I. A. R. Wylie

“ There was not one who did not wear his evening clothes with the ease of custom, and the persistent stream of conversation, now in one language, now in another, never rising above a courteous level, bore the stamp of world travel and cultured acquaintance with every phase of life.
Villiers sat at his host's right hand. From his position he could see straight down the rose-tinted dining room to the open window, beyond which the Mediterranean shimmered in peaceful moonlight. The table was scattered with red roses, and their perfume had grown heavy, almost overpowering, in the dead atmosphere. ”

“ You can do nothing, at this hour. It will be better to recover yourself slowly. There's some brandy at your elbow.”
Villiers put his hand vaguely to his forehead.
“I don't understand,” he muttered. “I have never fainted in my life. When was it? Hours ago, and I haven't the faintest recollection——” He looked up into his host's face with a sudden concentration. “What happened?” he demanded.
For a moment the elder man did not answer. He studied Villiers intently, probingly. Then he made a quick movement, as if dismissing every subterfuge.
“You were drugged, Mr. Villiers.” ”

“ Villiers, that was two nights ago. And last night war was declared.”
A cry of half-incredulous fury burst from Fenton's lips. Corodo went on quietly, almost regretfully:
“I am sorry to have hurt you. I have my profession, as you have yours. In another form I have suffered your fate. You are in the position I described to you last night—that of a man discarded by his own country. To your own people you are dead—as I am. But there is another life open to us both. Accept it—make the best of it——” He threw up his hands in an instinctive movement of self-defense. “Stand back, Mr. Villiers. ”