"Where did you know her?" he inquired quickly, fixing me with that sharp
pair of black eyes that shone behind the zone of soft light shed by the
green-shaded reading-lamp upon the table. He was sitting in the shadow,
his thin, refined face ashen grey, his hair almost white. The one spot
of colour was the fine star of Knight Grand Cross of the Bath glittering
on the breast of his braided diplomatic uniform. Lord Barmouth, British
Ambassador to the French Republic, had just returned from the
President's reception at the Elysee, and had summoned me for
consultation.
"Well," I responded, "I knew her in Rome, among other places."
"H'm, I thought as much," he remarked in a dry, dubious tone. "I don't
like her, Ingram--I don't like her;" and I knew by the impatient snap of
the Ambassador's fingers that something had displeased him.
"You've seen her, then?"
"Yes," he answered in an ambiguous tone, taking up a quill and making
what appeared to be geometrical designs upon his blotting-pad. "She's
good-looking--uncommonly good-looking; but I mistrust her."
"It is part of our creed to mistrust a pretty woman," I remarked with a
smile; for, as everyone knows, the fair sex plays a prominent part in
the diplomacy of Europe. "But what cause have you for suspicion?"
He was silent for a moment; then he said:
"You were not at the ball at the Austrian Embassy the night before last,
I believe?"
"No, I was not back from London in time," I replied. "Was she there?"
"Yes. She was dancing with Hartmann, and they were speaking of you. I
was chatting with Olsoufieff, and distinctly overheard your name
mentioned."
"With Hartmann!" I repeated. "That's curious. He is scarcely a friend
of ours."
"I consider the circumstance suspicious, judged by the light of recent
events," he said. "Remember that the cause of our piece of ill-fortune
still remains a mystery, and the stroke of diplomacy that we intended to
effect as a coup against our enemies has, by the dastardly betrayal of
our secret, placed us in a very unenviable position. This untoward
incident has entirely checkmated us."
"I fully realise our critical position," I said seriously, "and I have
done my utmost to discover the truth. Kaye has been active night and
day."
"Nevertheless, I fear that at Downing Street they will say hard things
of us, Ingram;" and Her Majesty's representative sighed heavily, resting
his weary head upon his hand.
The Ambassador's office was indeed a very thankless one, while my own
position as second secretary of the Paris Embassy was a post not to be
envied, even though it is popularly supposed to be one of the plums of
the diplomatic service. With Paris full of spies endeavouring to
discover our secrets and divine our instructions from Downing Street,
and the cabinet noir ever at work upon our correspondence, it behoved us
to be always on the alert, and to have resort to all manner of ingenious
subterfuges in order to combat our persistent enemies.
The war-cloud hangs over Europe always. The mine is laid, and the
slightest spark may fire it. The duty of the diplomatist is to intrigue
so as to prevent that spark. It is the intrigue that is difficult, for
counter-plots are met with everywhere. The power of England is feared;
hence her isolation.
Those who live at home at ease think little of the small band of
Englishmen in each of the capitals who, living ever upon the edge of a
volcano, are straining every nerve to preserve the peace of Europe. How
often the stability of empires trembles in the balance the British
public little dreams. "The European Situation" is a stock heading in
the London newspapers, but fortunately the journalists never know the
secrets of our embassies, otherwise the world would very often be
scared. Many a time in my own diplomatic career in Rome, in Brussels,
and in Vienna, had I remained awake at night, fearing on the morrow a
declaration of war; yet the chiefs under whom I have worked--those
honest, upright, valiant servants of Queen and country--had skilfully
evaded the threatened danger, and Europe remained in ignorance of how
terribly near it had been to the clash of arms.
That night, as I sat with the chief, a trusted servant of Her Majesty,
in his handsome private room in the Embassy, I knew that war was in the
air. The responsibility resting upon him was of a sort to involve the
prestige of the Queen's Empire and the lives of thousands of her valiant
sons. An ill-advised despatch, a hasty word, or an injudicious attitude
would inevitably mean the disastrous explosion so long feared--the great
European war that prophets have been predicting ever since the downfall
of the French Empire.
Paris that July night was stifling. To us the tension of the day had
been terrible. The catastrophe so long feared seemed now upon us.
There was a breathless calm in the air outside, foreboding a storm.
