Chapter SIX: Illona!

A loud, ringing peal of laughter sounded in my ears, and at that moment my aerial journey ended. In a flash all became transformed. It concluded with a sudden shock.

I was conscious of lying upon a polished floor. Around me, apparently, was a brilliant dinner-party. At the table about thirty persons were seated and I seemed to have created great consternation; for, two flunkeys in plush breeches and stockings were helping me to my feet.

I held my breath, aghast.

An elderly man, in evening-dress and wearing decorations, dashed up to me saying:

“My dear Hipwell! I hope you haven’t hurt yourself! You tilted your chair and it slipped from under you! By Jove! you gave your head a nasty bump on the floor! Are you quite all right?” he asked, placing his hand upon my shoulder with great anxiety.

“Quite all right!” I laughed faintly. “Please forgive me.” And a few moments later, one of the servants having replaced my chair, I resumed my seat amid the laughter and congratulations of the others.

“You might have hurt your head very badly!” remarked an elderly, well-preserved woman who sat on my left. She was very handsomely dressed and extremely refined.

“It was entirely my own fault,” I said apologetically. “I, of course, did not know that the floor was so highly polished.”

“I know. I had the same accident last summer in the Danieli Hotel, in Venice and hurt myself rather badly. Highly-polished floors are always extremely dangerous. But, if one lives in an Embassy one has to have such a floor in the State dining-room, as well as in the ballroom.”

“Is this an Embassy?” I inquired, gazing blankly around the handsome apartment, with its high, gilded ceiling and fine old portraits upon the paneled walls.

My companion regarded me strangely and said:

“I really hope, Mr. Hipwell, that you haven’t hurt your head!”

Instantly I saw that by betraying ignorance of my surroundings I would bring on myself suspicion of being slightly deranged.

“No,” I laughed. “I was only joking, really.”

“You quite alarmed me!” exclaimed my companion, and, bending over me, she addressed the pretty, auburn-haired young girl on my other hand, saying:

“Contessina! Did you hear that? Mr. Hipwell has just asked me whether this is an Embassy--as though he had never been in the British Embassy in Rome before! It’s too funny. He gave me quite a fright. I thought that his fall had injured his brain!”

“Signor Hipwell is always joking,” laughed the Little Countess, speaking in Italian, a language which I happened to know. “One can never take him seriously. He said all sorts of stupid things to my father a couple of months ago--pretending that he did not know him--and all that!”

“Forgive me, Contessina,” I said, bowing, not knowing her name or who she might be. To my knowledge I had never seen her before that moment. “But I was joking with your father.”

“As you did with His Excellency the Ambassador when you arrived from London this morning,” laughed the older woman. “His wife, Lady Kingscliffe, told me about it.” Then, turning to me, she asked, “Are you really suffering from loss of memory, as His Excellency has been fearing?”

“His Excellency need have no cause for apprehension,” I reassured the elderly lady on my left. Then I turned to my other companion, who was evidently the unmarried daughter of an Italian Count, and we laughed together.

Meanwhile my bewildered eyes were taking in every detail of that unfamiliar and unexpected scene.

The last actual recollection I had had was of being helpless and terrified in the hands of that desperate gang of criminals at Camberwell. Yet at that moment the whole scene had been suddenly transformed, and I was guest at an official dinner given by the British Ambassador in Rome.

At the head of the table sat His Excellency, a rather spare, grey-haired man in his diplomatic uniform, with a jeweled cross at his throat and a ribbon across his shirt-front. Nearly all the other men were also in the uniform of the various countries they represented, and wearing stars, ribbons, and neat rows of decorations. To my surprise, I found myself also wearing diplomatic uniform, with a foreign order.

The women were all smartly dressed, and many wore wonderful jewels, which glittered and flashed beneath the electric rays. At the opposite end of the flower-decked table sat Lady Kingscliffe, a distant relative of ours, whom I had known nearly all my life.

I was guest at the Embassy in Rome. But why?

All was bewildering. Why had I been invited to that stately dinner, at which I had made such a confounded fool of myself by unbalancing my chair, and afterwards asking where I was?

