"I must apologize, Sir George," he said, "for disturbing you at such an

inopportune hour. Our business, however, made it necessary for us to

reach you with as little delay as possible."

"Perhaps you will be good enough to explain," Duncombe answered, "what

that business is."

The Baron raised his hands with a little protesting gesture.

"I regret to tell you, Sir George," he announced, "that it is of a most

unpleasant nature. I could wish that its execution had fallen into other

hands. My companions are Monsieur Ridalle, of the French detective

service, and our other friend here, whom I do not know, is a constable

from the Norwich Police Court. My own connections with the police

service of my country you have already, without doubt, surmised."

"Go on," Duncombe said.

"I regret to say," Monsieur Louis continued, "that my friends here are

in charge of a warrant for your arrest. You will find them possessed of

all the legal documents, French and English. We shall have to ask you to

come to Norwich with us to-night."

"Arrest!" Duncombe repeated. "On what charge?"

"An extremely serious one," the Baron answered gravely. "The charge of

murder!"

Duncombe stared at him in amazement.

"Murder!" he repeated. "What rubbish!"

"The murder of Mademoiselle de Mermillon in her lodging on the night of

the seventh of June last," the Baron said gravely. "Please do not make

any remarks before these men. The evidence against you is already

sufficiently strong."

Duncombe laughed derisively.

"What sort of a puppet show is this?" he exclaimed. "You know as well as

any man living how that poor girl came to her end. This is a cover for

something else, of course. What do you want of me? Let's get at it

without wasting time."

"What we want of you is, I am afraid, only too simple," the Baron

answered, shrugging his shoulders. "We must ask you to accompany us at

once to Norwich Castle. You will have to appear before the magistrates

in the morning, when they will sign the extradition warrant. Our friend

here, Monsieur Ridalle, will then take charge of you. Perhaps you would

like to look through the documents. You will find them all in perfect

order."

Duncombe mechanically glanced through the French and English papers

which were spread out before him. They had certainly a most

uncomfortable appearance of being genuine. He began to feel a little

bewildered.

"You mean to say that you have come here to arrest me on this charge?

That you want me to go away with you to-night?" he asked.

"It is not a matter of wanting you to come," the Baron answered coldly.

"It is a matter of necessity."

Duncombe moved towards the fireplace.

"Will you allow me the privilege of a few moments' conversation with you

in private?" he said to the Baron. "Your companions will perhaps excuse

you for a moment."

The Baron followed without remark. They stood facing one another upon

the hearthrug. Duncombe leaned one elbow upon the mantlepiece, and

turned towards his companion.

"Look here," he said, "those papers seem genuine enough, and if you

insist upon it I will go with you to Norwich. I shall take care not to

let you out of my sight, and if when we get there I find that this is

any part of one of your confounded conspiracies you will find that the

penalties for this sort of thing in England are pretty severe. However,

no doubt you are well aware of that. The question is this. What do you

really want from me?"

Monsieur Louis, who had lit a cigarette, withdrew it from his mouth and

examined the lighted end for a moment in silence.

"The documents," he said, "are genuine. You are arraigned in perfectly

legal fashion. Upon the affidavits there the magistrates must grant the

extradition warrant without hesitation. We have nothing to fear in that

direction."

"The police," Duncombe remarked, "are perfectly aware of my innocence."

Monsieur shrugged his shoulders.

"The evidence," he said, "is remarkably convincing."

"Police-concocted evidence," Duncombe remarked, "would necessarily be

so. I admit that you hold a strong card against me. I don't believe,

however, that you have gone to all this trouble without some ulterior

motive. What is it? What can I offer you in exchange for these

documents?"

Monsieur Louis smiled.

"You are a man of common-sense, Sir George," he said. "I will speak to

you without reserve. It is possible that you might be able to offer the

Government department of my country to which I am attached an inducement

to interest themselves in your behalf. Mind, I am not sure. But if my

information is correct there is certainly a possibility."

"The Government department of your country to which you are attached,"

Duncombe repeated thoughtfully. "Let me understand you. You mean the

secret service police?"

Monsieur Louis glanced a little nervously over his shoulder.

"Never mind what I mean, Sir George," he said quickly. "There are things

which we do not speak of openly. This much is sufficient. I represent a

power which can influence and direct even the criminal courts of justice

of France."

"What bribe have I to offer you?" Duncombe asked. "Information? You know

more than I do. I am afraid you have been misled."

"I think not," Monsieur Louis said quickly. "I will tell you what we

want. A paper was left in your charge by Miss Phyllis Poynton at the

time she was visiting at Runton Place."

"What of it?" Duncombe asked.

The Frenchman's face was suddenly tense with excitement. He recovered

himself almost at once, but his voice shook, and a new earnestness found

its way into his manner.

"Miss Poynton and her brother are with us," he said. "It is we who have

been their benefactors. You know a good deal of their peculiar

circumstances. A sudden need has arisen for the production of that paper

within twenty-four hours. Give it to me now, and I will run the greatest

risk I have ever run in my career. I will tear those warrants through."

"Have you any authority from Miss Poynton?" Duncombe asked.

"There was no time to procure it," Monsieur Louis explained. "Events

march rapidly to-day. To be effective that paper must be in Paris

to-morrow. The necessity for its production arose only a few hours ago."

"You ask me, then," Duncombe said slowly, "to hand over to you a paper

which was placed in my charge by Miss Poynton?"

"In effect--yes!"

"I cannot do it!"

Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not insist," he remarked. "I may be permitted to remind you,

however, that I have offered a great price."

"Perhaps!" Duncombe answered quietly.

Monsieur Louis turned to his assistants.

"Sir George Duncombe will accompany us," he said. "I can give you ten

minutes, Sir George," he added, "in case you care to change your

clothes."

"And supposing I refuse to come?" Duncombe asked.

Monsieur Louis smiled.

"You would scarcely be so foolish," he remarked. "In that case I should

send the policeman here to the nearest station with the warrants and a

demand for help. Our documents are in perfect order, and our case

complete. You would scarcely be so foolish, I think, as to set yourself

in direct opposition to the law!"

Duncombe was silent for several moments. Then he rang the bell. Monsieur

Louis looked at him inquiringly, but before he could frame a question

the butler was in the room.

"Pack my things for a week, Groves," Duncombe ordered. "I am going away

to-night."

The man bowed and withdrew. Monsieur Louis merely shrugged his

shoulders.

"A week!" he remarked. "You will be fortunate if you ever see your home

again. Come, Sir George, be reasonable! I give you my word of honor that

it is altogether to the interest of Miss Poynton that those papers be

immediately produced. If she were here herself she would place them in

my hands without a moment's hesitation."

"Possibly!" Duncombe answered. "Suppositions, however, do not interest

me. I undertook the charge of what she gave me, and I shall fulfil my

trust."

Monsieur Louis turned to the policeman.

"Officer," he said, "this is Sir George Duncombe. Do your duty."

The man stepped forward and laid his hand upon Sir George's shoulder.

"Very sorry, sir," he said. "I am forced to arrest you on this warrant

for the murder of Florence Mermillon on the night of the seventh of

June. You will be brought before the magistrates at Norwich to-morrow."

Duncombe waved his hand towards the sideboard.

"If you gentlemen," he remarked, "would care for a little refreshment

before you start?"

"It is against the rules, sir, thank you," the man answered. "I should

be glad to get away as soon as possible."

Duncombe filled both his pockets with cigars and cigarettes. Then he

turned towards the door.

"I am quite ready," he said.

They followed him out. There was a few minutes' delay waiting for

Duncombe's bag.

"Your address, Sir George?" Groves inquired, as he brought it down.

"A little doubtful," Duncombe answered. "I will wire."