"Has Kaye absolutely nothing to report?" asked His Excellency, at last
breaking the silence.
"He returned from Madrid at nine o'clock to-night. His journey there
was futile."
"Ah!" exclaimed His Excellency, whose thin lips closed tightly again.
Through the years that I had served under him in Rome and afterwards in
Paris I had never before seen him outwardly betray the slightest
apprehension. So skilled was he as a diplomatist that his sangfroid was
always perfect. His motto--one that he had often impressed upon me--was
that the British lion should always remain fearless of his enemies. But
now, for the first time, he was plainly agitated, dreading that war
might result.
"Get me out the special cipher-book," he said hoarsely at last. "I must
telephone to Downing Street."
In obedience I rose, opened with the key upon my chain the big safe, and
took out the small morocco-bound volume containing the secret cipher by
means of which His Excellency could communicate with Her Majesty's
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs--a book supplied only to
ambassadors themselves; and, because it is kept locked, its contents are
never seen even by the staff of an embassy.
His Excellency unlocked it with his own key, took up his quill, and
after searching here and there through the pages, commenced writing a
bewildering row of letters and numerals intermingled, while in the
meantime I had gone to the telephone instrument at the opposite end of
the room and "rung up" London, until there came an answering voice from
one of the night staff of the Foreign Office.
"Hulloa! I'm Ingram, of the Paris Embassy. Who are you?" I asked.
In response came a password by which I knew I was actually speaking with
Downing Street.
"Is the Marquess in London, or at Alderhurst, to-night?"
"Alderhurst. He left town this afternoon."
"Then put me on there for an important despatch."
"All right," was the response; and some five minutes later the tiny bell
rang, with an inquiry from the private secretary of the great statesman
as to what I wanted.
I answered; then, His Excellency having risen and handed me the slip of
official paper on which he had printed the cipher figures heavily with
his quill, I prefaced the message by the usual formal announcement:
"From Lord Barmouth, Paris, to the Most Noble the Marquess of Malvern,
London. July 12th, 1:30 a.m."
Then in continuation I read slowly and distinctly each letter and
numeral, the secretary at Alderhurst afterwards repeating the whole
message, so that there should be no possibility of mistake.
Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed, during which time His Excellency,
with his hands behind his back, paced feverishly up and down the room.
Of the nature of that despatch I was in utter ignorance, but from his
manner it was evident that the problem was one vital to the interests of
the British Empire. By night, as well as by day, those responsible for
the maintenance of the prestige of England as the first Empire of the
world are always active. How little the public knows of the stealthy,
treacherous ways of modern diplomacy, of the armies of spies seeking
always to plot and counter-plot, of the base subterfuges employed by
certain noted foreign diplomatists, or of the steady perseverance of the
Queen's representatives at the Courts of Europe! And how little, I
fear, they care!
To most people the diplomatic career is synonymous with an easy
occupation in which the wearing of a uniform and the attendance at
brilliant functions are the greatest inconveniences. The newspapers
flippantly criticise our actions in leading articles, and declare that
our diplomacy is utterly worthless beside that of Germany, Russia, or
France. Those who write, as well as those who read, never reflect that
our chief duty is to foil the provocations offered to us by the Powers
who are anxious for war. Every British Ambassador at a foreign Court
had been told from the lips of his beloved Sovereign--now, alas!
deceased--that he must prevent war. That instruction was to him as
sacred as a religion.
"The President talked for twenty minutes to-night with de Wolkenstein,"
observed His Excellency, halting suddenly and facing me. "I wonder if
they know anything in Vienna?"
"I think not," I replied. "I met Count Berchtold in the Grand Cafe
purposely this evening, and he made no mention of anything to lead me to
believe that the secret was out in that direction."
"If it is out, then it has been circulated by our friends in the Rue de
Lille," he said, meaning the German Embassy.
"Perhaps," I responded. "But I hardly think that Count de Hindenburg
would care to imperil his position by so doing. He would rather
endeavour to assist us in this affair, because the interests of England
and Germany are entirely mutual in this matter."
"I tell you, Ingram," he cried angrily--"I tell you that this dastardly
piece of trickery is some woman's work!"
As he spoke, the door suddenly opened, and there burst into the room a
tall girlish figure in a pretty toilette of turquoise chiffon, wearing
an open cape of handsome brocade about her shoulders.
