Rosemary's wire was repeated over the telephone to General Naniescu, who promptly gave orders that it should not be sent. When he put down the receiver he was very much puzzled. Something had apparently happened at Kis-Imre which had greatly disturbed the beautiful Uno. It seemed indeed as if she had actually written those articles which Naniescu wanted so badly that he was prepared to pay ten thousand pounds sterling of Government money for them. And having written the articles, the lady seemed first to have sent them off, then to have repented.
Well, well! It was all very puzzling. Even M. de Kervoisin, experienced diplomat though he was, could suggest no solution. He advised the obvious: to wait and see.
"We shall see our friend Number Ten soon," he said. "If I am not mistaken he has at least one key to the puzzle in his possession."
But it was not Number Ten who presented himself at the Imrey palace that afternoon. It was ce cher Monsieur Blakeney, who had come all the way from England in order to preside over a game of cricket that had not come off because of the weather. His Excellency was delighted to see him, and so was M. de Kervoisin. This charming, most unexpected but most welcome visit was due no doubt to the cricket and the bad weather. So tiresome! Mais hélas! Man proposes and the rain disposes.
His Excellency was most sympathetic. Would M. Blakeney have a cigar and a glass of fine? No? Then what could His Excellency do for M. Blakeney?
"Pray command me, my dear Monsieur Blakeney. We are all so grateful to you for the kind interest you are taking in our young athletes. It will be such a happy recollection for them in after years that so distinguished an English champion as yourself has helped them with their games."
Peter let him talk on. He thought it a pity to stem this flood of eloquence, and he was looking forward to the moment when Naniescu's complacent effusions would turn to equally comic puzzlement first, and subsequently to amazement and delight.
"Shall I tell your Excellency now," he said as soon as he could get a word in edgeways, "why I have come?"
"Mais comment donc?" the general replied suavely. "I am hanging on your lips, mon cher Monsieur Blakeney."
"Well," Peter said, quite slowly and speaking in French since M. de Kervoisin did not know English, "well, it's just this. Lady Tarkington has written certain newspaper articles, which you, general, very much desire to see published. That's so, isn't it?"
But though this opening almost betrayed Naniescu into an exclamation of surprise, he had enough control over his nerves not to give himself away. Fortunately he was a great adept at expressive gestures, and his cigar also helped to keep him in countenance.
He leaned back in his chair, was silent for a moment or two blowing rings of smoke through his full, red lips.
"Articles?" he queried at last with an assumption of perfect indifference. "I don't know. What articles do you mean, cher ami?"
"Those," Peter replied with equal indifference, "for which you were prepared to pay a deuced lot of money to your spy in chief."
Naniescu waved his podgy hand that held the cigar, then he deliberately dusted away a modicum of ash that had dropped upon his trousers.
"Ah!" he said innocently. "Lady Tarkington, you say, has written such articles?"
"Yes. She has."
"Then no doubt she will honour me by allowing me to see the manuscript. She knows how deeply I am interested in her work."
"No, general," Peter broke in drily. "Lady Tarkington has no intention of allowing you to see that particular manuscript of hers."
"Ah! May I be permitted to inquire how you happen to know that?"
"I happen to know—no matter how—that Lady Tarkington only wrote the articles tentatively; that after she had written them she repented having done so, and that her next act would have been to throw the manuscript into the fire."
"Very interesting. But, forgive me, my dear Monsieur Blakeney, if I ask you in what way all this concerns you?"
"I'll tell you," Peter said coolly. "I also happen to know—no matter how—that you are prepared to pay a large sum of money for those articles, so I thought that I would forestall your spy-in-chief by driving a bargain with you over the manuscript."
"But how can you do that, my dear young friend, without the manuscript in your possession?"
"The manuscript is in my possession, Excellency," Peter said coolly.
"How did that come about, if I may ask the question?"
"You may. I stole it this morning from Lady Tarkington."
"What?"
Naniescu had given such a jump that he nearly turned himself out of his chair. The cigar fell from between his fingers, and the glass that contained the fine was upset and its contents spilt over the table. Even M. de Kervoisin had given a start; and his pale, expressionless face had flushed. Though the report of the post-mistress of Kis-Imre had given Naniescu an inkling that something unexpected had occurred, he certainly had not been prepared for this.
He looked up at Peter and frowned, trying to recover his dignity, which had been seriously jeopardized. Peter was laughing—very impolitely, thought His Excellency. But then these English have no manners.
"You'll forgive my smiling, won't you, sir?" asked Peter quite deferentially.
