I put my head into the Mess and discovered Albert Edward alone there cheating himself at Patience.  
"My leave warrant has come and I'm off!" said I. "If Foch should ring up tell him he'll have to struggle along by himself for a fortnight. Cheeroh!"
 
"Cheeroh!" said Albert Edward. "Give my regards to Nero, Borgia and all the boys."
 
I shut the door upon him and took the road to Rome.
 
Arrived there I attempted to shed a card on the Pope, but was repulsed by a halbardier in fancy dress; visited the catacombs (by the way, in the art of catacombing we latter-day sinners have nothing to learn from the early saints. Why, at Arras in 1917 we—— Oh, well, never mind now!); kept a solemn face while bands solemnly intoned Tipperary (under the impression it was the British National Anthem); bought a bushel of mosaic brooches and several million picture postcards and acted the perfect little tripper throughout.
 
Then one day while stepping into a hotel lift I bumped full into Wilfrid Wilcox Wilbur, stepping forth.
 
You have all of you read the works of Wilfrid Wilcox Wilbur (Passion Flowers, Purple Patches, etc. Boost and Boom. 6s.); if you haven't you should, for Wilfrid is the lad to handle the soul-sob and the heart-throb and warm up cold print generally.
 
In pre-war days he was to be met with in London drawing-rooms about tea-time wearing his mane rather longer than is done in the best menageries, giving a very realistic imitation of a lap-dog. And now behold him in military disguise parading the Eternal City!
 
"What are you doing here?" I gasped.
 
He put a finger to his lips. "Psst!" Then pushing me into the lift, he ejected the attendant, turned a handle and we shot aloft. Half-way between heaven and earth he stopped the conveyance and having made quite sure we were not being overheard by either men or angels, leaned up against my ear and whispered, "Secret Service!"
 
I was amazed. "Not really!"
 
Wilbur nodded. "Yes, really! That's why I have to be so careful; they have their agents everywhere listening, watching, taking notes."
 
I felt for my pocket-case momentarily fearful that They (whoever They were) might have taken mine.
 
"And do you have agents also, listening, noting, taking watches?" I asked.
 
Wilbur said he had and went on to explain that so perfect was his system that a cat could hardly kitten anywhere between the Yildiz Kiosk and Wilhelmstrasse without his full knowledge and approval. I was very thrilled, for I had previously imagined all the cloak and dagger spy business to be an invention of the magazine writer, yet here was little Wilbur, according to himself, living a life of continuous yellow drama, more Queuxrious than fiction, rich beyond dreams of Garavice. (Publisher—"Tut-tut!" Author—"Peccavi!")
 
I thrilled and thrilled. "Look here," I implored, "if you are going to pull off a coup at any time, do let me come too!"
 
Wilbur demurred, the profession wasn't keen on amateurs, he explained; they were too impetuous, lacked subtlety—still if the opportunity occurred he might—perhaps—— I wrung his hand, then, seeing that bells on every landing had been in a state of uproar for some fifteen minutes and that the attendant was commencing to swarm the cable after his lift, we dropped back to earth again, returned it to him and went out to lunch.
 
"And now tell me something of your methods," said I, as we sat down to meat.
 
Wilbur promptly grabbed me by the collar and dragged me after him under the table.
 
"What's the matter now?" I gulped.
 
"Fool!" he hissed. "The waiter is a Bulgarian spy."
 
"Let's arrest him then," said I.
 
Wilbur groaned. "Oh, you amateurs, you would stampede everything and ruin all!"
 
I apologised meekly and we issued from cover again and resumed our meal, silently because (according to Wilbur) the peroxide blonde doing snake-charming tricks with spaghetti at the next table was a Hungarian agent, and there was a Turk concealed in the potted palms near by.
 
I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled.
 
Then followed stirring days. Rome at that time, I gathered, was the centre of the spy industry and at the height of the sleuthing season, for they hemmed us in on every hand—according to Wilbur. I was continually being dragged aside into the shadow of dark arcades to dodge Austrian Admirals disguised as dustmen, rushed up black alleys to escape the machinations of Bolshevick adventuresses parading as parish priests, and submerged in fountains to avoid the evil eyes of German diplomats camouflaged as flower girls—according to Wilbur.
 
I thrilled and thrilled and thrilled and thrilled, bought myself a stiletto and a false nose.
 
However, after about a week of playing trusty Watson to Wilbur's Sherlock without having effected a single arrest, drugged one courier, stilettoed a soul, or being allowed to wear my false nose once, my thrillings became less violent, and giving Wilbur the slip one afternoon, I went on the prowl alone. About four of the clock my investigations took me to Latour's. At a small marble table lapping up ices as a kitten laps cream, I beheld Temporary Second Lieut. Mervyn Esmond.
 
You all of you remember Mervyn Esmond, he of the spats, the eyeglass and grey top-hat, the Super-Knut of the Frivolity Theatre who used to gambol so gracefully before the many "twinkling toes" of the Super-Beauty Chorus, singing "Billy of Piccadilly." You must remember Mervyn Esmond!
 
But that was the Esmond of yore, for a long time past he has been doing sterling work in command of an Army Pierrot troupe.
 
I sat down beside him, stole his ice and finished it for him.
&............