The Duke paused, in his way across the crowded reception rooms, to
speak to his host, Sir Edward Bransome, Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs.
“I have just written you a line, Bransome,” he said, as they shook
hands. “The chief tells me that he is going to honor us down at Devenham
for a few days, and that we may expect you also.”
“You are very kind, Duke,” Bransome answered. “I suppose Haviland
explained the matter to you.”
The Duke nodded.
“You are going to help me entertain my other distinguished visitor,” he
remarked. “I fancy we shall be quite an interesting party.”
Bransome glanced around.
“I hope most earnestly,” he said, “that we shall induce our young friend
to be a little more candid with us than he has been. One can’t get a
word out of Hesho, but I’m bound to say that I don’t altogether like
the look of things. The Press are beginning to smell a rat. Two leading
articles this morning, I see, upon our Eastern relations.”
The Duke nodded.
“I read them,” he said. “We are informed that the prestige and success
of our ministry will entirely depend upon whether or not we are able to
arrange for the renewal of our treaty with Japan. I remember the same
papers shrieking themselves hoarse with indignation when we first joined
hands with our little friends across the sea!”
His secretary approached Bransome and touched him on the shoulder.
“There is a person in the anteroom, sir,” he said, “whom I think that
you ought to see.”
The Duke nodded and passed on. The Secretary drew his chief on one side.
“This man has just arrived from Paris, sir,” he continued, “and is the
bearer of a letter which he is instructed to deliver into your hands
only.”
Bransome nodded.
“Is he known to us at all?” he asked. “From whom does the letter come?”
The young man hesitated.
“The letter itself, sir, has nothing to do with France, I imagine,”
he said. “The person I refer to is an American, and although I have no
positive information, I believe that he is sometimes intrusted with the
carrying of despatches from Washington to his Embassy. Once or twice
lately I have had it reported to me that communications from the other
side to Mr. Harvey have been sent by hand. It seems as though they had
some objection to committing important documents to the post.”
Bransome walked through the crowded rooms by the side of his secretary,
stopping for a moment to exchange greetings here and there with his
friends. His wife was giving her third reception of the session to the
diplomatic world.
“Washington has certainly shown signs of mistrust lately,” he remarked,
“but if communications from them are ever tampered with, it is
more likely to be on their side than ours. They have a particularly
unscrupulous Press to deal with, besides political intriguers. If this
person you speak of is really the bearer of a letter from there,” he
added, “I think we can both guess what it is about.”
The secretary nodded.
“Shall I ring up Mr. Haviland, sir?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Bransome answered. “It is just possible that this person
requires an immediate reply, in which case it may be convenient for me
not to be able to get at the Prime Minister. Bring him along into my
private room, Sidney.”
Sir Edward Bransome made his way to his study, opened the door with
a Yale key, turned on the electric lights, and crossed slowly to the
hearthrug. He stood there, for several moments, with his elbow upon
the mantelpiece, looking down into the fire. A darker shadow had
stolen across his face as soon as he was alone. In his court dress and
brilliant array of orders, he was certainly a very distinguished-looking
figure. Yet the last few years had branded lines into his face which it
was doubtful if he would ever lose. To be Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs to the greatest power which the world had as yet known must
certainly seem, on paper, to be as brilliant a post as a man’s ambition
could covet. Many years ago it had seemed so to Bransome himself. It was
a post which he had deliberately coveted, worked for, and strived for.
And now, when in sight of the end, with two years of office only to run,
he was appalled at the ever-growing responsibilities thrust upon his
shoulders. There was never, perhaps, a time when, on paper, things
had seemed smoother, when the distant mutterings of disaster were less
audible. It was only those who were behind the curtain who realized how
deceptive appearances were.
In a few minutes his secretary reappeared, ushering in Mr. James B.
