Part 39 (1/2)

_ANTHONY THE TRIUMPHANT_

The butler tapped upon Trent's door before nine next morning.

”I've just taken a telephone message for you, Mr. Anthony, very important if I may judge.”

”Come in and tell me about it,” the American said. He could not imagine who knew his whereabouts. It must be Maitland, he supposed, who had promised to see him before he joined his destroyer again if it were possible.

”It's from the American Emba.s.sy,” the butler informed him.

”What?” Trent demanded. ”Are you sure?”

The American Emba.s.sy! What had he to do with that? Once behind the doors he was on American soil and subject to her jurisdiction.

”It was a message saying that the amba.s.sador must see you at once. I took the liberty of saying I thought you could get there by half past nine. A motor will be waiting when you have dressed.”

Anthony Trent sat on the edge of his bed and saw all his high hopes dashed to earth. Someone must have told the amba.s.sador of this young fellow countryman of his who was on intimate terms with a cabinet minister. And the amba.s.sador with the aid of his intelligence department must have run him to earth.

For a moment he wondered whether it would not be wiser to make a run for it. Maitland now a.s.sured of his _bona fides_ would not hesitate to take him with him and land him at some lonely spot on the Italian coast by night. He had money and his wits. It would be beginning life over again but it would be better than disgrace here in London.

Then his fighting side a.s.serted itself. He would not be frightened into flight before he was convinced flight was necessary.

There was another visitor in the American amba.s.sador's waiting room, a man of middle age who smoked an excellent cigar. He turned as Trent entered.

”Morning,” said Trent morosely. He was annoyed to find that he had to speak. It was the publisher of a chain of magazines for one of which Trent used to write when engaged in the manufacture of light fiction. He had often smoked one of the millionaire's celebrated cigars.

”Good morning,” said the publisher graciously. ”It's a long time since I saw you.”

”The amba.s.sador keeps extraordinary hours,” Trent commented.

”He's a business man,” the other explained, ”Not bred to the old time diplomacy, just a plain, business man.”

”What have you done that he sent for you?”

”You don't seem to understand,” the publisher said mildly.

”I only understand,” Trent said, still irritably, ”that I'm being kept waiting. He was to see me at nine thirty and it's now twenty minutes to breakfast.”

”He was on the minute,” the other laughed, ”Where have you been not to know I'm the amba.s.sador?”

”You!” said Trent in amazement.

”And I'm making a d.a.m.ned good one,” the diplomat said, ”even if I do get up hours before the rest of 'em.”

”What am I here for?” Trent demanded.

”Congratulations mainly,” said the amba.s.sador. ”I was waked out of sleep at after midnight by the prime minister. He wanted to know if I had heard of an American called Anthony Trent. I said 'Sure. He used to write for me. Anthony Trent is all right.' The way these Londoners keep up half the night is something shocking.”

”I still don't see why you've sent for me, Mr. Hill.”

”I'll explain,” said the amba.s.sador. His manner was serious, so serious indeed that Anthony Trent was infinitely perturbed. ”You may not know it but you've rendered your country a considerable service. Over here in the Birthday or New Year honours list you'll find decorations awarded men the public knows nothing about. Trent, sometimes they are given for work like you have done. We don't give orders or decorations or grants of money. If we did you'd have one coming to you. What you've done won't even come before Congress. You'll be a mute inglorious Milton, but--if the day comes when you need help, if you should ever be in a tight place, remember you've got something to trade with. I'm not going to mention this again but you bear it in mind.”