"Go on with your story," Naniescu retorted gruffly. "Never mind your manners."
"I can't very well mind them, sir," Peter rejoined, with utmost seriousness, "as I don't possess any. And I can't go on with my story because there is none to tell."
"You have got to tell me how you knew that Lady Tarkington had written certain newspaper articles; how you knew that I wanted them; how you came to—to steal them—the word is your own, my dear Monsieur Blakeney—and where they are at the present moment."
"None of which facts, I am thinking, concern your Excellency," Peter retorted coolly, "except the last. The manuscript of Lady Tarkington's newspaper articles is in my pocket at the present moment, together with her letter to the editor of the Times, asking for these articles to be published at an early opportunity. So, you see, sir, that I am bringing you a perfectly sound proposition."
"I'll have to read those articles first."
"Of course," Peter agreed, and took the sheets of manuscript out of his pocket. "At your leisure."
Naniescu thrust out his podgy hand for them; his large, expressive eyes had lit up with a gleam of excitement. Peter gave him the manuscript, and as he did so he remarked casually, "They are no use to your Excellency without the covering letter."
Which remark seemed to tickle M. de Kervoisin's fancy, for he gave a funny, dry cackle which might pass for a laugh. Naniescu, however, appeared not to have noticed the taunt. His white, downy hands shook slightly as he unfolded the manuscript. He leaned back in his chair and began to read, the excitement of his nerves was chiefly apparent by his stertorous breathing and his almost savage chewing of the stump of his cigar.
M. de Kervoisin remained silent. He offered Peter a cigarette, and while the Englishman struck a match, lit the cigarette and smoked it with obvious relish, the Frenchman watched him through his half-closed lids with an expression of puzzlement upon his keen, wrinkled face. No sound disturbed the silence that had fallen over the actors of the little comedy, only the ticking of an old-fashioned dock and now and then the crisp crackling of paper as Naniescu turned over the sheets of the manuscript. From time to time he nodded his head and murmured complacently, "C'est bien! C'est même très, très bien!" And once he looked across at his friend and asked: "Would you like to read this, Kervoisin?" But the Frenchman only shrugged and replied with a slightly sarcastic smile: "Oh! my dear friend, if you are satisfied——"
Peter said nothing. He waited quite patiently, seemingly completely indifferent, and smoked one cigarette after another.
When Naniescu had finished reading, he carefully folded the manuscript, laid it on the table beside him and put his hand upon it.
"What do you want for this?" he asked.
And Peter replied coolly: "The title deeds of the Kis-Imre property."
Naniescu stared at Peter for a moment or two, then he threw back his head and laughed until the tears trickled down his cheeks.
"You are astonishing, my friend," he said. "The property is worthy fifty thousand sterling."
"I have paid an option on it of five thousand," Peter retorted, "and the rest wouldn't come out of your Excellency's pocket, I take it."
"Not out of my pocket, of course," Naniescu was willing to admit, "but out of that of my Government. We are going to sell Kis-Imre for the benefit of the State."
"And won't your Excellency be purchasing these newspaper articles for the benefit of the State?"
"These articles are not worth it," Naniescu retorted gruffly.
"Very well, let's say no more about it. I'm sorry I troubled your Excellency."
Peter rose as if to go and put out his hand toward the sheets of manuscript.
"Don't be a fool," Naniescu broke in. "I'll give you a good price for the thing, but a property worth fifty thousand sterling—hang it all—it's a bit stiff."
Peter smiled. "How tersely you put the matter, general," he said. "I dare say it is a bit stiff, but I am not prepared to bargain—only to sell. And if you are not satisfied——"
"Easy, easy, my impetuous young friend. Did I say that I was not satisfied—or that I refuse to consider the matter? But there are considerations."
"What considerations?"
"To begin with, how do I know that the English newspaper would accept these articles as the genuine work of Lady Tarkington?"
"I told you that I had Lady Tarkington's own covering letter to the editor of the Times, asking him to publish the articles as soon as possible."
"Let me see it," Naniescu retorted.
"With pleasure."
Peter took the letter out of his pocket, but before handing it over to Naniescu he said dryly: "May I in the meanwhile refresh my memory of the articles?"
The eyes of the two men met across the table. Naniescu's flashed with resentment, but Peter's face wore a disarming smile. He looked for all the world like a schoolboy bartering marbles for stamps. But the situation appeared to tickle Kervoisin's fancy. He gave a dry chuckle and said:
"You are quite right, mon ami. They are astonishing, these English."