"O father!" she cried merrily, "we've had such an awfully good time at
the Baroness's!" Then, next instant, astonished by his words, she drew
back in quick surprise.
"What trickery is a woman's work?" she asked, glancing inquiringly at
me.
"Nothing, my dear," His Excellency hastened to reply, placing his thin
hand tenderly upon her shoulder--"nothing, at least, that concerns you."
"But you are not well!" she cried in alarm. Then, turning to me, said:
"Look, Mr. Ingram, how pale he is!"
"Your father is rather overburdened by important business," I replied.
Her face assumed a puzzled expression. Sibyl, the pretty, dark-haired
daughter of Lord Barmouth, was acknowledged on all sides to be more than
usually beautiful, and was the pet of diplomatic Paris. With her mother
she went everywhere in that dazzling vortex of gaiety, in which the
diplomatist accredited to France is bound to move. Ah! that glare and
glitter, that constant whirl, that never-ceasing music! How weary I was
of it all, and how it jarred upon me!
And why? Well, to speak the truth, I myself had an affair of the heart,
and my thoughts were always far from those brilliant spectacles in which
I was merely an official in a braided uniform.
"What has occurred, Mr. Ingram?" asked the Ambassador's daughter
anxiously. "Father is certainly not himself to-night."
"Another political complication," I responded; "that is all."
"Sibyl, my dear," exclaimed her father, gently taking her hand, "you
know that I forbid any inquiries to be made into matters which must be
secret, even from you."
"I came to tell you all about the ball," she said, pouting. "I was
introduced to a most pleasant man named Wolf, and danced with him
several times."
"Wolf!" I cried quickly. "Rodolphe Wolf?"
"That was his name. He was dark, about forty, with a small pointed
black beard. Do you know him?"
"Wolf!" I repeated; then, suddenly recovering from the surprise she had
caused me by uttering that name, I answered carelessly: "Perhaps it may
be the same man I knew slightly some years ago."
"We had awfully good fun. He is so amusing, but seems quite a stranger
in Paris."
I smiled inwardly. Rodolphe Wolf a stranger in Paris! The thought was
amusing.
"And what was your conversation about?" I inquired of her, smiling
pleasantly the while.
"You want to know whether he flirted with me, Mr. Ingram?" she laughed
mischievously. "I know you of old. It really isn't fair."
"He said nothing to you about your father, or about the composition of
his staff?" I inquired eagerly.
"Nothing."
"And you did not mention my name?" I asked anxiously.
"No. Why? You talk as though you don't want him to know you are in
Paris."
"You have exactly guessed my desire," I replied. "If you meet him
again, kindly oblige me by saying nothing."
"Do not utter a word regarding matters here at the Embassy, Sibyl,"
added her father seriously. "You understand?"
"Of course not. I'm a diplomat's daughter, and can keep a secret when
necessary. But tell me, father," she added, "who is the woman of whom
you were speaking when I came in?"
"It is our affair, my dear--entirely our affair," he said in a hard
voice. "It is nothing you need trouble your head over. I'm glad you've
enjoyed the ball. Say good-night, and leave us."
"But you look quite ill," she said with concern in her voice, stroking
his heated forehead with her hand. "Cannot I get you something?"
"Nothing, dear."
She was a charming type of English girl, smart, accomplished, and
utterly devoted to her father. That she delighted in mild flirtations
here and there in the cosmopolitan circle in which she moved I was well
aware, and we were such old friends that I often chaffed her about her
fickleness. But that night she had met Rodolphe Wolf, of all men. The
fact was strange, to say the least.
"Shall I send Harding to you?" she asked, standing there in the shadow,
the diamond star in her well-dressed hair alone catching the light and
gleaming with a thousand fires. The star was a parting gift to her by
Queen Margherita of Italy, with whom she had been an especial favourite
while her father was Ambassador in Rome.
"No," answered His Excellency. "Please say good-night, dear, and leave
us."
Then he bent, kissed her tenderly on the brow, and dismissed her.
"Well," she laughed poutingly, "if I am ordered off, I suppose I must
go. I'm a striking example of the obedient daughter. Good-night, Mr.
Ingram."
And as I held open the door for her to pass out, she added
mischievously:
"I'll leave you to talk together over the shortcomings of my sex;" and
laughing gaily she disappeared down the corridor.