"In front, please, Sir George," Monsieur Louis insisted.

So they drove off, Duncombe in the front seat, the other three behind.

The car gathered speed rapidly. In less than an hour they were half-way

to Norwich. Then suddenly the driver took a sharp corner and turned down

a long desolate lane.

"You're off the main road," Duncombe explained. "You should have kept

straight on for Norwich."

The man took no notice. He even increased his speed. Duncombe was in the

act of turning round when he felt the sudden swish of a wet cloth upon

his face. He tried to break away, but he was held from behind as in a

vise. Then his head fell back, and he remembered no more.

CHAPTER X

THE CHECKMATING OF MONSIEUR LOUIS

At three o'clock in the morning Groves, in a discarded dressing-gown of

his master's, opened the front door and peered cautiously out into the

darkness. Monsieur Louis, who was standing upon the door-step, pushed

past him into the hall.

"Your master has sent me back to fetch some papers," he announced,

displaying a bunch of keys. "I am sorry to disturb you like this, but

the matter is important. Please bring me a cup of coffee into the

library in half an hour."

Groves, who was sorely perplexed, stood with his back to the door which

Monsieur Louis had approached.

"Really, sir," he answered, "I scarcely know what to say. I am afraid

that I cannot allow you to interfere with any of my master's property in

his absence."

Monsieur Louis held out the keys.

"Quite right!" he said. "It is an awkward situation, of course. Your

master did not tell you the reason of his sudden departure, I suppose?"

"Not a word, sir."

"There can be no harm in telling you this much, at any rate," Monsieur

Louis continued smoothly. "Your master, through no fault of his own, got

mixed up in a very unpleasant affair in Paris, and he will have to

appear in the courts there. I am his friend, and wish to do all that I

can to help him. We have been talking the matter over, and I have

strongly advised him to produce some papers which I think will help him

materially. The police officer in whose charge he is would not allow him

to return, so he handed me his keys and asked me to fetch them. I can

assure you that I am your master's friend, and wish to do all that I can

to help him. If he had not trusted me he would not have given me his

keys, which no doubt you recognize."

Groves reluctantly stood on one side.

"I suppose I must let you in, sir," he said, "but I wish that the master

had sent me a line."

"We had neither pencil nor paper," Monsieur Louis said, "and the affair

was urgent. I must be back in Norwich by eight o'clock."

"I will prepare the coffee, sir," Groves said, turning away. "If you

require more light the switches are behind the door."

"Very good," Monsieur Louis said. "You need not have the slightest

anxiety. I am here on your master's behalf."

Groves hesitated, and looked for a moment curiously around the room. He

seemed as though he had something else to say, but checked himself at

the last moment and withdrew. Monsieur Louis drew a little breath of

relief.

He did not immediately proceed to work. He threw off his overcoat and

lit a cigarette. His fingers were steady enough, but he was conscious of

an unwonted sense of excitement. He was face to face with destiny. He

had played before for great stakes, but never such as these. A single

false step, an evil turn in the wheel of fortune, spelt death--and he

was afraid to die. He moved to the sideboard. Everything there was as

they had left it. He poured out some brandy and drank it off.

With fresh courage he moved to the safe, which stood in the corner of

the room. It must be there, if anywhere, that this precious document

lay. He tried his keys one by one. At last he found the right one. The

great door swung slowly open.

He was spared all anxiety. There, on the top of a pile of legal-looking

documents, leases, title-deeds, and the like, was a long envelope, and

across it in Duncombe's sprawling writing these few words:--

"Entrusted to me by Miss Poynton.--Sept. 4th."

He grasped it in his fingers and tore open the envelope. As he read the

single page of closely written writing his eyes seemed almost to

protrude. He gave a little gasp. No wonder there were those who reckoned

this single page of manuscript worth a great fortune. Every sentence,

every word told its own story. It was a page of the world's history.

Then a strange thing happened. Some part of him rebelled against the

instinct which prompted him carefully to fold and place in his

breast-pocket this wonderful find of his. His nerves seemed suddenly

frozen in his body. There was a curious numb sensation at the back of

his neck which forbade him to turn round. His hands shook, his teeth

chattered. The sweat of death was upon his forehead and despair in his

heart. He had heard nothing, seen nothing; yet he knew that he was no

longer alone.

When at last he turned round he turned his whole body. The muscles of

his neck were numbed still his knees shook, and his face was ghastly.

Monsieur Louis of the Café Montmartre, brave of tongue and gallant of

bearing, had suddenly collapsed. Monsieur Louis, the drug-sodden

degenerate of a family whose nobles had made gay the scaffolds of the

Place de la République, cowered in his place.

It was the worst upon which he looked with chattering teeth, but without

surprise. The door of the inner room was open, and upon the threshold

stood Toquet, small, dark, and saturnine--Toquet, with something which

glittered in his hand, so that Monsieur Louis, already the prey of a

diseased and ghastly imagination, felt the pain of the bullet in his

heart. On an easy-chair by the fireside Henri de Bergillac was lounging,

with a queer smile upon his lips.

"My friend," he said quietly, though the scorn which underlay his words

seemed to bite the air, "you have solved for us a double problem: first,

how to account for the absence of our host; and secondly, how to open

that very formidable-looking safe. You will be so good as to place upon

the table that document which you hold in your hands."

For a single second Monsieur Louis hesitated. Some lingering vestige of

a courage, purely hereditary, showed him in one lightning-like flash how

at least he might carry with him to a swift grave some vestige of his

ruined self-respect. A traitor to his old friends, he might keep faith

with the new. He had time to destroy. Even the agonies of death might

last long enough to complete the task. But the impulse was only

momentary. He shuddered afresh at the thought that he might have yielded

to it. He threw it upon the table.

The Vicomte rose to his feet, glanced through the closely written page

with something of the same excitement which had inspired its recent

possessor, and carefully buttoned it up in his breast-pocket. Then he

turned once more to the man who stood before them broken and trembling.

"Louis," he said, "you are the first traitor whom our society has

hatched. I look upon you with curiosity as a thing I once called my

friend. What imbecility prompted you to this?"

Monsieur Louis found nerve to shrug his shoulders.

"A million francs!" he answered.

"Heavens, but what folly!" the Vicomte murmured. "Did we not all know

that a German was in Paris who offered a million, or two million francs

for the missing page of that treaty? Do you think that he was not

watched day and night? Bah! I have no patience to talk of this. What

have you done with our host?"

"Arrested him for--Flossie! He is in a ditch half-way to Norwich."

"Hurt?"

"No! Chloroformed."

"How did you get here?"

"In an automobile from Lynn!"

"Good! It waits for you?"

"Yes."

"We will take it. My good friend here, Toquet, is familiar with the

neighborhood. As Mr. Fielding, the American millionaire, you learned the

excellence of these roads for quick travelling, did you not, _mon ami_?

So!"

"You leave me here?" Monsieur Louis faltered.

"Ay, to rot if you will!" the Vicomte answered with sudden harshness.

"I will atone," Monsieur Louis faltered. "It was a single false step."

De Bergillac looked down upon him with unspeakable contempt.

"Atone! Listen, Louis! In this country you are safe. Crawl away into

some hiding-place and make what you will of the rest of your days, but I

will promise you this. If ever you set your feet upon one inch of France

you shall meet with your deserts. There are many things which those who

play the great game must pardon, but there is one crime for which no

atonement is possible, and you have committed it. You are a traitor!"

De Bergillac turned away. The effeminacy of his manner seemed to have

disappeared under the strain of his extreme anger. It was his race,

after all, which had asserted itself. And then the door was thrown

suddenly open and a wild-looking figure confronted them.