Coulson. Mr. Coulson was still a little pale from the effects of his
crossing, and he wore a long, thick ulster to conceal the deficiencies
of his attire. Nevertheless his usual breeziness of manner had not
altogether deserted him. Sir Edward looked him up and down, and
finding him look exactly as Mr. James B. Coulson of the Coulson & Bruce
Syndicate should look, was inclined to wonder whether his secretary had
made a mistake.
“I was told that you wished to see me,” he said. “I am Sir Edward
Bransome.”
Mr. James B. Coulson nodded appreciatively.
“Very good of you, Sir Edward,” he said, “to put yourself out at this
time of night to have a word or two with me. I am sorry to have troubled
you, anyway, but the matter was sort of urgent.”
Sir Edward bent his head.
“I understand, Mr. Coulson,” he said, “that you come from the United
States.”
“That is so, sir,” Mr. Coulson replied. “I am at the head of a
syndicate, the Coulson & Bruce Syndicate, which in course of time hope
to revolutionize the machinery used for spinning wool all over the
world. Likewise we have patents for other machinery connected with
the manufacture of all varieties of woollen goods. I am over here on a
business trip, which I have just concluded.”
“Satisfactorily, I trust?” Sir Edward remarked.
“Well, I’m not grumbling, sir,” Mr. Coulson assented. “Here and there I
may have missed a thing, and the old fashioned way of doing business on
this side bothers me a bit, but on the whole I’m not grumbling.”
Bransome bowed. Perhaps, after all, the man was not a fool!
“I have a good many friends round about Washington,” Mr. Coulson
continued, “and sometimes, when they know I am coming across, one or
the other of them finds it convenient to hand me a letter. It isn’t the
postage stamp that worries them,” he added with a little laugh, “but
they sort of feel that anything committed to me is fairly safe to reach
its right destination.”
“Without disputing that fact for one moment, Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward
remarked, “I might also suggest that the ordinary mail service between
our countries has reached a marvellous degree of perfection.”
“The Post Office,” Mr. Coulson continued meditatively, “is a great
institution, both on your side and ours, but a letter posted in
Washington has to go through a good many hands before it is delivered in
London.”
Sir Edward smiled.
“It is a fact, sir,” he said, “which the various Governments of Europe
have realized for many years, in connection with the exchange of
communications one with the other. Your own great country, as it grows
and expands, becomes, of necessity, more in touch with our methods. Did
I understand that you have a letter for me, Mr. Coulson?”
Mr. Coulson produced it.
“Friend of mine you may have heard of,” he said, “asked me to leave this
with you. I am catching the Princess Cecilia from Southampton tomorrow.
I thought, perhaps, if I waited an hour or so, I might take the answer
back with me.”
“It is getting late, Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward reminded him, glancing at
the clock.
Mr. Coulson smiled.
“I think, Sir Edward,” he said, “that in your line of business time
counts for little.”
Sir Edward motioned his visitor to a chair and touched the bell.
“I shall require the A3X cipher, Sidney,” he said to his secretary.
Mr. Coulson looked up.
“Why,” he said, “I don’t think you’ll need that. The letter you’ve got
in your hand is just a personal one, and what my friend has to say to
you is written out there in black and white.”
Sir Edward withdrew the enclosure from its envelope and raised his
eyebrows.
“Isn’t this a trifle indiscreet?” he asked.
“Why, I should say not,” Mr. Coulson answered. “My friend--Mr. Jones
we’ll call him--knew me and, I presume, knew what he was about. Besides,
that is a plain letter from the head of a business firm to--shall we say
a client? There’s nothing in it to conceal.”
“At the same time,” Sir Edward remarked, “it might have been as well to
have fastened the flap of the envelope.”
Mr. Coulson held out his hand.
“Let me look,” he said.
Sir Edward gave it into his hands. Mr. Coulson held it under the
electric light. There was no indication in his face of any surprise or
disturbance.
“Bit short of gum in our stationery office,” he remarked.
Sir Edward was looking at him steadily.
