the previous night had upset all the calculations of that past-master of intrigue, Angelo Borselli, whose dark eyes now darted a swift glance at his companion lolling back in the big arm-chair apparently perfectly at his ease.

      To Borselli’s surprise, and believing that his departure had been due to his threat on the previous night, Dubard had left Rugby for London an hour before he had, but at four o’clock that afternoon he had sent an invitation to the Carlton, suggesting that they should spend the evening together at a theatre, which they had done.

      There was a mystery in the Frenchman’s sudden departure from Orton, and in it Borselli suspected an ingenious move. Throughout the whole day he had reasoned within himself, finally coming to the conclusion that it was better to be friendly with such a man as Jules Dubard than to be his enemy.

      Dubard had seen during the evening that his companion wished to speak with him but was hesitating. At last, however, after they had smoked in silence for some minutes, the crafty Sicilian stroked his moustache and exclaimed —

      “I fear, my dear Jules, that I was rather hasty, perhaps rude, last night. Yet, after all, I am very glad that you took my hint and left Orton.”

      The Frenchman opened his eyes widely at the man’s calm audacity.

      “I did not take your hint in the least, I assure you,” he exclaimed, with quick indignation. “I left Orton for quite another reason.”

      The sallow-faced man smiled, as though quite unconscious of his companion’s