It was Duncombe, muddy from head to foot, pale and with a slight wound

upon the temple, from which the blood had trickled down his face. He saw

the open safe, and Monsieur Louis a pitiful figure, and he did not

hesitate. He scarcely glanced at the others. He strode forward and

seized the Baron by the collar.

"Give me back what you have stolen, you blackguard!" he exclaimed.

Monsieur Louis was breathless. It was the young Vicomte who interposed.

"Our friend," he remarked suavely, "has not been successful in his

little effort. The document he came to purloin is in my pocket, and

here, Sir George, is my warrant for retaining possession of it."

He held out a note which Duncombe took and read with a little sigh of

relief.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "You have the document?"

De Bergillac tapped his breast-pocket.

"It is here," he said.

Duncombe turned to Monsieur Louis.

"My arrest, then," he remarked, "was part of the game?"

"Exactly!" De Bergillac answered. "This little document entrusted to

your care by the young English lady was worth one million francs to the

man who suborned our friend here. It was worth while--this little

enterprise. The pity of it is that it has failed. Sir George, I go to

Paris to-night. I offer you a safe conduct if you care to accompany me.

_L'affaire Poynton_ does not exist any more."

"Can you give me ten minutes to change my clothes?" Duncombe asked

eagerly.

"No more," De Bergillac answered. "I will get rid of our friend here."

There was a knock at the door. Groves entered with coffee. At the sight

of his master he nearly dropped the tray.

"It's all right," Duncombe said, smiling. "We had a little spill, and

I've lost my bag. Pack me some more things quickly."

"Very good, sir," Groves answered, and withdrew precipitately.

De Bergillac laid his hand upon Duncombe's arm.

"There is only one thing, my friend," he said. "I trust that it is Mr.

Guy Poynton who is your friend, and not his beautiful sister? Eh? I am

answered! The misfortune! Never mind! I will drink my coffee to _les

beaux yeux des autres_!"

CHAPTER XI

THE MAKING OF HISTORY

Three men were the sole occupants of the great room whose windows looked

out upon the Louvre.

The table around which they were seated was strewn with papers and maps.

The door of the room was locked, and a sentry stood outside in the

passage. The three men were busy making history.

The man who occupied the seat at the head of the table was the Monsieur

Grisson to whom Guy Poynton, at the instigation of the Duc de Bergillac,

had told his story. It was he who was spokesman.

"The situation," he said, "is one which bristles with difficulties. We

will assume for a moment the truth of what we have certainly reasonable

ground to believe. Russia has shown every sign of disappointment with us

for our general attitude during the war. Our understanding with England

has provoked a vigorous though unofficial protest from her

representatives here. Since then our relations have become to a certain

extent strained. Germany, ever on the look-out for complications which

might lead to her own advantage, steps in. Her attitude towards Russia

is changed to one of open and profound sympathy. Russia, in her

desperate straits, rises like a starving fish to a fat fly. Here it is

that our secret service steps in."

"Our secret service--and her allies," one of the other men murmured.

"Exactly! We pass now to the consideration of facts which need one thing

only to justify our course of action. Evidence is brought to us that a

secret meeting took place between the Czar of Russia and the Emperor of

Germany. From all the information which we have collected that meeting

was possible. I personally believe that it took place. A treaty is said

to have been drawn up between them, having for its object the

embroilment of England with Russia, and an alliance of Germany with

Russia so far as regards her quarrel with England. We know that Germany

is secretly mobilizing men and ships. We know that the ambition of the

Emperor is to possess himself of the Colonies of Great Britain, if not

actually to hold his court in London. We know that his jealousy of King

Edward amounts to a disease. We know that he is a man of daring and

violent temper, with an indomitable will and an unflinching belief in

his own infallibility and the infallibility of his army and navy. We

know that he has at least a dozen schemes for a sudden attack upon

England, and mighty though the navy of Great Britain is, it is not in

our opinion strong enough to protect her shore from the combined Baltic

and German fleets and also protect her Colonies. England, through our

friendship, has been warned. She proposes with most flattering alacrity

the only possible counter-stroke--an alliance with ourselves. We must

decide within twelve hours. The treaty lies upon my desk there. Upon us

must rest the most momentous decision which any Frenchman within our

recollection has been called upon to make. What have you to say,

gentlemen?"

There was a short silence. Then the man who sat at Monsieur Grisson's

right hand spoke.

"The issues before us," he said slowly, "are appalling. Every

Frenchman's blood must boil at the thought of Germany greedily helping

herself to the mighty wealth and power of Great Britain--becoming by

this single master-stroke the strongest nation on earth, able to dictate

even to us, and to send her word unchallenged throughout the world. It

is a hideous picture! It must mean the abandonment forever of the hope

of every true Frenchman. Every minute will become a menace to us.

Wilhelm, the arrogant, with British gold and British ships at his back,

will never forget to flaunt himself before us to our eternal

humiliation."

"You are taking it for granted," his neighbor remarked, "that Germany

will be successful."

"The odds are in her favor," was the quiet reply. "The navy of Great

Britain is immense, but her sea front, so to speak, is enormous. She is

open to be the prey of a sudden swift attack, and the moment has never

been more favorable."

"Let all these things be granted," the third man said. "Even then, are

we free to enter into this alliance with England? Our treaty with Russia

remains. We have no proof that she has broken faith with us. If this

secret treaty between Russia and Germany really exists, it is, of

course, another matter. But does it? We have nothing but the word of an

English boy. The rest is all assumption. The whole affair might be a

nightmare. We might sign this treaty with England, and find afterwards

that we had been the victim of a trick. We should be perjured before the

face of all Europe, and our great financial interest in Russia would at

once be placed in a perilous position."

A telephone upon the table rang softly. Monsieur Grisson held the

receiver to his ear and listened. Then he rose to his feet.

"Count von Munchen desires a word with me," he announced. "He pledges

himself not to keep me more than five minutes. I had better receive him.

Excuse me, gentlemen."

The two men were left alone. The elder and stouter of the two busied

himself with an inch rule and an atlas. He seemed to be making

calculations as to the distance between Cherbourg and a certain spot in

the North Sea.

"What is the chief's own mind?" his companion asked. "Does any one

know?"

The other shook his head.

"Who can say? Our ties of friendship with England are too recent to make

this a matter of sentiment. I believe that without proof he fears to

accept this statement. And yet above all things he fears Germany. There

was some talk of a missing page of the actual treaty between Russia and

Germany. If this could be found I believe that he would sign the draft

treaty."

"I myself," the other said, "do not believe that England would be so

easily overpowered."

"It is the suddenness and treachery of the attack which counts so

greatly in its favor," his companion said. "It might be all over in two

days before she could assemble a fifth part of her forces. If our

information is correct Germany has men enough mobilized to run huge

risks. Besides, you know how Lafarge's report ran, and what he said. The

German army is beginning to suffer from a sort of dry rot, as must all

institutions which fulfil a different purpose than that for which they

exist. The Emperor knows it. If war does not come Germany will have to

face severe military troubles."

"I myself am for the alliance!"

"And I," the other replied, "if proof of this Germano-Russian

understanding could be produced."

Monsieur Grisson returned. He carefully closed and locked the door

behind him.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the German Ambassador has just left me. His

mission in every way confirms our secret information. He has been

instructed to inquire as to our attitude in the event of any British

interference with the Baltic Fleet while in home waters."

The two men looked up expectantly. Monsieur Grisson continued:--

"I replied that it was a contingency which we scarcely thought it worth

while to consider. I expressed my firm belief that England would observe

all the conventions, written and understood, of international law."

"And he?"