To keep my mouth shut and to observe closely was the best course. All was so strange, so unreal. True, I held a post at the Foreign Office, but my duties did not take me abroad. Why, therefore, was I a guest at the same table where, sitting on His Excellency’s right hand, was the Duce, the Dictator of Italy, the greatest post-war figure in Europe, Mussolini?

Bull-headed, with his strong, commanding countenance, and wearing plain evening-dress, he was chatting with a young girl in pale-yellow, and laughing the while. I recognized him from the many photographs in the Press, and I remember wondering whether beneath his dress-shirt he wore his famous coat of mail.

The many attempts to assassinate him had left him so cold that he had openly defied Fate, declaring that he led such a charmed life, that no plot could ever cause his undoing or his death. There sat the demigod of the Fascists at his ease, in the intimacy of the dinner-table!

Was it any wonder that such a scene held me entranced? Was I really dreaming?

My table companions spoke to me--on one side in English and, on the other, in Italian. I had not the slightest knowledge of who either of them was, and what I replied I know not until this day.

At last the State dinner ended, and we passed into a great ballroom with gilded ceiling and magnificent crystal electroliers. Already a number of people had assembled, and the entrance of His Brittanic Majesty’s representative, accompanied by the Duce, was the signal for much bowing and hand shaking. It was a brilliant, cosmopolitan crowd, such as, in these post-war days, could only assemble in the Eternal City.

The long windows of the great salon stood open to a glorious, shady garden and let in the balmy, flower-scented air, delightfully refreshing after the rather close atmosphere of the dining-room.

Alone I stood, agape. How came I there? Had I been wafted to Rome upon the fairy carpet of the Arabian story? Or was it actual reality?

The orchestra struck up a lively fox-trot quite unfamiliar to me. I am rather fond of dancing, and with Joan as partner, knew most of the popular tunes. Yet, the one in question was entirely unfamiliar. I went back to the wall, and, standing near the door, watched the brilliant spectacle of uniformed and decorated men and bejeweled women. Diplomatic representatives of nearly every country in the world were there; and, as always, the reception of the British representative to the Quirinale was a spectacle perhaps unequaled in Europe.

I stood astounded amid the brilliant throng, the dance-inspiring rhythm in my ears, my senses bewildered, watching the cosmopolitan dancers, yet not knowing a soul except old Dickie Kingscliffe and his wife.

As members of many of the best dance-clubs in London, Joan and I had made our peregrinations and knew the qualities of the various floors from the Florida to the Cosmo. But where was she? The dance orchestra brought her back vividly to my mind, causing me to reflect on our meeting the last time I had seen her. As I stood there watching, her sweet face slowly rose, distinct and lovable, in a pale-grey mist, her adored countenance with that sweet smile on it. Yet a few seconds later, before I could realize it, the faint vision faded and the mist grew darkened into night.

My brain was in a whirl, in an abnormal condition.

A sense of absolute boredom at once overcame me.

The pretty little Contessina, with the brown eyes and shingled hair--just a trifle too light for an Italian, I thought--was dancing with the tall French military attaché; while my other table companion, the elderly Englishwoman, had as partner a somewhat obese Italian, perhaps a deputy, because of his cross of Cavaliere of the Order of the Crown of Italy.

My attention was centred on the Little Countess. She presented a smart figure of perfect line and graceful movement, charming in pale-fuchsia, with a necklet of pearls and a magnificent bracelet of rubies and diamonds. Once, as she passed, she caught my eye and smiled over the shoulder of her elegant and lavishly decorated partner.

While standing there, Her Excellency Lady Kingscliffe approached me and we stood to gossip. After her husband’s return from the Legation at Brussels, before my strange adventure in Camberwell, I had known her ladyship well in London. Dickie Kingscliffe had had a long and distinguished career at the Foreign Office. He was the kind of man who had secured rapid promotion by being dumped into any vacancy abroad that occurred. Before the Sovereign had conferred on him the Knight Commandership of St. Michael and George, Kingscliffe had spent many weary years in the Do-nothing Department at Downing Street. Later, he had been sent out--because he dressed well, entertained well, and was able to see without seeing, and speak without saying anything, according to true Foreign Office traditions--first to Constantinople as second secretary, then to Paris as first secretary, and after the war he had drifted along as Minister at Lisbon. Later on, again, he had been sent to Copenhagen and to Brussels, until apparently now he had fallen into one of the best-paid posts as full-fledged Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the gay Court of the Quirinale.