“My impressions were,” he said, “when I opened this letter, that I was
not the first person who had done so. The envelope flew apart in my
fingers.”
Mr. Coulson shook his head.
“The document has never been out of my possession, sir,” he said. “It
has not even left my person. My friend Mr. Jones does not believe in
too much secrecy in matters of this sort. I have had a good deal
of experience now and am inclined to agree with him. A letter in a
double-ended envelope, stuck all over with sealing wax, is pretty
certain to be opened in case of any accident to the bearer. This one,
as you may not have noticed, is written in the same handwriting
and addressed in the same manner as the remainder of my letters of
introduction to various London and Paris houses of business.”
Sir Edward said no more. He read the few lines written on a single sheet
of notepaper, starting a little at the signature. Then he read them
again and placed the document beneath a paper weight in front of him.
When he leaned across the table, his folded arms formed a semicircle
around it.
“This letter, Mr. Coulson,” he said, “is not an official communication.”
“It is not,” Mr. Coulson admitted. “I fancy it occurred to my friend
Jones that anything official would be hardly in place and might be
easier to evade. The matter has already cropped up in negotiations
between Mr. Harvey and your Cabinet, but so far we are without any
definite pronouncement,--at least, that is how my friend Mr. Jones looks
at it.”
Sir Edward smiled.
“The only answer your friend asks for is a verbal one,” he remarked.
“A verbal one,” Mr. Coulson assented, “delivered to me in the presence
of one other person, whose name you will find mentioned in that letter.”
Sir Edward bowed his head. When he spoke again, his manner had somehow
changed. It had become at once more official,--a trifle more stilted.
“This is a great subject, Mr. Coulson,” he said. “It is a subject which
has occupied the attention of His Majesty’s Ministers for many months.
I shall take the opinion of the other person whose name is mentioned in
this letter, as to whether we can grant Mr. Jones’ request. If we should
do so, it will not, I am sure, be necessary to say to you that any
communication we may make on the subject tonight will be from men to a
man of honor, and must be accepted as such. It will be our honest and
sincere conviction, but it must also be understood that it does not bind
the Government of this country to any course of action.”
Mr. Coulson smiled and nodded his head.
“That is what I call diplomacy, Sir Edward,” he remarked. “I always tell
our people that they are too bullheaded. They don’t use enough words.
What about that other friend of yours?”
Sir Edward glanced at his watch.
“It is possible,” he said, “that by this time Mr.----- Mr. Smith, shall
we call him, to match your Mr. Jones?--is attending my wife’s reception,
from which your message called me. If he has not yet arrived, my
secretary shall telephone for him.”
Mr. Coulson indicated his approval.
“Seems to me,” he remarked, “that I have struck a fortunate evening for
my visit.”
Sir Edward touched the bell and his secretary appeared.
“Sidney,” he said, “I want you to find the gentleman whose name I am
writing upon this piece of paper. If he is not in the reception rooms
and has not arrived, telephone for him. Say that I shall be glad if he
would come this way at once. He will understand that it is a matter of
some importance.”
The secretary bowed and withdrew, after a glance at the piece of paper
which he held in his hand. Sir Edward turned toward his visitor.
“Mr. Coulson,” he said, “will you allow me the privilege of offering you
some refreshment?”
“I thank you, sir,” Mr. Coulson answered. “I am in want of nothing but a
smoke.”
Sir Edward turned to the bell, but his visitor promptly stopped him.
“If you will allow me, sir,” he said, “I will smoke one of my own.
Home-made article, five dollars a hundred, but I can’t stand these
strong Havanas. Try one.”
Sir Edward waved them away.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I will smoke a cigarette. Since you
are here, Mr. Coulson, I may say that I am very glad to meet you. I am
very glad, also, of this opportunity for a few minutes’ conversation
upon another matter.”
Mr. Coulson showed some signs of surprise.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“There is another subject,” Sir Edward said, “which I should like to
discuss with you while we are waiting for Mr. Smith.”