"He was not satisfied, of course. He declared that he had certain

information that England was making definite plans with a view to ensure

the delay of the fleet. He went on to say that Germany was determined

not to tolerate any such thing, and he concludes that we, as Russia's

ally, would at any rate remain neutral should Germany think it her duty

to interfere."

"And your reply?"

"I answered that in the event of untoward happenings France would act as

her honor dictated--remaining always mindful of the obligations of her

alliance. He was quite satisfied."

"He had no suspicion of this?" the young man asked, touching the treaty

with his forefinger.

"None. It is believed in Germany that the young Englishman was really

found drowned in the Seine after a short career of dissipation. Our

friends served us well here. Now, gentlemen, the English Ambassador will

be here in twenty minutes. What am I to say to him? Do we sign this

draft agreement or do we not?"

There was a silence which lasted nearly a minute. Then the younger of

the two men spoke.

"Sir," he said respectfully, "without some proof of Russia's falsity I

cannot see how in honor we can depart from our treaty obligations with

her to the extent of signing an agreement with her putative enemy.

England must fight her own battle, and God help her!"

"And you?" Monsieur Grisson asked, turning to the third man.

"I agree," was the regretful answer. "If this treacherous scheme is

carried out I believe that France will be face to face with the greatest

crisis she has known in history. Even then I dare not suggest that we

court dishonor by breaking an alliance with a friend in distress."

"You are right, gentlemen," Monsieur Grisson said with a sigh. "We must

tell Lord Fothergill that our relations with his country must remain

unfettered. I----"

Again the telephone bell rang. Monsieur Grisson listened, and replied

with a sudden return to his old briskness of manner.

"It is young De Bergillac," he announced. "He has been in England in

search of that missing page of the treaty. I have told them to show him

in."

The Vicomte entered, paler than ever from recent travel, and deeply

humiliated from the fact that there was a smut upon his collar which he

had had no time to remove. He presented a paper to Monsieur Grisson and

bowed. The President spread it out upon the table, and the faces of the

three men as they read became a study. Monsieur Grisson rang the bell.

"Monsieur le Duc de Bergillac and a young English gentleman," he told

the attendant, "are in my private retiring-room. Desire their presence."

The servant withdrew. The three men looked at one another.

"If this is genuine!" the younger murmured.

"It is the Russian official paper," his _vis-à-vis_ declared, holding it

up to the light.

Then the Duc de Bergillac and Guy Poynton were ushered in. Monsieur

Grisson rose to his feet.

"Monsieur Poynton," he said, "we have all three heard your story as to

what you witnessed in the forest of Pozen. It is part of your allegation

that a page of writing from the private car which you were watching was

blown to your feet, and that you picked it up and brought it to Paris

with you. Look at this sheet of paper carefully. Tell me if it is the

one."

Guy glanced at it for a moment, and handed it back.

"It is certainly the one," he answered. "If you look at the back you

will see my initials there and the date."

Monsieur Grisson turned it over quickly. The two other men looked over

his shoulder, and one of them gave a little exclamation. The initials

and date were there.

Then Monsieur Grisson turned once more to Guy. He was not a tall man,

but he had dignity, and his presence was impressive. He spoke very

slowly.

"Monsieur Guy Poynton," he said, "it is not often that so great an

issue--that the very destinies of two great countries must rest upon the

simple and uncorroborated story of one man. Yet that is the position in

which we stand to-day. Do not think that you are being treated with

distrust. I speak to you not on behalf of myself, but for the millions

of human beings whose welfare is my care, and for those other millions

of your own countrymen, whose interests must be yours. I ask you

solemnly--is this story of yours word for word a true one?"

Guy looked him in the face resolutely, and answered without hesitation.

"On my honor as an Englishman," he declared, "it is true!"

Monsieur Grisson held out his hand.

"Thank you!" he said.

The three men were again alone. The man who controlled the destinies of

France dipped his pen in the ink.

"Gentlemen," he said, "do you agree with me that I shall sign this

draft?"

"We do!" they both answered.

The President signed his name. Then he turned the handle of the

telephone.

"You may show Lord Fothergill in!" he ordered.

CHAPTER XII

AN OLD FRIEND

It was perhaps as well for Andrew Pelham that he could not see Phyllis'

look as she entered the room. An English gentleman, she had been told,

was waiting to see her, and she had thought of no one but Duncombe. It

was true that she had sent him away, but only an hour ago the Marquise

had told her that her emancipation was close at hand. He too might have

had a hint! The little smile, however, died away from her lips as she

saw who was waiting for her with such manifest impatience.

"You, Andrew!" she exclaimed in amazement. "Why, however did you find me

out?"

He took both her hands in his. The look upon his face was transfiguring.

"At last! At last!" he exclaimed. "Never mind how I found you! Tell me,

what does it all mean? Are you here of your own free will?"

"Absolutely!" she answered.

"It was you at Runton?"

"Yes."

"Under a false name--with a man who committed robbery!"

She shrugged her shoulders a little wearily.

"My dear Andrew!" she said, "I will admit that I have been doing all

manner of incomprehensible things. I couldn't explain everything. It

would take too long. What I did, I did for Guy's sake, and of my own

free will. It will be all over in a day or two now, and we shall be

coming back to Raynesworth. Then I will tell you tales of our adventures

which will make your hair stand on end."

"It isn't true about Guy, then?" he exclaimed.

She hesitated for a moment.

"Andrew," she said, "I cannot tell you anything. It must sound rather

horrid of me, but I cannot help it. I want you to go away. In a day or

two I will write."

He looked at her in pained bewilderment.

"But, Phyllis," he protested, "I am one of your oldest friends! You ask

me to go away and leave you here with strangers, without a word of

explanation. Why, I have been weeks searching for you."

"Andrew," she said, "I know it. I don't want to be unkind. I don't want

you to think that I have forgotten that you are, as you say, one of my

oldest friends. But there are times when one's friends are a source of

danger rather than pleasure. Frankly, this is one of them."

His face darkened. He looked slowly around the magnificent room. He saw

little, but what he could distinguish was impressive.

"Your riddles," he said gravely, "are hard to read. You want me to go

away and leave you here."

"You must," she said firmly.

"Did you treat Duncombe like this?" he asked in a blind fit of jealousy.

"You have not the right to ask me such a question," she answered

coldly.

"Not the right! Not the right!" he repeated. "Who else has, then?

Haven't I watched you grow from a beautiful, capricious child into the

woman you are? Haven't I taught you, played with you, done your bidding

blindly ever since you came into your kingdom? Haven't I felt the pain

and the joy of you in my heart? Who else has a better right, then?

Duncombe, who came here, a stranger to you--or is it one of your new

friends?"

She came close to him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"Don't be foolish, Andrew!" she said softly.

His whole expression changed. The bitterness left his tone.

"Ah, Phyllis!" he said. "That is more like yourself."

"And I want you," she said, "to be like your old self. You have always

been my best friend, Andrew. I hope you will always be that."

He tried to look into her face. It seemed to him that there was a little

unnecessary emphasis in her words.

"I am not a child now, you know," she continued. "I am quite old enough

to take care of myself. You must believe that, Andrew. You must go away,

and not worry about me. You will do this, please, because I ask you!"

"If I must," he said reluctantly. "I will go away, but not to worry

about you--that is impossible. You seem to be surrounded by all the

mediæval terrors which confronted the emancipation of princesses in our

fairy books. Only a short time ago Duncombe implored me to follow his

example, and leave you and Paris alone. The detective whom I brought

with me has been shadowed ever since we left Paris. Last night he left

me for a few hours, and this morning comes a note from the hospital. He

is lying there with the back of his head beaten in--garotters, of

course, the police say, looking for plunder. How can you ask me to be

easy in my mind about you?"

She smiled reassuringly.

