Louise looked up eagerly as he entered.

“There is news!” she exclaimed. “I can see it in your face.”

“Yes,” Bellamy answered, “there is news! That is why I have come. Where can we talk?”

She rose to her feet. Before them the open French windows led on to a smooth green lawn. She took his arm.

“Come outside with me,” she said. “I am shut up here because I will not see the doctors whom they send, or any one from the Opera House. An envoy from the Palace has been and I have sent him away.”

“You mean to keep your word, then?”

“Have I ever broken it? Never again will I sing in this City. It is so.”

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 each is pledged, and from which direction the first blow is to come, would be our salvation.”

“I cannot understand,” she said, “why he should have refused to share his knowledge with you. He is an American—it is almost the same thing as being an Englishman. And you are friends,—I am sure that you have helped him often.”

“It was a matter of vanity—simply cursed vanity,” Bellamy answered. “It would have been the greatest journalistic success of modern times for him to have printed that document, word for word, in his paper. He fights for his own hand alone.”

“And you?” she whispered.

“He will have to reckon with me,” Bellamy declared. “I know that he is going to try and leave Vienna to-night, and if he does I shall be at his heels.”

She nodded her head thoughtfully.

“I, too,” she announced. “I come with you, my friend. I do no more good here, and they worry my life out all the time. I come to sing in London at Covent Garden. I have agreements there which only await my signature. We will go together; is it not so?”

“Very well,” he answered, “only remember that my movements must depend very largely upon Dorward’s. The train leaves at eight o’clock, station time. I have already a coupe reserved.”

“I come with you,” she murmured. “I am very weary of this city.”

They walked on for a few paces in silence. Bellamy looked around the gardens, brilliant with flowering shrubs and rose trees, with here and there some delicate piece of statuary half-hidden amongst the wealth of foliage. The villa had once belonged to a royal favorite, and the grounds had been its chief glory. They reached a sheltered seat and sat down. A few yards away a tiny waterfall came tumbling over the rocks into a deep pool. They were hidden from the windows of the villa by the boughs of a drooping chestnut tree. Bellamy stooped and kissed her upon the lips.

“Ours is a strange courtship, Louise,” he whispered softly.

She took his hand in hers and smoothed it. She had returned his kiss, but she drew a little further away from him.

“Ah! my dear friend,” looking at him with sorrow in her eyes, “courtship is scarcely the word, is it? For you and me there is nothing to hope for, nothing beyond.”

He leaned towards her.

“Never believe that,” he begged. “These days are dark enough, Heaven knows, yet the work of every one has its goal. Even our turn may come.”

Something flickered for a moment in her face, something which seemed to make a different woman of her. Bellamy saw it, and hardened though he was he felt the slow stirring of his own pulses. He kissed her hand passionately and she shivered.

“We must not talk of these things,” she said. “We must not think of them. At least our friendship has been wonderful. Now I must go in. I must tell my maid and arrange to steal away to-night.”

They stood up, and he held her in his arms for a moment. Though her lips met his freely enough, he was very conscious of the reserve with which she yielded herself to him, conscious of it and thankful, too. They walked up the path together, and as they went she plucked a red rose and thrust it through his buttonhole.

“If we had no dreams,” she said softly, “life would not be possible. Perhaps some day even we may pluck roses together.”

He raised her fingers to his lips. It was not often that they lapsed into sentiment. When she spoke again it was finished.

“You had better leave,” she told him, “by the garden gate. There are the usual crowd in my anteroom, and it is well that you and I are not seen too much together.”

“Till this evening,” he whispered, as he turned away. “I shall be at the station early. If Dorward is taken, I shall still leave Vienna. If he goes, it may be an eventful journey.”