THE MEETING OF FOUR NATIONS
From the glare and glitter of the ball-room they stepped out to wait
for their car--Varden and his wife and Fenton. The Baroness Draschol
was a very charming woman of a striking Latin type. Varden, a strong
man among men, was quite content to play second fiddle in the
matrimonial partnership he had formed with this beautiful young
Ironian. He fairly idolised her, and with every moment spent in her
society Fenton understood more fully why. She was plump, merry, with
flashing brown eyes that soon brought everything within their range
into thraldom, and a voice trained to charm by that greatest of
elocutionary teachers, Nature. She alternately petted her English
husband and drove him to raging jealousy by keeping a flock of Ironian
dandies in her train. The Baroness had paid Fenton the high compliment
of not attempting to flirt with him, recognising intuitively perhaps
that Cupid, the universal booking agent, had billed this blond young
giant for another engagement; certainly recognising, for she was a
shrewd young person and also very much in love with her husband, that
no matter who else she may lay herself out to captivate, it is never
wise for a wife to flirt with her husband's friends. Husbands do not
like it. Accordingly she had welcomed Fenton as a friend, and they
were already "as thick as thieves," as Varden put it.
The motor-car rolled up and Varden helped his wife in. Fenton was
following when a figure suddenly sprang up from the darkness beside
them and ran forward. The stranger's arm came up as he ran. As the
man from Canada sank into the seat, two shots rang out in quick
succession. Fenton felt his hat go and, with the sudden forward lurch
of the car, he fell into the empty seat in front. This probably saved
his life, for the second shot missed by a safe margin. At the first
alarm, Varden sprang to his feet, and, after gazing hurriedly around,
threw himself in front of his wife to shield her from the fire.
"On! Top speed!" he called in Ironian to the driver.
The latter responded promptly, and before the assassin could attempt
another shot they had bumpily navigated a cobble-stoned curve and were
skimping away over the pavement with a momentary increase of momentum.
"That was meant for you, Don," said Varden, settling back into his
seat. "Hurt?"
"Never touched me!" responded Fenton. "Hat's gone, that's all. I'm
convinced now that they really do take their politics hard in this
country."
They soon arrived at the big house in the Lodz. In the hall Varden
lingered a moment to whisper to his guest.
"Go right to your room and wait there for me. There's big business
afoot to-night."
Fenton waited impatiently in his room. In a few minutes his friend
appeared with a couple of heavy cloaks of dark cloth.
"We haven't much time," said the latter. "Slip into this and muffle
yourself up well. It's chilly enough out at this hour, and in addition
it wouldn't be healthy for us if we were recognised. Sharp's the word.
The others will be waiting."
"You're most infernally mysterious about it all," grumbled Fenton.
"Where are we going? What others? There aren't any more rhododendron
patches to be visited, are there?"
Without replying Varden led the way outside. They let themselves out
by a rear gate and quickly plunged into a maze of side streets. The
city was more or less deserted. The air was chill and damp and the
first streaks of dawn were breaking up the leaden darkness of the sky.
They had walked for several minutes, for the most part along narrow,
dingy streets with ancient houses on either side that seemed ready to
totter forward through sheer old age, when Varden turned sharply and
came to a stop in front of one of the largest and quaintest houses they
had encountered. It was as dark and still as its neighbours on each
side.
"Stairs are creaky, step lightly," whispered Varden, producing a
latch-key which gave them entrance to a dark and narrow hall-way.
"Can't be too careful, you know. Even a creaking stairway could be
heard out there on the road now. The very walls have ears these days."
Clambering cautiously up two flights in darkness of Stygian intensity,
they came to a landing across which fell a narrow strip of light,
emanating from under a doorway. Varden knocked softly three times in
quick succession and then twice slowly. The door was instantly opened
and they stepped into a dimly lighted ante-room. The man who had
admitted them wore the uniform of an officer of the Ironian Guards.
"You are late," he said. "Your friend?"
"By the prince's permission," responded Varden.
The officer disappeared into an inner room and returned almost
immediately, motioning them to enter. They found themselves in a long
room, very richly decorated. Fenton thought how oddly out of
consonance it was with the outside appearance of the house. Around a
long table eight men were seated, one chair being empty.