"No harm will come to me here, I can promise you," she said. "It is you

who run the most risk if you only knew it. Sir George Duncombe gave you

the best advice when he tried to get you to return to England."

"I cannot leave Lloyd now until he has recovered," Andrew answered.

"Tell me, Phyllis, has Duncombe found you out? Has he been here?"

"Yes," she answered. "I sent him away--as I am sending you."

"Has he ever told you," Andrew asked, "why he was willing in the first

instance to come to Paris in search of you?"

"No," she answered. "Wasn't it because he was your friend?"

He shook his head.

"It is his affair, not mine," he said with a sigh. "Ask him some day."

"You won't tell me, Andrew?"

"No! I will go now! You know where to send for me if you should need

help. I can find my way down, thank you. I have a guide from the hotel

outside."

The Marquise swept into the room as he passed out, an impression of

ermine and laces and perfume.

"Another of your English lovers, _ma belle_?" she asked.

"Scarcely that," Phyllis answered. "He is a very old friend, and he was

rather hard to get rid of."

"I think," the Marquise said, "you would get rid of all very willingly

for the sake of one, eh?"

The Marquise stared insolently into the girl's face. Phyllis only

laughed.

"One is usually considered the ideal number--in our country," she

remarked demurely.

"But the one?" the Marquise continued. "He would not be one of these

cold, heavy countrymen of yours, no? You have learnt better perhaps over

here?"

It was a cross-examination, but Phyllis could not imagine its drift.

"I have not had very much opportunity over here, have I, to amend my

ideals?" she asked. "I think the only two Frenchmen I have met are the

Marquis and that languid young man with the green tie, the Vicomte de

Bergillac, wasn't it?"

The Marquise watched her charge closely.

"Well," she said, "he is _comme il faut_, is he not? You find him more

elegant, more chic than your Englishmen, eh?"

Phyllis shook her head regretfully.

"To me," she admitted, "he seemed like an exceedingly precocious spoilt

child!"

"He is twenty-three," the Marquise declared.

Phyllis laughed softly.

"Well," she said, "I do not think that I shall amend my ideals for the

sake of the Vicomte de Bergillac!"

The Marquise looked at her doubtfully.

"Tell me, child," she said, "you mean, then, that of the two--your

English Sir George Duncombe and Henri--you would prefer Sir George?"

Phyllis looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"You would really like to know?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"Sir George Duncombe--infinitely!"

The Marquise seemed to have recovered her good spirits.

"Come, little one," she said, "you lose color in the house. I will take

you for a drive!"

* * * * *

Andrew, conscious that he was being followed, sat down outside a café on

his way homewards, and bade his guide leave him for a little time.

Instantly there was the soft rustle of feminine skirts by his side, and

a woman seated herself on the next chair.

"Monsieur has not been up to the Café Montmartre lately!"

Pelham turned his head. It was the young lady from Vienna.

"No!" he answered. "I have not been there since I had the pleasure of

seeing Mademoiselle!"

"Monsieur has discovered all that he wanted to know?"

He nodded a little wearily.

"Yes, I think so!"

She drew her chair quite close to his. The sable of her turban hat

almost brushed his cheek, and the perfume of the violets at her bosom

was strong in his nostrils.

"Monsieur has seen the young lady?"

"I have seen her," he answered.

"Monsieur is indebted to me," she said softly, "for some information.

Let me ask him one question. Is it true, this story in the newspapers,

of the finding of this young man's body? Is Monsieur Guy Poynton really

dead?"

"I know no more than we all read in the newspapers," he answered.

"His sister spoke of him as dead?" she asked.

"I cannot discuss this matter with you, Mademoiselle," he answered.

"Monsieur is ungrateful," she declared with a little grimace. "It is

only that which I desire to know. He was such a _beau garçon_, that

young Englishman. You will tell me that?" she whispered.

He shook his head.

"Mademoiselle will excuse me," he said. "I am going to take a carriage

to my hotel!"

"It is on the way to leave me at my rooms, if you will be so kind," she

suggested, laying her hand upon his arm.

"Mademoiselle will excuse me," he answered, turning away. "Good

afternoon."

Mademoiselle also took a carriage, and drove to a large house at the top

of the Champs Élysées. She was at once admitted, and passed with the air

of one familiar with the place into a small room at the back of the

house, where a man was sitting at a table writing. He looked up as she

entered.

"Well?"

She threw herself into a chair.

"I have been following the Englishman, Pelham, all day," she said in

German. "He has seen Miss Poynton. I have talked with him since at a

café, but he would tell me nothing. He has evidently been warned."

The man grumbled as he resumed his writing.

"That fact alone should be enough for us," he remarked. "If there is

anything to conceal we can guess what it is. These amateurs who are in

league with the secret service are the devil! I would as soon resign.

What with them and the regular secret service, Paris is an impossible

city for us. Where we would watch we are watched ourselves. The streets

and cafés bristle with spies! I do not wonder that you find success so

difficult, Mademoiselle!"

"I haven't done so badly!" she protested.

"No, for you have not been set easy tasks. Can you tell me, though,

where that young Englishman disappeared to when he left the Café

Montmartre before your very eyes? Can you tell me whether the secret

service got hold of his story, how much the French Government believed

of it, whether they have communicated with the English Government, and

how much they know? Beyond these things, it is not your province to see,

or mine, Mademoiselle, and it is not for us to guess at or inquire into

the meaning of things. Tell me, is it worth while to have this man

Pelham put out of the way for a time?"

She shook her head.

"I do not think so," she answered. "He is quite stupid. The other, Sir

George Duncombe, he was different. If he had stayed in Paris he would

have been worth watching."

A bell rang. The man rose.

"The chief!" he said. "Be at the café to-night."

Mademoiselle went away thoughtfully.

"It is over this affair," she said to herself. "Carl knows everything!"

CHAPTER XIII

A NEWSPAPER SENSATION

Spencer, whose recovery during the last few days had been as rapid as

the first development of his indisposition, had just changed for dinner,

and was lighting a _cigarette d'appertit_ when, without waiting to be

announced, the Vicomte de Bergillac entered the room. Spencer, with

lightning-like intuition, knew that his time was come.

"Off with your coat, man, and get your code books out. I am going to

give you the most sensational story which has ever appeared in your

paper!" he exclaimed. "Only, remember this! It must appear to-morrow

morning. I am arranging for the French papers to have it. Yours shall be

the only English journal. Glance through these sheets. They contain the

story of _l'affaire Poynton_!"

Spencer was master of the gist of the thing in a very few moments. His

eyes were bright with excitement.

"Who guarantees this?" he asked quickly.

"My uncle has signed it," Henri de Bergillac answered, "and at the

bottom of the page there you will see a still more distinguished

signature. You understand _l'affaire Poynton_ now? It is very simple.

That English boy actually witnessed a meeting between the Czar and the

Emperor, and turns up in Paris with a loose sheet of a treaty between

the two, relative to an attack upon England. Our people got hold of him

at the Café Montmartre, and we have hidden him away ever since. Our

friends, the Germans, who seem to have had some suspicions about him,

have filled the city with spies, but from the first we have kept them

off the scent. We had a little difficulty in convincing our friends your

country-people, but we managed to borrow a few papers from the German

Ambassador whilst he was staying at a country-house in England, which

were sufficient."

Spencer was already writing. His coat lay on the floor where he had

thrown it.

"Don't go for a moment, De Bergillac," he said. "I want to ask you a few

things. I can talk and code at the same time. What about Miss Poynton?"

"Well, we had to take care of her too," De Bergillac said. "Of course

all her inquiries over here would have led to nothing, but they knew her

at the English Embassy, so we walked her off from the Café Montmartre

one night and took her to a friend of mine, the Marquise de St. Ethol.

