"Jasper," she said earnestly, "you must get me back the manuscript."
"How is it to be done, my dear? From all accounts our friend Peter is as elusive as his ancestor, the Scarlet Pimpernel. He has ten minutes' advance of us already . . . a car probably waiting for him in the village. Are you quite sure you can't hear the whirring of a motor now?"
"You could try, at any rate." And now there was a distinct note of pleading in her voice. "General Naniescu----"
"Make yourself no illusion in that quarter, my dear," he broke in quickly. "Once Naniescu is in possession of those precious articles of yours he will send a courier flying across Europe with them. Remember that with the MSS. there was your covering letter to the editor of the _Times_, asking for immediate publication. Let me see," he went on slowly, "this is Saturday. I believe we shall see the first of those wonderful articles in print in the _Times_ on Wednesday."
"I don't care how it's done," she replied impatiently. "If you won't help me I'll manage alone."
"Telegraph to the _Times_, for one thing, and start for London this evening."
"Plucky!" he remarked dryly; "but I doubt if you'll succeed."
"I? Certainly not. But Naniescu will." Then, as without attempting further argument she turned to go, he added blandly: "And Peter."
To this final taunt Rosemary made no reply. Her thoughts were in a whirl, but through the very confusion that was raging in her brain her resolution remained clear. She would wire to the editor of the _Times_ not to act on any letter he might receive from her until he heard from her again, and in the meantime she would start for London immediately. Even if her wire were stopped by Naniescu's orders, she would be in London in time to stop the publication of the articles. Though she had a great deal of influence in the journalistic world, it was not likely that so important a paper as the _Times_ would be ready to print her articles the moment they were received. Yes, she had plenty of time. And the whole conspiracy, whatever it was, had been clumsily engineered and would certainly prove futile.
The conspiracy! Rosemary could not think of that. Yet when she did it would mean such a terrible heartache that the whole world would become a blank. Peter blotted out of her life. That is what it would mean when she regained the power to think. It would come to her probably in the train, travelling alone across Europe, hurrying to nullify work done by Peter--shameful, despicable work that would sully the reputation of a pariah. The work of a spy, of hands tainted with ill-gotten wealth! Rosemary's gorge rose at the thought. The conspiracy would prove futile--there was plenty of time to subvert it--but it was an evil, noisome thing that had been. It had existed--and Peter had given it birth!