"Who is this Wolf?" the Ambassador inquired quickly, as soon as I had
closed the door. "I don't seem to recollect the name."
"I have a suspicion," I responded. "When it is established I will
explain."
"An alias--eh?"
"I think so," I said. "Your daughter should be warned against him.
They had better not meet."
"I will see to that," he said, and the next instant the telephone-bell
rang loudly, announcing the response from Alderhurst.
In a moment we were both at the instrument. Then with the receiver at
my car I inquired who was there.
"Durnford, Alderhurst," was the response. "Are you Ingram?"
I replied in the affirmative, adding the word without the receipt of
which no cipher despatch is ever sent by telephone, lest some trickery
should be attempted.
"Take down, then," came the secretary's voice from the other side of the
Channel. "From the Marquess of Malvern, to His Excellency, Lord
Barmouth, Paris. July 12th, 2:10 a.m.;" and then followed a long row of
ciphers, each of which I carefully wrote down upon the paper before me,
reading it through aloud, in order that he might compare it with his
copy.
Then, when the voice from Alderhurst gave the word "End," I hung up the
receiver and gave the paper into His Excellency's eager hands.
Those puzzling lines of letters and numerals were secret instructions
from the ruler of England's destiny, who had been called from his bed to
decide one of the most critical problems of statesmanship. Truly the
position of the British Minister for Foreign Affairs is no enviable one.
The responsibility is the heaviest weighing upon any one man in the
whole world.
His Excellency seated himself quickly at his table, and with the aid of
a second book which I handed him from the safe proceeded to decipher the
Chief's despatch. With his pen he placed the equivalent beneath each
cipher, and as he did so I saw that his countenance fell. He went pale
as death.
"Ah!" he gasped, when he had finished the arrangement and had read the
deciphered message through. "It is exactly as I feared. Never in the
course of my career as Ambassador has such a serious complication
arisen--_never_!"
I was silent. What, indeed, could I say? I well knew that he was not
the man to betray the slightest emotion without good reason.
For a moment he sat there, resting his brow upon his hand, staring
blankly at the paper I had given him. The nature of his secret
instructions I knew not. His utter despair was sufficient to convince
me, however, that a catastrophe was inevitable. Only the low ticking of
the clock upon the high mantelshelf broke the painful silence. The
representative of Her Majesty--one of England's most skilled and trusted
diplomats--sighed heavily, for he knew too well how black was the
outlook at that moment--how, indeed, because of our mysterious betrayal,
our enemies had triumphed, and how, at the other embassies, that very
night the downfall of England's power was being discussed.
"All this is a woman's doing, I tell you!" he cried, striking the table
fiercely, rising and pacing the room. "We must discover the truth--we
must, you hear?"
"I am making every possible effort," I answered; adding, "I think I have
hitherto shown myself worthy of your confidence?"
"Certainly, Ingram," he hastened to assure me. "Without you here I
should not dare to act as I have done. I know that nothing escapes you.
Your shrewdness is equal to that of old Sterk, the Chief of Police in
Vienna."
"You are too complimentary," I said; "I have merely done my duty."
"But if we could only get at the truth in this affair!"
"At present it is an absolute mystery. Only two persons were aware of
the secret. You knew it, and I also knew it. And yet it is out--
indeed, the very terms of the agreement are known!"
Suddenly halting, he pushed open the window, and looked out upon the
hot, overcast night. Paris was still bright with her myriad electric
lights, and the glaring cafes on the boulevards were still as busy as
during the hour of the absinthe. The City of Pleasure never sleeps.
He leaned over the balcony, gasping for air; but in an instant I was
behind him, saying:
"Someone may be watching outside. Is it really wise for you to be
seen?"
"No," he answered. "You're right, Ingram;" and he turned back and
closed the long windows opening upon the balcony. "A bold front must be
maintained through all." He walked to his table, took up the despatch,
and, striking a vesta, ignited it, holding it until it was completely
consumed. Then he cast the blackened tinder into the grate, growing in
a single instant calm again. "You are right, Ingram," he repeated
rather hoarsely. "Our enemies must not obtain any inkling that we know
the truth, if we are to effect a successful counter-plot. In this
affair I detect the hand of a woman. Is not that your opinion?"
"I must admit that it is," I responded. "I believe there is a female
spy somewhere."