We told her a little of the truth, and a little, I'm afraid, which was

an exaggeration. Anyhow, we kept her quiet, and we got her to go to

England for us with Toquet. They had a very narrow shave down at Runton,

by the by."

"After this," Spencer said with a smile, "the secret service people

proper will have to look to their laurels. It is a triumph for the

amateurs."

The Vicomte twirled his tiny black moustache.

"Yes," he said, "we have justified ourselves. It has cost us something,

though!"

"You mean?"

"Louis!"

Spencer stopped writing.

"It was an affair of a million francs," the Vicomte said. "I hope he has

got the money."

Spencer resumed his work.

"The Baron a traitor!" he exclaimed. "Where is he?"

"In England! We are not vindictive. If the Germans paid him a million

francs they got nothing for it. He has been watched from the first. We

knew of it the moment he came to terms with them. He only knows bare

facts. Nothing beyond. He is going to Brazil, I think. We shall not

interfere."

"Tell me why," Spencer said, "you were so down on all of us who joined

in the search for the Poyntons."

"We could not afford to run any risks of your discovering a clue," De

Bergillac answered, "because you in your turn were closely watched by

German spies, hoping to discover them through you. That is why we had to

strike hard at all of you who interfered. I was sorry for little

Flossie--but she knew the risk she ran. We had to stop you, induce

Duncombe to leave Paris, and knock on the head a fool of an English

detective for fear he might discover something. Monsieur Pelham was

getting into danger, but, of course, it is all over now. To-morrow we

are bringing Guy into Paris."

Spencer nodded.

"Where is Duncombe?" he asked.

"Back in Paris," De Bergillac answered. "Arrived here with me to-day. He

is much in love with the beautiful sister. Alas! It was to him that she

entrusted the missing page of that treaty which she found in her

brother's luggage. Some day I must tell you of my adventures in England

last night, when I went over to get it and found Louis a little ahead of

me."

"Some day," Spencer murmured, writing for dear life, with the

perspiration streaming down his forehead. "My dear Vicomte, do you mind

ringing the bell? I want my servant. I must telegraph my paper to warn

them of this. They must clear two columns of type for me."

The Vicomte did as he was asked. Then he turned towards the door.

"I will leave you," he said. "The dust of England is still in my throat.

Absinthe, a bath and dinner! _Au revoir, mon ami!_ Confess that I have

kept the promise which Louis made you. It is what you call a _coup_

this, eh?"

Out on the boulevards the papers were selling like wildfire. The Vicomte

bought one, and sitting down outside a café ordered absinthe. The great

headlines attracted him at once. He sipped his absinthe and smiled to

himself.

"The play commences!" he murmured. "I must return to Monsieur Spencer."

Spencer was still working like a madman.

"I must interrupt you for a moment," De Bergillac said. "I have brought

you an evening paper. The Baltic Fleet has sunk half a dozen English

fishing-boats and the whole country is in a frenzy. It is the

beginning."

Spencer nodded.

"Leave the paper, there's a good fellow," he said. "I will look it

through presently. If there is time--if there is only time this will be

the greatest night of my life. No other paper has a hint, you say?"

"Not one!"

"If I could put back the clock a single hour," Spencer muttered. "Never

mind! Williams, more sheets!"

De Bergillac took his leave. He had telephoned for his motor, which was

waiting outside. He gave the order to drive to his rooms. On the way he

passed the great pile of buildings in the Louvre. In a room at the

extreme end of the pile a light was burning. De Bergillac looked at it

curiously. A small brougham, which he recognized, stood outside.

"If one could see inside," he muttered. "It should be interesting!"

* * * * *

In a sense it was interesting. Monsieur Grisson sat there in front of

his open table. His secretary's place by his side was vacant. Opposite

sat a tall man with gray hair and dark moustache. He was dressed for the

evening, and his breast glittered with stars and orders.

"It is exceedingly kind of you, Monsieur," he said, "to grant me this

interview at so short notice. I was most anxious to apprise you of news,

which as yet I believe has not found its way into your papers. You have

read accounts of a Russian attack upon an English fishing-fleet, but you

have not yet been informed of the presence--the undoubted presence--of

Japanese torpedo-boats concealed amongst them."

Monsieur Grisson raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed no!" he answered. "We have not even heard a rumor of anything of

the sort."

"Nevertheless, their presence was indubitable," the Prince declared. "In

those circumstances, Monsieur, you can doubtless understand that our

reply to any protests on the part of England will be of an unpacific

nature. We should not for a moment allow ourselves to be dictated to by

the allies of our enemy."

"Naturally!" Monsieur Grisson answered. "On the other hand, you surely

do not wish to embroil yourself in a quarrel with England at the present

moment?"

"We wish to quarrel with no one," the Prince answered haughtily. "At the

same time, we are not afraid of England. We recognize the fact that if

war should come it is an independent affair, and does not come under the

obligations of our alliance. We ask, therefore, for your neutrality

alone."

Monsieur Grisson bowed.

"But, Prince," he said gravely, "you speak lightly enough of the

possibilities of war, but surely you must know that the English fleet in

the Channel and at Gibraltar altogether outmatches the Baltic Fleet?"

"A Russian," the Prince answered grandly, "is not afraid of great odds!"

Monsieur Grisson bowed.

"For the sake of humanity," he said, "I trust most sincerely that the

affair may be peaceably arranged. If the contrary should turn out to be

the case, I can only say that in a quarrel which concerns Russia and

England alone, France would remain benevolently neutral. As you have

remarked, the obligations of our treaty do not apply to such a case."

The Prince played nervously with the star at his chest. Both men were

well aware that up to now they had been merely playing with words.

"There is another contingency," the Russian remarked, "which, now we are

upon the subject, it would perhaps be as well to allude to. The

relations between Germany and England, as you know, just now are very

sorely strained. If Germany should take advantage of the present

situation to make a demonstration against England, that, of course,

would not, from your point of view, affect the situation?"

Monsieur Grisson looked like a man who sees before him amazing things.

"My dear Prince," he said, "do not let us misunderstand one another. You

cannot by any possibility be suggesting that Germany might associate

herself with you in your resistance to possible English demands?"

The Russian leaned back in his chair.

"Germany is on the spot," he remarked, "and knows the fact of the case.

She has proofs of the presence of Japanese torpedo-boats amongst the

English fishing-fleet. Her natural love of fair play might possibly lead

her to espouse our cause in this particular instance. This, of course,

would make for peace. If Germany commands, England will obey. She could

not do otherwise."

"You have introduced, my dear Prince," Monsieur Grisson said, "an

altogether new phase of this question, and one which merits the most

grave consideration. Am I to understand that there is any arrangement

between Germany and yourself with respect to this question?"

"Scarcely anything so definite as an arrangement," the Prince answered.

"Merely an understanding!"

Monsieur Grisson had the air of a man who had just received grave

tidings of his dearest friend.

"Is this, Monsieur le Prince," he said, "entirely in accord with our own

treaty obligations?"

"We do not consider it to be in contravention to them," the Prince

answered.

The gravity of Monsieur Grisson's manner grew even more pronounced.

"My dear Prince," he said, "you are doubtless aware that during the last

few weeks there have been some very strange rumors about as to a meeting

between your master and the Emperor of Germany, and an agreement which

was forthwith signed between them. I need not remark that all such

rumors were entirely discredited here. Such a meeting kept secret from

us would of course be very seriously considered here."

The Prince smiled. He remained admirably self-possessed, though the very

veins in his forehead were swollen with anger.

"A canard of the sort has reached my ears," he remarked. "Some English

boy, I believe, imagined or dreamed that he saw some such meeting. We

scarcely need, I think, to discuss this seriously."