“Well, my dear Lionel,” exclaimed Her Excellency, “I hope you don’t feel too fatigued after your journey from London? It was awfully kind of you to bring me those things from Bronley’s in the bag. My maid gave them to me just as I was dressing.”

I bowed, expressing delight at being able to do any little service for her, yet entirely in ignorance of having brought anything from London, or of ever traveling to Rome.

“By the way,” she went on, “how is your father? I haven’t seen him for ages. I see that he often speaks in the House.”

I replied that, as I traveled a great deal, I saw very little of him, but, as far as I knew, he was quite well. At that instant there flashed through my brain the memory of that last dramatic midnight interview in the fog at Denmark Hill station.

What had occurred since then? All was a perfect blank.

Twice the Contessina re-passed me as I stood with Her Excellency, and each time she gave me a sunny smile of recognition. The pretty girl intrigued me. There was some curious feature about her; one that I could no more fathom than the depths of mystery into which I had been plunged.

Somehow I felt confident that we had met before; but where, I could not recall. The smile that played about her lips seemed familiar. In a hazy sort of way I felt that she was my intimate friend and that she was enjoying my failure to recognize her.

Presently I asked Her Excellency:

“Who is the little lady who sat next to me at dinner? Look! She’s over there with the French military attaché.”

“Oh, the Contessina! We met her a few weeks ago at the Spaniard’s”--meaning the Spanish Embassy. “She was with a Baroness Boin, her chaperon. She seems to be well known and popular, for she goes everywhere in Rome. Her name is Angela Ugostini, daughter of Count Ugostini of Ravenna.”

“She is very charming. Don’t you think so, Excellenza?” I said, as my eyes wandered around the great ballroom after her.

“What!” cried the Ambassador’s wife in feigned protest. “Don’t you remember once in London you told me that you thought no man who carried dispatches should ever marry? And yet you are admiring a pretty girl. Well, my dear Lionel, I’m really surprised! I admit that you held that opinion before you knew Joan.”

Joan! The name stirred highly strung chords within my memory. Joan! My beloved! Though torn by emotion, I strove frantically to remain unconcerned.

“Two years ago I first met her--at your house, Lady Kingscliffe,” I remarked. “My declaration was made before that.”

“My dear Lionel, your idea of time is most erratic! Why, what are you thinking of? Are you dreaming? We’ve been here in Rome nearly two years. It must have been over four years ago.”

I remained silent. If what Her Excellency said was correct, then I had lost all knowledge of about two years of my life--of where I had been, of what acts I had committed, or of what friendships or enmities I had made. I had a blank in my life of two whole years to fill.

“You know nowadays, my dear boy, you are always a little vague on some points. Joan has told me so. I wonder why it is? Perhaps so much traveling is affecting you,” she remarked.

“What has Joan said?” I asked, wondering what had happened to me during those lost two years.

“Oh, she’s such a sweet girl, Lionel, I really wonder that you treat her as you do,” said Lady Kingscliffe reproachfully. “But there, I suppose it is no affair of mine, so let’s talk of something else.”

“Will you dance?” I asked.

“I’d rather not,” she declared gracefully. “I’m a trifle tired. To-morrow night there is the State ball at the Quirinale. You were at the last one two months ago. I see the Minister of the Household, the Marquis Visconti, over there! I’ll ask him to send you a command to the Excelsior.”

I thanked her profusely. She was quite unaware that she had unconsciously given me information of which I had been sorely in need--namely, the name of the hotel in which I was staying.

“You recollect that dainty little Marchesa Pozzoli--you had supper with her at the last State ball--she’s just died very mysteriously in Palermo--poor little woman! All Rome is talking of it. Foul play is hinted at. Her husband soon afterwards went off to Paris with La Fafala the dancer,” she added significantly.

“How very tragic!” I replied. Then, as the name slowly brought forth memories, I remembered her, for I had known Italy and Switzerland fairly well. A black-eyed, dark-haired, merry little woman of twenty-five, she had been a most graceful dancer and a cheery companion. Before her marriage she had been one of the Strozzis of Florence; since her union with Pozzoli she had been a particularly bright personage in Rome society, and her receptions at the Palace Pozzoli, in the Via Babuno, had been among the most brilliant in the winter season.

