He hesitated for a moment; then, setting his jaws hard in sudden
resolution, he turned the door-handle and entered.
Within, the long, low-ceilinged room was furnished as a kind of office.
From an arm-chair near the fireless grate rose the spare figure of a
grey-haired, grey-eyed, haggard-faced man of a type which might be
described as shabby-genteel, a man who had without doubt seen better
days. His features were refined, but his cheeks were sunken until the
bones of the face showed plainly beneath the skin, and his hair and
moustache, though grey, had prematurely lost their original colour. His
tall, slim figure was straight, and he bowed to Chisholm with the easy
manner of a gentleman. His overcoat of shabby grey Irish frieze was
open, displaying a coat and vest much the worse for wear, while his
up-turned trousers were sodden by the melting snow.
"I understand that you wish, to see me," Chisholm began, glancing at the
fellow keenly, and not half liking his appearance. "This is a rather
unusual hour for a visit, is it not?"
"Yes," the man replied. "For the lateness of the hour I must apologise,
but my trains did not fit, and I was compelled to walk from Shrewsbury."
He spoke in a refined voice, and his bearing was not that of a person
who intended to ask assistance. Dudley possessed a quick insight into
character, and could sum up a man as sharply and correctly as a lawyer
with a wide experience of criminals.
"And what may your business be with me?" asked the master of Wroxeter.
The man glanced suspiciously at the door by which Dudley had entered,
and asked:
"Are we alone? Do you think there can possibly be any eavesdroppers?"
"Certainly not. But I cannot understand why your business should be of
such a purely private character. You are entirely unknown to me, and I
understand that you refused to give a card." He uttered the last words
with a slight touch of sarcasm, for the man's appearance was not such as
would warrant the casual observer in believing him to be possessed of
that mark of gentility.
"Of course I am unknown to you, Mr. Chisholm. But although unknown to
you in person, I am probably known to you by name." As he spoke, he
selected from his rather shabby pocket-book a folded paper, which he
handed to Dudley. "This credential will, I think, satisfy you."
Dudley took it, glanced at it, and started quickly. Then he fixed his
eyes upon his visitor in boundless surprise. The man before him smiled
faintly at the impression which the sight of that document had caused.
The paper was headed with the British arms in scarlet, and contained
only three lines written over a signature he knew well--the signature of
the Prime Minister of England.
"And you are really Captain Cator?" exclaimed the Under-Secretary,
looking at him in amazement, and handing him back his credential.
"Yes, Archibald Cator, chief of Her Majesty's Secret Service," said the
shrunken-faced man. "We have had correspondence on more than one
occasion, but have never met, for the simple reason that I am seldom in
England. Now you will at once recognise why I refused a card, and also
why I wished my visit to you to remain a secret."
"Of course, of course," answered Dudley. "I had no suspicion of your
identity, and--well, if you will permit me to say so, your personal
appearance at this moment is scarcely that which might be expected of
Captain Archibald Cator, military attach in Rome."
"Exactly! But I have been paying a call earlier in the day, and
shabbiness was a necessity," he explained with a laugh. "Besides, I
tramped all the way from Shrewsbury and--"
"And you are wet and cold. You'll have a stiff whiskey and soda."
Dudley pressed the bell and, when Riggs appeared, gave the necessary
order.
"You won't return to-night, of course," suggested Chisholm. "I'll tell
them to get a room ready for you."
"Thanks for your hospitality, but my return is absolutely imperative.
There is a train from Shrewsbury to town at 4:25 in the morning. I must
leave by that."
Both men sank into chairs opposite each other in the chill, rather
gloomy, room. The mysterious visitor who had called at that
extraordinary hour was one of the most trusted and faithful servants at
the disposal of the Foreign Office. Although nominally holding the
appointment of military attach at the Embassy in Rome, he was in reality
the chief of the British Secret Service on the Continent, a man whose
career had been replete with extraordinary adventures, to whose
marvellous tact, ready ingenuity, and careful methods of investigation,
England was indebted for many of the diplomatic _coups_ she had made
during the past dozen years or so.