Fenton started and could hardly forbear from rubbing his eyes. Surely
the tall man seated at the end of the table was the great English
diplomatist, Sir John Chester?
The Canadian looked again and became convinced that his eyes had not
been playing tricks with him. There was no mistaking the man who had
figured so largely in the foreign policy of the British Empire. Spare,
straight and muscular, Sir John was easily the outstanding personality
in the group around the table.
And, piling surprise on surprise, next to him sat Monsieur D'Aubignè,
the famous French diplomat. Sir John was speaking as they entered,
each word falling with the incisive emphasis that was one of his
best-known characteristics. Prince Peter was there too, seated beside
a man whose face was vaguely familiar to the Canadian. Fenton studied
the handsome, heavily bearded countenance of the stranger for a moment
before he recognised him as Count Grobenski of the Russian Foreign
Ministry. The rest of the group were quite unknown to Fenton, but he
concluded that they were Ironians.
Then he remembered certain hints that Varden had let drop that
afternoon to the effect that representatives of the allied nations were
in Serajoz. Varden had been very mysterious about it, but Fenton had
gained the impression that the object of their visit had been to bring
Ironia to a definite stand.
Prince Peter rose and greeted the new-comers with a bow, motioning
Varden to the vacant seat and indicating that Fenton should place
himself in a chair at some little distance from the table. No words of
introduction were spoken, but the members of the conference
acknowledged Varden's addition to their ranks with formal bows. Fenton
felt the cold, judicial gaze of Sir John Chester fixed upon him for a
moment, and was also aware that the other men in the room subjected him
to a more or less close scrutiny. Then the discussion proceeded in
French.
"As you are aware, you, as representatives of the allied nations, are
in Serajoz at my personal invitation," Prince Peter said. "Ironia has
held back from entering the war because of our inability to gain
unanimous support for any one policy. In arranging for this conference
I was hopeful that it would result in uniting the factions, in
convincing our people that the interests of Ironia are identical with
the allied cause. Unfortunately I was unable to gain the consent of
His Majesty to a formal meeting of the Advisory Council to discuss the
war situation with you. I took it upon myself to meet you thus
secretly with such members of the King's advisors as I knew to be of
our way of thinking, as it was apparent to me that, before we could
take any positive steps looking to Ironia's entry into the war, it was
necessary that we have a definite understanding. We must know exactly
where we stand before we take any determined steps to convince His
Majesty that Ironia must join forces with the nations you represent.
This explains the conditions of secrecy under which it has been
necessary to hold this meeting. Your presence in Serajoz, gentlemen,
is a secret shared only by those at present in this house. I have made
arrangements for your safe departure. It is my earnest belief that
within a week it will be possible to welcome you back in your official
capacities to sign a treaty on behalf of your respective Governments,
linking Ironia to the allied cause.
"Now as to the terms under which we could enter this war," he went on.
"I believe we have reached unanimous agreement on all points. Britain
would guarantee to finance us. Mulkovina and Serania would be restored
to us in the event of victory. We, for our part, would be expected to
place an army of half a million men in the field, fully equipped, and
to maintain this force for the duration of the war. We have your
assurance also that our loss in the export of petroleum to Germany
would be fully met by the taking up of our total output by the allied
nations. So far all is quite satisfactory from the standpoint of
Ironia.
"I cannot let this conference dissolve, however, without setting forth
in the clearest light possible the position in which our country
stands. I do not want you to carry away the impression that this is a
business proposition on our part, that we have waited until we could
drive a hard bargain and enter the war with the surety of gain. Let me
tell you that Ironia has suffered long at the spectacle of her sons and
daughters ground down under the foreign yoke in the lost provinces.
The only thing that has kept us from attempting to force justice by
arms has been the knowledge that we would have absolutely no chance
single-handed against the colossal might of Austria. If we enter the
war now it will be not for considerations of national profit, but to
free our brothers in Mulkovina and Serania from the hated yoke. Other
considerations that have entered into this discussion have been
necessary in view of our impoverished position as a nation."
In the pause that followed, Varden, seated at Prince Peter's left hand,
whispered in his ear. The prince lent earnest attention and apparently
considered the news that the Englishman brought of the gravest import.
