Exit a Dictator by E. Phillips Oppenheim

The door of the salon in Alexander's small suite at Buckingham Court, which he held for his occasional occupancy, was thrust open from the outside. A very young and exceedingly handsome man had made precipitate entrance, slamming back the door in a matter of seconds. He stood there, livid and breathless, the palm of one hand pressed against the panel, his long white fingers searching frantically for key or bolt. The former he found and at the sound of its click his panting for the moment ceased. Even then, he stood feverishly listening, his dark eyes flaming with terror, his breath still coming fast, his slim, elegant body shaken as though seized with a paroxysm of fear. Alexander, who was standing on the hearthrug, a cigarette in his mouth, the evening paper in his hand, looked across at his visitor with a smile half-amused, half-contemptuous.

"Is it a regiment which pursues you, Leopold?" he inquired-"I hear no trampling of feet, nor even the rattling of sabres."