In the diplomatic circle, and in the British colony in Rome, every one
knew Archie Cator, for he was popular everywhere, and a welcome visitor
at the houses of the English and the wealthier Italians alike. It was
often hinted that in the Foreign Office at home he possessed influential
friends, for whenever he wished for leave he had only to wire to London
to obtain a grant of absence. The supposition was that in summer he
went to his pretty villa at Ardenza, on the Tuscan shore near Leghorn,
there to enjoy the sea-breezes, or in winter over to Cairo or Algiers.
None knew, save, of course, Her Majesty's Ambassador, that these
frequent periods of leave were spent in flying visits to one or other of
the capitals of Europe to direct the operations of the band of
confidential agents under him, or that the attach so popular with the
ladies was in reality the Prince of Spies.
Spying is against an Englishman's notion of fair-play, but to such an
extent have the other great Powers carried the operation of their
various Intelligence Departments that to the Foreign Office the secret
service has become a most necessary adjunct. Were it not for its
operations, and the early intelligence it obtains, England would often
be left out of the diplomatic game, and British interests would suffer
to an extent that would soon become alarming, even to that puerile
person, the Little Englander. Officially no person connected with the
Secret Service is recognised, except its chief, and he, in order to
cloak his real position, was at that moment holding the post of attache
in Rome, where he had but little to do, since Italy was the Power most
friendly towards England.
Stories without number of the captain's prowess, of his absolute
fearlessness, and of his marvellous ingenuity as a spy in the interests
of his country, had already reached Chisholm. They were whispered
within a certain circle at the Foreign Office when from time to time a
copy of a secret document, or a piece of remarkable intelligence reached
headquarters from Paris, Berlin, or Petersburg. They knew that it came
from Archie Cator, the wiry, middle-aged attach who idled in the
_salons_ of the Eternal City, drove in the Corso, and, especially as he
was an easy-going bachelor, found remarkable favour in the eyes of the
ladies.
He lived two lives. In the one he was a diplomatist, smart, polished,
courtly--the perfect model of all a British attach should be. In the
other he was a shrewd, crafty spy, possessed of a tact unequalled by any
detective officer at Scotland Yard, a brain fertile in invention and
subterfuge, and nerves of iron. In Rome, in Paris and in Petersburg,
only the ambassadors knew the secret of his real office. He transacted
his business direct with them and with the chief in London, Her
Majesty's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Indeed, British
diplomatic policy was often based upon his reports and suggestions. The
utmost care was always exercised to conceal his real office from the
staffs of the various Embassies. They only knew him as Archie Cator
from Rome, the man with a friend high up in the Foreign Office who got
him short leave whenever he chose to take it.
The money annually voted by Parliament for secret service was entirely
at his disposal, and the only account he rendered was to the chief
himself. The department was a costly one, for often he was compelled to
bribe heavily through his agents, men specially selected for the work of
spying; and as these numbered nearly forty, distributed in the various
capitals, the expenditure was by no means light. With such a director,
for whose methods, indeed, the staff at Scotland Yard had the highest
admiration, the successes were many. To Cator's untiring energy,
skilful perception, and exhaustless ingenuity in worming out secrets,
our diplomatic success in various matters, despite the conspiracies
formed against us by certain of the Powers, was entirely due. The
Foreign Secretary himself had, it was whispered, once remarked at a
Cabinet meeting that if England possessed half a dozen Cators she would
need no ambassadors. The marquess trusted him implicitly, relying as
much upon his judgment as upon that of the oldest and most practised
representative of Her Majesty at any of the European courts.
