They said their goodbyes, the Archduke politely declining an invitation to a cup of tea.
As they walked back to the lawn party, Gross sniffed once and then said, ‘I could have told you that would happen to Schmidt. The man was a fool to return to his masters. My prediction exactly.’
It was good to have the old Gross back, Werthen thought.
Returning to the others, Werthen told the news first to Berthe, who seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing Schmidt was no longer a threat. The bombing of Werthen’s office was still uppermost in her mind. Meanwhile, Gross was entertaining the others with his own version of events.
‘Now what was it you had to tell me?’ Werthen asked his wife. ‘Something about the law-office renovation?’
She put her mouth to his ear, whispering, and his smile turned into a sigh of love and happiness.
‘You’re sure?’
She nodded. ‘It’s been more than a month. You know how regular I am.’
He wanted to shout out for everyone to know. Instead, he took the cup of tea that Berthe handed to him.
Gross, finishing with his blandishments about Schmidt, turned to Werthen and saw such a blessed look of happiness on the man’s face that he was indeed glad for his little bit of subterfuge at the news Franz Ferdinand had imparted. No need to spoil the nice tennis party.
Pure nonsense, of course, both the news and his feigned relief. For Schmidt was a survivor. He would never return to St Petersburg if he thought such a fate awaited him.
No. They would, Gross feared, hear more of Schmidt in the future.