"Personally I agree with you," Monsieur Grisson said smoothly. "My

ministry, however, seem to have been a little impressed by the boy's

story. An autograph letter from the Czar, denying it, would perhaps make

our negotiations more easy."

"It shall be forthcoming," the Prince remarked, rising. "By the by, I

hear reports of great activity from Cherbourg. More manoeuvres, eh?"

Monsieur Grisson shrugged his shoulders.

"Our new naval chief," he remarked, "is a marvel of industry. You know

the English proverb about the new broom, eh?"

The Prince bowed.

"During the next few hours," he remarked, "many things may happen. You

will be always accessible?"

"I shall not leave my post, Prince!" Monsieur Grisson answered. "You

will find me here at any time!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE MAN WHO SAVED HIS COUNTRY

On the following morning the inhabitants of London, Paris, Berlin, and

St. Petersburg for a sum varying from a halfpenny to a penny were

treated to sensationalism as thrilling as any six-shilling shocker hot

from the press and assured of its half-million circulation. One English

and one French newspaper outdid their competitors by publishing side by

side with their account of the exploits of the Russian fleet a

marvellous but circumstantial story of a meeting and alliance between

the rulers of Germany and Russia. The eyes of the whole world were

turned towards Kiel, and more wonderful rumors still flashed backwards

and forwards along the wires throughout Europe. A great mobilization can

be kept secret up to a certain point, but when men and ships are

collected and ready the truth must out.

At an unusually early hour Monsieur Grisson, supported now by two

members of his ministry, received a visit from the Russian and German

Ambassadors, Prince Korndoff and Count von Munchen. The usual

compliments were quickly exchanged.

"I have asked my friend Count von Munchen to accompany me," Prince

Korndoff explained, "because we are here to speak with you on a matter

concerning which our interests are identical. You have read the demands

which England has dared to lay before my master with reference to the

encounter in the North Sea."

Monsieur Grisson bowed.

"I have studied them with great interest," he admitted.

"I do not need tell you then that they are scouted with indignation by

my master and his advisers," the Prince answered. "Neither shall we

permit for a single moment the detention of our fleet upon its mission."

"That means, then, war with England," Monsieur Grisson remarked quietly.

"Unless they instantly withdraw their insolent demands--undoubtedly,"

the Prince answered.

Monsieur Grisson turned to the German.

"And you, Count," he asked, "how does this concern you?"

"We also," the Count answered, "consider the demands of England

unwarrantable. We believe that there were undoubtedly Japanese torpedo

boats concealed amongst the English fishing fleet, and we consider that

the action of the Admiral in command of the Russian fleet was fully

justified."

"You are prepared, then, to give Russia your moral support?" the

President asked.

"We are prepared to do more," the Count answered boldly. "If England

persists in her demands we are prepared to demonstrate against her."

Monsieur Grisson assumed a very grave expression.

"I too," he said, "have lost no time in endeavoring to solve the mystery

of this North Sea incident. I have been in communication with the

English Ambassador, and I have collected all the evidence possible.

There is absolutely no proof obtainable of the presence of any Japanese

craft amongst the English fishing fleet. I submit, therefore, that this

is a case for arbitration. I consider that up to the present our friends

on the other side of the Channel have displayed commendable moderation

in a time of great excitement, and I am happy to say that I have the

authority of Lord Fothergill himself for saying that they will consent

to submitting the affair to a commission of arbitration."

The President's words were received with chilling silence. It was the

Prince, who, after a short silence, replied.

"Arbitration," he said coldly, "does not commend itself to us. We have

been insulted. Our country and our gallant fleet have been held up to

ridicule throughout the whole English Press. We are tired of being

dictated to and bullied by a weaker Power--the openly declared ally of

our enemy. England has long been seeking for a _casus belli_ with us. At

last she has found it."

Monsieur Grisson whispered for a moment to one of his colleagues. Then

he turned once more to the Prince.

"Let us understand one another, Monsieur le Prince!" he said, "and you,

Count von Munchen! You have come to announce to me your intention to

jointly make war upon England. St. Petersburg is to refuse her demands,

England will naturally strike at the Baltic Fleet, and Germany will send

her fleet to the rescue, and at the same time land troops somewhere in

the North of England. Russia, I presume, will withdraw her troops from

Manchuria and strike at India!"

"No, no!" Count von Munchen protested. "I can assure you, Monsieur, it

is not our intention to land a single German soldier in England. We are

interested only to see fair play to Russia. We require that the Baltic

Fleet shall be allowed to go on its way without molestation."

The President faced the last speaker. His gray bushy eyebrows met in a

frown.

"Then what, Count," he asked, "is the meaning of the mobilization of two

hundred thousand men at Kiel? What is the meaning of your State

railroads running west being closed last night to all public traffic?

Why have you cabled huge orders for Government supplies? Why were you

running trains all last night to the coast? Do you suppose that our

secret service slumbers--that we are a nation of babies?"

The Count made an effort to retain his composure.

"Monsieur le Président," he said, "the reports which have reached you

have been much exaggerated. It is necessary for us to back up our

protests to England by a show of force!"

Monsieur Grisson smiled.

"Enough of this, gentlemen!" he said. "We will now talk to one another

as men who have weighty affairs to deal with simply and directly. The

story of the meeting between your two rulers which you, Prince Korndoff,

have alluded to as a fairy tale, was a perfectly true one. I have known

of that meeting some time, and I have certain proof of what transpired

at it. The North Sea incident was no chance affair. It was a

deliberately and skilfully arranged _casus belli_, although your

admiral, Prince Korndoff, had to go one hundred miles out of his way to

find the Dogger Bank fishing-fleet. You spoke to me last night of

Cherbourg, Prince. I think that after all your secret service is

scarcely so successful as mine, for I can assure you that you will find

there all that is to be found to-day at Kiel."

The Prince was amazed.

"But, Monsieur le Président," he exclaimed, "you cannot mean--you, our

ally----"

The President extended a forefinger.

"It was no part of our alliance," he said sternly, "that you should make

a secret treaty with another Power and keep hidden from us no less a

scheme than the invasion of England. My Cabinet have dealt with this

matter on its own merits. I have the honor to tell you, gentlemen, that

I have concluded an alliance with England to come into effect in the

case of your carrying out your present intention. For every army corps

you succeed in landing in England I too shall land one, only, I think,

with less difficulty, and for every German ship which clears for action

in the North Sea two French ones will be prepared to meet her."

"I think, Monsieur le Président," he said stiffly, "that this discussion

had better be postponed until after I have had an opportunity of

communicating with my Imperial master. I must confess, sir, that your

attitude is a complete surprise to me."

"As you will, sir," the President answered. "I am perhaps more a man of

affairs than a diplomatist, and I have spoken to you with less reserve

than is altogether customary. But I shall never believe that diplomacy

which chooses the dark and tortuous ways of intrigue and

misrepresentation is best calculated to uphold and strengthen the

destinies of a great nation. I wish you good morning, gentlemen!"

* * * * *

For forty-eight hours the war fever raged, and the pendulum swung

backwards and forwards. The cables between Berlin and St. Petersburg

were never idle. There was a rumor, amongst those behind the scenes, of

an enormous bribe offered to France in return for her neutrality alone.

Its instantaneous and scornful refusal practically brought the crisis to

an end. The German hosts melted away, and the Baltic Fleet passed on.

St. Petersburg accepted the British demands, and a commission of

arbitration was appointed. Henri de Bergillac read out the news from the

morning paper, and yawned.

"_C'est fini--l'affaire Poynton!_" he remarked. "You can get ready as

soon as you like, Guy. I am going to take you into Paris to your

sister!"