“Do they think Enrico murdered her?” I whispered.

“H’sh!” she whispered in turn, warningly. “One must not dare suggest such a thing, but I happen to know that Ghelardi, chief of the Pubblica Sicurézza, is making searching inquiries. The Duce told Richard so two days ago. Of course, that is strictly _entre nous_,” she added, bending and speaking in a low tone.

Mussolini strode past, and suddenly halted, laughing, to speak with the Ambassadress; hence I left her side, and a moment later found the Little Countess, who had just been conducted back to her seat by a young attaché who had been her partner.

“Won’t you dance, Contessina?” I asked her in French. With that sweet smile I seemed to recognize in the misty vista of the past, she replied gaily in the affirmative.

Conversation was rendered difficult for me because each moment in my bewilderment I feared making some _faux pas_. Now that I was at her side, the sweeter and more charming she appeared. To Lady Kingscliffe I suppose I had unconsciously betrayed an infatuation; for, I recollected her reproachful words concerning Joan.

Joan! She was only a shadow in the mist, a half-effaced memory of long-forgotten days. That night, amid the brilliant scene of jewel-bedecked women and uniformed men, I had awakened to a new existence and had begun life afresh.

I was infatuated with the Contessina Angela. I confess to it. Her beauty, her grace, her charm, her soft speech, overwhelmed me.

While we were dancing I complimented her on her steps, which were indeed new to me, though I found I could dance them. But, among several things which struck me as curious concerning her was that, though she spoke Italian, it was with a decided foreign accent. Neither was the softness of her features that of an Italian; yet perhaps that might be accounted for if her mother had been a foreigner. Besides, there are, I argued, many people, brought up abroad in childhood and youth, who cannot speak their own language properly.

As I held her while we danced, she greatly intrigued me, especially after what Lady Kingscliffe had told me. She and her companion, the Baroness Boin, it seemed, had suddenly appeared in Roman society and, so charming was the little Contessina, and so cleverly had she “climbed,” that the exclusive society in the Eternal City had quickly accepted her.

“I suppose you are going to the Quirinale to-morrow night?” she asked me just before the fox-trot ended.

I replied in the affirmative and expressed a profound hope that we should meet there.

“I sincerely trust that we shall,” she replied in a voice which struck me as extremely curious. “Perhaps before. Who knows?” And she laughed.

“Really, Contessina, I don’t quite understand you!” I said, much puzzled, as I bowed her to her seat.

“Nowadays you don’t understand many things it appears, Signor Hipwell,” was her reply as she smiled, turning to greet a newcomer who came to invite her for the next dance.

Ten minutes later I got my hat and coat. A flunkey had called a taxi, and I drove to the great _hôtel-de-luxe_ the Excelsior, in which, by mere chance, I had ascertained I had my temporary abode.

After I had ascended the broad, blue-carpeted marble stairs, not knowing the number of my room I went to the _concierge_ and asked for my key.

I was given it, and on it was the number of a second-floor apartment, large luxurious quarters with all the appointments of a modern hotel of the first class.

I saw the dark-grey clothes I had unconsciously worn that day, neatly folded, upon a chair. Upon a stand was a battered suit-case completely covered with labels of Continental hotels, a small hand-bag was upon a chair, and upon the writing-table was a letter addressed to me. Apparently it had been delivered that evening. The stamp was a Swiss one.

I tore it open. Written in an educated hand, there was a brief letter dated from an address in Lausanne, Switzerland, as follows:

“My Adored Lionel,--I have waited hourly for two whole weeks for a reply to the urgent message I sent you to London. I can bear the awful suspense no longer. I am in grave peril, with enemies surrounding me, and am alone and defenseless. Be extremely careful of your dear self on your journeys. They will not hesitate to kill you, as I have already proved to you. I am leaving for London to-morrow, if I consider it safe, and will call on you. Meanwhile, wire me your decision to my club in London and also here. I shall then know how to act. All my fondest love, dear heart, from your devoted wife,

“Illona.”

_My wife Illona!!_ Who was she?

In the two years of my unconsciousness I had evidently married!