"Mr Varden has brought to my attention a matter that must be considered
before we disperse," said the Ironian leader. "The arrangement we have
reached to-night depends upon my ability to secure action on the part
of Ironia. It was tentative in that respect; you have pledged the
honour of the nations you represent, but in no other respect is the
agreement binding."
He paused as though reluctant to proceed.
"We can give no written guarantee," said Sir John, "as we are not
dealing officially with the Government of Ironia as yet. I have,
however, full authority to pledge the Government of Great Britain to
the arrangement decided upon."
"If the honour of France is pledged by an accredited representative is
any further guarantee necessary?" asked Monsieur D'Aubignè with an
eloquent gesture.
"I am not asking anything which cannot be given," said Prince Peter.
"But I have just learned that events are shaping themselves on the
Russian frontier which may seriously affect the relations of our four
nations. The Russian forces are mobilising close to the Mulkovinian
frontier, and there are evidences that an immediate advance is
contemplated." He wheeled around and faced the Russian representative
squarely. "Perhaps Count Grobenski can tell us of his Government's
intentions. If the province is occupied by Russian troops, without
Ironian assistance, will this agreement hold?"
The Russian diplomat returned his gaze steadily, but did not reply for
a moment. The calm inscrutability of Slav diplomacy was reflected in
every line of his countenance.
"Your information is quite correct," he replied finally. "I did not
mention the fact of our mobilisation at that point as it is not
customary to publish advance information of military movements. Is it
necessary to impress on all present the advisability of keeping this
information as strictly confidential?"
He paused again before proceeding. When he resumed, it was with
slowness and deliberation as though each word required careful choosing.
"The plans of our general staff provide for an advance on our extreme
left," he said. "If the movement is successful our armies will sweep
across Mulkovina and Serania. I have no authority to pledge the
restoration of these two provinces to Ironia if their permanent
occupation is accomplished before Ironia joins us. The arrangement we
have reached to-night is conditional, so far as Russia is concerned, on
Ironia's entry before the movement I have mentioned begins."
There was a strained silence in the room. Monsieur D'Aubignè made a
motion as though to whisper to the Russian, but thought better of it
and subsided into his chair. Sir John Chester watched the two central
figures in the discussion with silent concentration.
"What length of time does that give me?" inquired Prince Peter at last.
"Ten days at the most," replied Grobenski impassively. "The plans of
our strategists must go forward without delay. The machinery of the
Russian Army cannot be stopped while Ironia hesitates. I am speaking
plainly, your highness. The situation must be clearly understood
between us."
"Prince Peter has promised us that a decision will be reached one way
or the other without delay," said Sir John. "I take it, Count
Grobenski, that you can give him a week? Your pledge will hold good
for that length?"
"Yes, my authority warrants me in going to that length," replied
Grobenski. "But permit me to impress this fact. In view of certain
considerations--some of which have been discussed to-night and some of
which have not--if Ironia does not enter the war now, she might as well
stay out!"
The conference broke up. Fenton saw Prince Peter leave the room
conversing in low and manifestly earnest tones with Sir John, while
Count Grobenski and Monsieur D'Aubignè walked out together, the
latter's hand on the Russian's arm. The French statesman was
expounding volubly.
When Fenton saw Prince Peter again it was in the ante-room. The
representatives of the Allies had gone. Those left included Varden and
one of the other Ironian representatives at the conference.
Varden then related the other side of the plot that had been overheard
in the palace gardens. Prince Peter did not seem as disturbed as he
had been at the information vouchsafed with reference to the Russian
advance. He seemed inclined to treat the matter lightly.
"I do not fear them," he declared. "They would, no doubt, do me a
mischief if they could. But I do not see why I should feel concern
over the possibility of death from an Ironian bullet when we are
working for an opportunity to risk our lives on the battlefield."
"But don't you see that Ironia's future depends upon your safety,"
urged Varden. "If they succeed in putting you out of the way, our
chances of success will be infinitely small."
"I shall take every precaution, of course," promised the prince. "You
can depend upon me not to risk myself unnecessarily. And now we must
devise some means of following more closely the efforts of our
adversaries. It is quite clear that they will stop at nothing."