Bellamy looked around. The garden of the villa was enclosed by high gray stone walls. They were secure here, at least, from eavesdroppers. She rested her fingers lightly upon his arm, holding up the skirts of her loose gown with her other hand. “I have spoken to you,” he said, “of Dorward, the American journalist.” She nodded. “Of course,” she assented. “You told me that the Chancellor had promised him an interview for to-day.” “Well, he went to the Palace and the Chancellor saw him.” She looked at him with upraised eyebrows. “The newspapers are full of lies as usual, then, I suppose. The latest telegrams say that the Chancellor is dangerously ill.” “It is quite true,” Bellamy declared. “What I am going to tell you is surprising, but I had it from Dorward himself. When he reached the Palace, the Chancellor was practically insane. His doctors were trying to persuade him to go to his room and lie down, but he heard Dorward’s voice and insisted upon seeing him. The man was mad—on the verge of a collapse—and he handed over to Dorward his notes, and a verbatim report of all that passed at the Palace this morning.” She looked at him incredulously. “My dear David!” she exclaimed. “It is amazing,” he admitted, “but it is the truth. I know it for a fact. The man was absolutely beside himself, he had no idea what he was doing.” “Where is it?” she asked quickly. “You have seen it?” “Dorward would not give it up,” he said bitterly. “While we argued in our sitting-room at the hotel the police arrived. Dorward escaped through the bedroom and down the service stairs. He spoke of trying to catch the Orient Express to-night, but I doubt if they will ever let him leave the city.” “It is wonderful, this,” she murmured softly. “What are you going to do?” “Louise, you and I have few secrets from each other. I would have killed Dorward to obtain that sealed envelope, because I believe that the knowledge of its contents in London to-day would save us from disaster. To know how far
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