the Germans take. I think that they wish to get rid of the Austrians and they have decided that the quickest way is to starve them. Now they tell me we are to go to war again.”
Charles hurried away with a word of sympathy. He slipped into the lift, where a pert young Viennese lady with flashing eyes languished at him in vain. In a moment or two he was in number seventeen. He drew a long sigh of deep content at the comfort and luxury with which he was surrounded. One valet was waiting to strip off his clothes, another was testing the warmth of the bath. The trunk he had left there had been fetched up and opened. Fresh silk underwear and fresh linen were already laid out. He plunged into the bath with a groan of happiness. He sank in it up to his neck, stretched out his hands for the sponge and the soap. A sensation of amazing and voluptuous content crept over him. He closed his eyes…When he awoke only one of the valets was left.
“Have I been asleep?” he asked.
“Only for a few minutes, sir,” the servant answered.
“Is Frederick still in the bar?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Telephone down for two dry Martinis. See that they are sent up in the shaker—absolutely cold and the proper glass.”
“I’ll telephone down, sir.”
“A debauch of luxury,” Charles murmured to himself a little later as he finished shaving and eyed his second cocktail greedily. “What has become of my dinner?”
“The waiter brought the first course up, sir, but we sent it back in case you slept longer. I stayed here to see that you did not slip down in the bath and Franz here is unpacking the trunk and your small things and preparing your evening clothes.”
“What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock, sir.”
“I’ll dine in the restaurant,” Charles decided. “I can’t go to sleep at the table, anyhow. I shall come straight to bed afterwards.”
The man’s face was a little grave as he bowed.
“What’s the matter—the restaurant is open, I suppose?”
“Most certainly, sir. The restaurant is open. There is dancing—Mademoiselle Celeste from Sweden, she makes very beautiful gymnastic dance.”
“Capital! Tell the head-waiter to keep me a corner table against the wall somewhere.”
“Certainly, mein Herr.”
Charles completed his toilet, sipped his cocktail and lit a cigarette. There was a knock at the door. Mr. Herodin entered. He smiled at the transformation.
“You are feeling a different man, Herr Mildenhall?” he enquired.
“And looking one, too, I hope!”
The manager waved the servants away.
“You are doing us the honour, I believe, of dining in the restaurant, sir?”
“I thought I would,” Charles acquiesced. “It will be a treat to see some civilized people again.”
“I fear, sir, that you will see very few of them,” Herodin confided. “The fact of it is that our clients have momentarily deserted us.”
Charles nodded and waited for more.
“The people who come here,” the man went on, “are chiefly German Nazis. They are not very polite, they give a great deal of trouble and they are not so particular in their dress and uniform as the Viennese—added to which their behaviour is rude.”
“I understand. Anyhow, I’m much too sleepy to talk to anyone, much less quarrel with them.”
The manager sighed.
“It is sad,” he said, “but one by one my regular clients have deserted me. The Archduke Karl Sebastian was often here; Count Pilduski with the Countess; Monsieur and Madame de Kruiten, and always some of the younger gentlemen from the Embassies when they were going. And now—no one. I thought it better just to give you a word of warning.”
“Very kind of you,” Charles acknowledged. “As a matter of curiosity I must have a look at them, though. Is anyone in possession of the British Embassy?”
“It seems to us, sir, to be in a state of chaos,” Herodin answered. “Mr. Porter is there for urgent enquiries. He was Consul General, I think, before the Embassy began to break up. Did you bring any news, sir? Do you think that there will be war?”
“If there is it will be a very foolish war,” Charles replied. “But no one can tell.”
“You will find such English papers as we have received during the past week on your table in the restaurant, sir,” the hôtelier announced. “There is no late news, but one understands that the German mobilization on Poland’s frontier is a very grave affair.”
Charles finished his cocktail and moved towards the door. He bade the manager good night at the lift.
“I go now to discover,” he said, “whether your chef’s Wiener Schnitzel is as wonderful as ever.”
CHAPTER IX
Charles Mildenhall, having been as near starvation during the past four days as he was ever likely to be, found his dinner excellent, the wine, personally vouched for by Mr. Herodin, of the best year and in perfect condition. The manager’s warning, however, concerning the company, was fully justified. There were one or two small groups of German officers who kept carefully to themselves and whose bearing was almost offensive. It was curious to notice how the few Austrians dining there, especially those with their womenkind, took care to remain on the other side of the room. One woman, who was dining alone, Charles recognized, and towards the end of dinner, at her request brought by a waiter, he went and sat with her for coffee. She dropped her heavy monocle at his approach and beamed up at him with a ready greeting.
“I was afraid that you might not recognize me, Mr. Mildenhall,” she said. “We dined together, you know, at Mr. Leopold Benjamin’s some time ago—on the night of his disappearance. I am the Princess Sophie von Dorlingen.”
“I remember you perfectly. Princess,” Charles assured her as he took the chair the waiter had drawn out for him. “I scarcely flattered myself that you would remember me, however. We were seated some distance apart at that memorable dinner and I had not the pleasure of much conversation with you.”
She shook her head ponderously.
“It is so sad, this,” she continued in her rather guttural voice. “So sad about Mr. Benjamin.”
“Tell me,” he begged. “I have been away for so long travelling that I really seem to have had but little news. Nothing has happened to him, I hope?”
The Princess rolled her eyes.
“Rumours, my young friend,” she sighed. “Rumours—many of them. All bad. Some of them we hope not true. But you can see for yourself his beautiful house, the bank—”
“I only arrived here a couple of hours ago,” Charles confided. “I’ve had a roughish journey down from Poland. I drove straight to the hotel and I have spent most of my time since changing.”
She raised her hands.
“The bank is closed,” she told him. “There are boards across the windows. As for the house—it is a wreck.”
“And the picture galleries—the museum?” he asked breathlessly.
“There are all manner of stories,” she went on, “but one thing is certain. Within an hour of the German invasion of Vienna a picked band of Nazis went straight to the house. They demanded to be shown to the