Pimpernel and Rosemary, Baroness Orczy [i have read the book a hundred times .txt] 📗

interesting. But, forgive me, my dear Monsieur Blakeney, if I ask you in what way all this concerns you?”

“I’ll tell you,” Peter said coolly. “I also happen to know⁠—no matter how⁠—that you are prepared to pay a large sum of money for those articles, so I thought that I would forestall your spy-in-chief by driving a bargain with you over the manuscript.”

“But how can you do that, my dear young friend, without the manuscript in your possession?”

“The manuscript is in my possession, Excellency,” Peter said coolly.

“How did that come about, if I may ask the question?”

“You may. I stole it this morning from Lady Tarkington.”

“What?”

Naniescu had given such a jump that he nearly turned himself out of his chair. The cigar fell from between his fingers, and the glass that contained the fine was upset and its contents spilt over the table. Even M. de Kervoisin had given a start; and his pale, expressionless face had flushed. Though the report of the postmistress of Kis-Imre had given Naniescu an inkling that something unexpected had occurred, he certainly had not been prepared for this.

He looked up at Peter and frowned, trying to recover his dignity which had been seriously jeopardized. Peter was laughing⁠—very impolitely, thought His Excellency. But then these English have no manners.

“You’ll forgive my smiling, won’t you, sir?” asked Peter quite deferentially.

“Go on with your story,” Naniescu retorted gruffly. “Never mind your manners.”

“I can’t very well mind them, sir,” Peter rejoined, with utmost seriousness, “as I don’t possess any. And I can’t go on with my story because there is none to tell.”

“You have got to tell me how you knew that Lady Tarkington had written certain newspaper articles; how you knew that I wanted them; how you came to⁠—to steal them⁠—the word is your own, my dear Monsieur Blakeney⁠—and where they are at the present moment.”

“None of which facts, I am thinking, concern your Excellency,” Peter retorted coolly, “except the last. The manuscript of Lady Tarkington’s newspaper articles is in my pocket at the present moment, together with her letter to the editor of the Times, asking for these articles to be published at an early opportunity. So, you see, sir, that I am bringing you a perfectly sound proposition.”

“I’ll have to read those articles first.”

“Of course,” Peter agreed, and took the sheets of manuscript out of his pocket. “At your leisure.”

Naniescu thrust out his podgy hand for them, his large, expressive eyes had lit up with a gleam of excitement. Peter gave him the manuscript, and as he did so he remarked casually, “They are no use to your Excellency without the covering letter.”

Which remark seemed to tickle M. de Kervoisin’s fancy, for he gave a funny, dry cackle which might pass for a laugh. Naniescu, however, appeared not to notice the taunt. His white, downy hands shook slightly as he unfolded the manuscript. He leaned back in his chair and began to read, the excitement of his nerves was chiefly apparent by his stertorous breathing and his almost savage chewing of the stump of his cigar.

M. de Kervoisin remained silent. He offered Peter a cigarette, and while the Englishman struck a match, lit the cigarette and smoked it with obvious relish, the Frenchman watched him through his half-closed lids with an expression of puzzlement upon his keen, wrinkled face. No sound disturbed the silence that had fallen over the actors of the little comedy, only the ticking of an old-fashioned clock and now and then the crisp crackling of paper as Naniescu turned over the sheets of the manuscript. From time to time he nodded his head and murmured complacently, “C’est très bien! C’est même très, très bien!” And once he looked across at his friend and asked: “Would you like to read this Kervoisin?” But the Frenchman only shrugged and replied with a slightly sarcastic smile: “Oh, my dear friend, if you are satisfied⁠—”

Peter said nothing. He waited quite patiently, seemingly completely indifferent, and smoked one cigarette after another.

When Naniescu had finished reading, he carefully folded the manuscript, laid it on the table beside him and put his hand upon it.

“What do you want for this?” he asked.

And Peter replied coolly: “The title-deeds of the Kis-Imre property.”

Naniescu stared at Peter for a moment or two, then he threw back his head and laughed until the tears trickled down his cheeks.

“You are astonishing, my friend,” he said. “The property is worth fifty thousand sterling.”

“I have paid an option on it of five thousand,” Peter retorted, “and the rest of it wouldn’t come out of your Excellency’s pocket, I take it.”

“Not out of my pocket, of course,” Naniescu was willing to admit, “but out of that of my Government. We are going to sell Kis-Imre for the benefit of the State.”

“And won’t your Excellency be purchasing these newspaper articles for the benefit of the State?”

“These articles are not worth it,” Naniescu retorted gruffly.

“Very will, let’s say no more about it. I’m sorry I troubled your Excellency.”

Peter rose as if to go and put out his hand toward the sheets of manuscript.

“Don’t be a fool,” Naniescu broke in. “I’ll give you a good price for the thing, but a property worth fifty thousand sterling⁠—hang it all⁠—it’s a bit stiff.”

Peter smiled. “How tersely you put the matter, general,” he said. “I dare say it is a bit stiff, but I am not prepared to bargain⁠—only to sell. And if you are not satisfied⁠—”

“Easy, easy, my impetuous young friend. Did I say that I was not satisfied⁠—or that I refuse to consider the matter? But there are considerations.”

“What considerations?”

“To begin with, how do I know that the English newspaper would accept these articles as the genuine work of Lady Tarkington?”

“I told you that I had Lady Tarkington’s own covering letter to the editor of the Times, asking him to publish the articles as soon as possible.”

“Let me see it,” Naniescu retorted.

“With pleasure.”

Peter took the letter out of his pocket, but before handing it over