The exchange was effected without Naniescu losing his sense of resentment or Peter his pleasant smile, and Peter held on to Rosemary's manuscript while the general read the letter through.
While he read, the look of resentment vanished from his face and a complacent smile rose to his full, sensuous lips.
"Il n'y pas à dire," he murmured; "c'est très, très bien."
When he had finished reading he looked up at Peter.
"Now then, Monsieur Blakeney," he said curtly, "your last price?"
"I have told you, sir—the title-deeds of Kis-Imre."
"You are joking."
"I was never more serious in my life."
"But, hang it all, man, if I make the property over to you, how are we to get rid of the Imreys?"
Peter shrugged his shoulders, and, still smiling, said coolly: "That, Excellency, is your affair, not mine."
"But the Countess Imrey is your aunt."
"What has that got to do with the whole thing, Excellency?"
"What has it got to do with it? What has it——?" Naniescu was gasping with astonishment. He was something of a rascal himself, but never in all his life had he come across such callousness or such impudence. He turned to Kervoisin as much as to say: "Have you ever seen such an unmitigated young blackguard?" But the Frenchman's face was inscrutable; his keen, pale eyes rested with obvious puzzlement on Peter.
"Then you want me," Naniescu asked, as soon as he had recovered his breath, "you want me to turn the Imreys out of their home?"
"It won't be the first time, Excellency, that you have done that sort of thing, will it?" Peter retorted, with his most engaging smile.
Strangely enough, Naniescu was losing his temper. He wanted those articles and wanted them badly, and if this preposterous deal went through he could have them without putting his hand in his pocket. But this young blackguard exasperated him. Perhaps professional pride was wounded at meeting a man more corrupt, more venal than himself. To further his own ends Naniescu would have plundered and bullied to an unlimited extent, but he would not have robbed and bullied his own kith and kin; whereas this handsome young athlete with the engaging smile did not seem to have the slightest scruple or the least pricking of conscience. It would be a triumph to get the better of him in some sort of way. Unfortunately the scamp had not yet given up the manuscript, and Naniescu only had the letter, whilst de Kervoisin was in one of his abstracted fits when he wouldn't open his mouth to give friendly advice.
The general, sitting back in his chair, and blowing smoke rings through his pursed lips, had a swift but exceedingly pleasant day-dream. Those articles were just what he wanted. They were so beautifully written! So convincingly! What a stir they would make! They were a complete vindication of his administration here in Transylvania. The country prosperous. The people contented. Only a small minority grumbling, without the slightest justification. Oh, those articles! Published in the English Times and signed by the illustrious "Uno"! Naniescu, closing his eyes to enjoy this wonderful day-dream, saw himself summoned to Bucharest, there to receive the personal thanks of his King and a substantial reward from his Government, whilst all he need do now to obtain these glorious results was to hand over to this young rascal a property that belonged to that fool Maurus Imrey.
It was a lovely day-dream. A stroke of the pen would make it reality. No wonder that General Naniescu swore loudly when the crackling of paper woke him from this short trance. The young rascal was quite unconcernedly stowing that precious manuscript away in his pocket.
"Halt!" Naniescu exclaimed, on the impulse of the moment. "I accept——" Then he added guardedly: "On principle, I mean."
"And in fact?" Peter queried, without making the slightest movement towards taking the manuscript out of his pocket again.
"Yes, yes!" Naniescu replied impatiently. "But, curse you for a jackanapes, these things take time——"
"They need not," Peter rejoined curtly. "All you need do is to give me an official receipt for forty-five thousand sterling, the balance of the purchase-money for the Kis-Imre property. The British Consul and your lawyer will do the rest."
"And when do you want possession?"
"At once."
Naniescu made a final appeal to his friend: "What do you say, Kervoisin?"
But the Frenchman's face remained inscrutable. He was watching the smoke that curled upwards from the tip of his cigarette, and only from time to time did he throw a quick, indefinable glance at the tall, athletic figure of the man who was driving such a contemptible bargain. When Naniescu appealed directly to him, he only shrugged his shoulders to indicate his complete detachment from the whole affair. Peter, on the other hand, showed not the slightest sign of impatience. He even went to the length of buttoning up his coat.
"Would you like to think it over?" he said coolly. "I can leave my offer open for another few hours."
"No! damn you!" Naniescu exclaimed, and jumped to his feet. "Wait for me here. I'll have the receipt ready in five minutes."
After which, from sheer force of habit, he swore in several other languages before he finally strode out of the room.