If the truth were told, the secret of England's dominant influence in
Central Africa was entirely due to the discovery of a diplomatic
intrigue in Berlin by the omnipotent Cator, who, at risk of his life,
secured a certain document which placed our Foreign Office in a position
to dictate to the Powers. It was a master-stroke, and as a partial
return for it the popular, cigarette-smoking attach in Rome, found one
morning upon his table an autograph letter of thanks from Her Majesty's
Prime Minister. When occupying his position as attach he was an idler
about the Eternal City, an inveterate theatre-goer, and a well-known,
and even ostentatious, figure in Roman society. But when at work he was
patient, unobtrusive, and usually ill-dressed, moving quickly hither and
thither, taking long night journeys by the various _rapides_, caring
nothing for fatigue, and directing his corps of secret agents as a
general does an army.
Knowledge is power. Hence England is compelled to hold her place in the
diplomatic intrigues of the world by the employment of secret agents.
There are many doors to be unlocked, and to men like Cator, England does
not grudge golden keys.
Riggs had brought the whiskey and soda, and the man whose career would
have perhaps made the finest romance ever written, had drained a
tumblerful thirstily, with a laugh and a word of excuse that "the way
had been long, and the wind cold."
When they were alone again, he twisted the rather stubby ends of his
grey moustache, and with his eyes fixed upon the Under-Secretary said:
"I should not have disturbed you at this hour, Mr. Chisholm, were not
the matter one of extreme urgency."
Dudley sat eager and anxious, wondering what could have brought this man
to England. A grave and horrible suspicion had seized him that the
truth he dreaded was actually out--that the blow had fallen. No secret
was safe from Cator. As he had obtained knowledge of the profoundest
secrets of the various European Powers in a manner absolutely
incredible, what chance was there to hide from him any information which
he had set his mind to obtain. "Is the matter serious?" he asked
vaguely.
"For the present I cannot tell whether it is actually as serious as it
appears to be," the other answered with a grave look. "As you are well
aware, the outlook abroad at this moment is far from promising. There
is more than one deep and dastardly intrigue against us. The diplomatic
air on the Continent is full of rumours of antagonistic alliances
against England, and even Mercier, in Paris, has actually gone the
length of planning an invasion. But a fig for all the bumptious chatter
of French invasions!" he said, snapping his finger and thumb. "What we
have to regard at this moment is not menaces abroad, but perils at
home."
"I hardly follow you," observed the Under-secretary.
"Well, I arrived in London from the Continent the night before last upon
a confidential mission, and it is in order to obtain information from
yourself that I am here to-night," he explained. "Perhaps the fact that
I have not had my clothes off for the past five days, and that I have
been in four of the capitals of Europe during the same period, will be
sufficient to convince you of the urgency of the matter in hand.
Besides, it may account for my somewhat unrepresentable appearance," he
added with a good-humoured laugh. "But now let us get at once to the
point, for I have but little time to spare if I'm to catch the early
express back to London. The matter is strictly private, and all I ask,
Mr. Chisholm, is that what passes between us goes no further than these
four walls. Recollect that my position is one of constant and extreme
peril. I am the confidential agent of the Foreign Office, and you are
its Parliamentary Under-secretary. Therefore, in our mutual interests,
no word must escape you either in regard to my visit here, or even to
the fact that I have been in England. London to-day swarms with foreign
spies, and if I am recognised all my chances of being successful in the
present matter must at once vanish."
"I am all attention," said Dudley, interested to hear something from
this gatherer of the secrets of the nation. "If I can give you any
assistance I shall be most ready to do so."
"Then let me put a question to you, which please answer truthfully, for
much depends upon it," he said slowly, his eyes fixed upon the man
before him as he pensively twisted his moustache. "Were you ever
acquainted with a man named Lennox?"
The words fell upon Dudley Chisholm like a thunderclap. Yes, the blow
had fallen! He started, then, gripping the arms of the chair, sat
upright and motionless as a statue, his face blanched to the lips. He
knew that the ghastly truth, so long concealed that he had believed the
matter forgotten, was out. Ruin stood before him. His secret was
known.