Guy looked up eagerly.

"My pardon?" he asked.

The Vicomte made a wry face.

"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "I forgot that there were still explanations to

make. Fill your abominable pipe, _mon ami_, and think that to-morrow or

the next day you may be in your beloved England. Think how well we have

guarded you here when a dozen men were loose in Paris who would have

killed you on sight. Remember that in the underground history of England

you will be known always as the man who saved his country. I shouldn't

wonder in the least if you weren't decorated when you get home. Think of

all these things--hard!"

"All right!" Guy answered. "Go ahead!"

"You never killed any one. The duel was a fake. You were--not exactly

sober. That was entirely our fault, and we had to invent some plan to

induce you to come into hiding peacefully. _Voilà tout!_ It is

forgiven?"

Guy laughed a great laugh of relief.

"Rather!" he exclaimed. "What an ass I must have seemed, asking that old

Johnny for a pardon."

The Vicomte smiled.

"The old Johnny, Guy, was the President of France. He wanted to know

afterwards what the devil you meant."

Guy rose to his feet.

"If you tell me anything else," he said, "I shall want to punch your

head."

The Vicomte laughed.

"Come," he said, "I will return you to your adorable sister!"

CHAPTER XV

A MERRY MEETING

Monsieur Albert was not often surprised, and still less often did he

show it. The party, however, who trooped cheerily into his little

restaurant at something after midnight on this particular morning,

succeeded in placing him at a disadvantage.

First there was the Vicomte de Bergillac, one of his most important and

influential patrons for many reasons, whose presence alone was more than

sufficient guarantee for whoever might follow. Then there was the

Marquise de St. Ethol, one of the _haute noblesse_, to welcome whom was

a surpassing honor.

And then Monsieur Guy Poynton, the young English gentleman, whose single

appearance here a few weeks back had started all the undercurrents of

political intrigue, and who for the justification of French journalism

should at that moment have been slowly dying at the Morgue.

And with him the beautiful young English lady who had come in search of

him, and who, as she had left the place in the small hours of the

morning with Monsieur Louis, should certainly not now have reappeared as

charming and as brilliant as ever, her eyes soft with happiness, and her

laugh making music more wonderful than the violins of his little

orchestra.

And following her the broad-shouldered young Englishman, Sir George

Duncombe, who had once entertained a very dangerous little party in his

private room upstairs, and against whom the dictum had gone forth.

And following him the Englishman with the heavy glasses, whom _l'affaire

Poynton_ had also brought before to his café, and with whom Mademoiselle

from Austria had talked long and earnestly.

And lastly Monsieur Spencer, the English journalist, also with a black

cross after his name, but seemingly altogether unconscious of it.

Monsieur Albert was not altogether at his best. Such a mixture of sheep

and goats confused him. It was the Vicomte who, together with the head

waiter, arranged a redistribution of tables so that the whole party

could sit together. It was the Vicomte who constituted himself host. He

summoned Monsieur Albert to him.

"Albert," he said, with a little wave of the hand, "these ladies and

gentlemen are my friends. To quote the words of my charming young

companion here, Monsieur Guy Poynton, whom you may possibly

remember"--Monsieur Albert bowed--"we are on the bust! I do not know the

precise significance of the phrase any more than I suppose you do, but

it means amongst other things a desire for the best you have to eat and

to drink. Bring Pomeroy '92, Albert, and send word to your chef that we

desire to eat without being hungry!"

Monsieur Albert hurried away, glad of the opportunity to escape. Guy

leaned back in his chair and looked around with interest.

"Same old place," he remarked, "and by Jove, there's the young lady from

Austria."

The young lady from Austria paid her bill and departed somewhat hastily.

The Vicomte smiled.

"I think we shall frighten a few of them away to-night!" he remarked.

"The wine! Good! We shall need magnums to drown our regrets, if indeed

our English friends desert us to-morrow. Monsieur Guy Poynton,

unconscious maker of history and savior of your country, I congratulate

you upon your whole skin, and I drink your health."

Guy drank, and, laughing, refilled his glass.

"And to you, the best of amateur conspirators and most charming of

hosts," he said. "Come soon to England and bring your automobile, and we

will conspire against you with a policeman and a stopwatch."

The Vicomte sighed and glanced towards Phyllis.

"In happier circumstances!" he murmured, and then catching the

Marquise's eye, he was silent.

The band played English music, and the chef sent them up a wonderful

omelette. Mademoiselle Ermine, from the Folies Bergères, danced in the

small space between the tables, and the Vicomte, buying a cluster of

pink roses from the flower-girl, sent them across to her with a diamond

pin in the ribbon. The Marquise rebuked him half seriously, but he only

laughed.

"To-night," he said, "is the end of a great adventure. We amateurs have

justified our existence. To-night I give away all that I choose. Ah,

Angèle!" he murmured, in her dainty little ear, "if I had but a heart to

give!"

She flashed a quick smile into his face, but her forehead was wrinkled.

"You have lost it to the young English miss. She is beautiful, but so

cold!"

"Do you think so?" he whispered. "Look!"

Phyllis was seated next Duncombe, and he too was whispering something in

her ear. The look with which she answered him, told all that there was

to know. The Marquise, who had intercepted it, shrugged her shoulders.

"It is not worth while, my friend, that you break your heart," she

murmured, "for that one can see is an affair arranged."

He nodded.

"After all," he said, "the true Frenchman loves only in his own

country."

"Or in any other where he may chance to be," she answered drily. "Never

mind, Henri! I shall not let you wander very far. Your supper-party has

been delightful--but you see the time!"

They trooped down the narrow stairs laughing and talking. Duncombe and

Phyllis came last, and their hands met for an instant behind the burly

commissionaire.

"Until to-morrow!"

"Until to-morrow," she echoed softly, as he handed her into the electric

_coupé_.

Andrew and he drove down the hill together. Duncombe was a little ill at

ease.

"There is one thing, Andrew," he said, "which I should like to say to

you. I want you to remember the night in your garden, when you asked me

to come to Paris for you."

"Yes?"

"I warned you, didn't I? I knew that it would come, and it has!"

Andrew smiled in gentle scorn.

"My dear Duncombe," he said, "why do you think it necessary to tell me a

thing so glaringly apparent? I have nothing to blame you for. It was a

foolish dream of mine, which I shall easily outlive. For, George, this

has been a great day for me. I believe that my time for dreams has gone

by."

Duncombe turned towards him with interest.

"What do you mean, Andrew?"

"I have been to see Foudroye, the great oculist. He has examined my eyes

carefully, and he assures me positively that my eyesight is completely

sound. In two months' time I shall see as well as any one!"

Duncombe's voice shook with emotion. He grasped his friend's hand.

"That is good--magnificent, Andrew!" he declared.

Their carriage rattled over the cobbled stones as they crossed the

Square. The white mysterious dawn was breaking over Paris. Andrew threw

his head back with a laugh.

"Back into the world, George, where dreams are only the cobwebs of time,

and a man's work grows beneath his hands like a living statue to the

immortals. I feel my hands upon it, and the great winds blowing. Thank

God!"

THE END

* * * * *

Transcriber's note

The following typographical error was corrected in the text:

Phillis Poynton changed to Phyllis Poynton

* * * * *

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* * * * *

Transcriber's notes

The following typographical errors were corrected in the text above:

1. A. N. Williamson changed to A. M. Williamson

2. Caroline Wells changed to Carolyn Wells

3. Marjorie Benton Cook changed to Marjorie Benton Cooke

The list of books presented at the bottom of this text ended

at "The Slim Princess" in the original scans that were used,

probably due to missing pages. Other copies that were obtained

did not include this list of books at all.