"But who is she?" he cried anxiously.
"Ah!" I said, "we have yet to discover her name."
"It is not Yolande?" he asked dubiously.
"No. Of that I feel quite certain."
"But you are certain of nothing else?"
"All the rest is, I regret, an absolute mystery."
There was no disguising the fact that the information which by very
mysterious means had leaked out from the Embassy had created the most
intense excitement in certain other foreign embassies in Paris. Kaye,
the chief of our secret service in the French capital--a shrewd fellow,
whose capacity for learning which way the diplomatic wind was blowing
was little short of marvellous--had come to me at midnight to report
that the Spanish Ambassador was exchanging frequent despatches with
Madrid. That statement was sufficient to show the enemy's hand.
For fully six months France had been scheming to obtain a naval station
in the Mediterranean, and the point she coveted was Ceuta, on the
Moorish coast, opposite Gibraltar. Knowledge of this caused us to
exercise the most delicate diplomacy in order to thwart the conspiracy
to aim a blow against England's naval power in the Mediterranean. A
week ago I had been in London, and the Marquess of Malvern himself had
given me a crossed despatch to convey to my chief in Paris. This had
contained certain instructions in cipher, which, on my return, I had
helped to translate into English. Then the despatch was burnt by His
Excellency, and we alone knew its contents. From the moment I received
it in the Marquess's private room at the Foreign Office, until the
moment when I handed it over to Lord Barmouth in Paris with its five
great seals intact, it had never left the pouch of chamois-leather
which, when travelling with despatches, I always wore around my waist,
next my skin. For spies to have obtained a copy of it was impossible.
I had seen it written, and had likewise seen it destroyed. It was not
likely either that the British Ambassador had himself exposed his secret
instructions in a matter of such delicacy, where the greatest finesse
and the most skilful diplomacy were necessary; and equally certain was
it that I myself had not uttered a single word.
The secret instructions showed marvellous foresight, as did all the
actions of the great statesman in whose hands rested the prestige of
England among the Powers. They were briefly to show with great delicacy
to the Spanish Ambassador that his Government, having regard to existing
relations, had no right to sell Ceuta to any Power, and that if any
attempt were made by any other Government to establish a naval station
there, England would oppose it to the utmost, even to the extent of
hostilities. Yet somehow, by means that formed a most puzzling enigma,
these secret instructions had become instantly known to France; and even
before Lord Barmouth could obtain an interview with the Marquis Leon y
Castillo, the French Minister of Foreign Affairs had called at the
Embassy in the Boulevard de Courcelles, and had apparently arranged a
line of action. Thus England had been checkmated, and in all
probability the sale of that most important strategic point in the
Mediterranean had already been effected.
Kaye had been to Madrid, and his inquiries in the Spanish capital tended
to confirm this theory.
Truly we were in evil case. So decisive had been His Excellency's
instructions that if he did not now vigorously protest and threaten a
cessation of diplomatic negotiations it would exhibit such weakness as
the British Government must never show. That motto of Lord Malvern's,
"To be strong is to avert war; to be weak is to invite it," is ever
foremost in the mind of each representative of Her Majesty at a foreign
Court. Yet Lord Barmouth's dilemma was, indeed, a serious one. He had
declared the exposure of our secret due to some woman's scheming, and
suspected one person--the pretty Yolande de Foville. His suspicion of
her caused me a good deal of reflection; and as I walked along the
boulevard to my bachelor apartment au troisieme, I pondered seriously.
What, I wondered, had caused him to think ill of her? If she had danced
with Hartmann, this action was surely not enough to condemn her. Yet
why, I wondered, had she mentioned myself? And why, indeed, was
Rodolphe Wolf, of all men, in Paris?
No, I did not like the aspect of things in the least. The night was
absolutely breathless, and the asphalt of the boulevard seemed to
reflect back into one's face the heat of the sun that had blazed upon it
during the day. I removed my hat, and walked with it in my hand, my
brain awhirl. The spies of France had effected a coup against us, and
within twenty-four hours Europe might, I knew, be convulsed by a
declaration of war.
Here and there the cafes were still open, but few customers were inside.
A pair of drunken roysterers staggered past me singing that catchy song
of the less fashionable boulevards:
"Dansons la ronde
Des marmites de Paris,
Ohe! les souris!
Les rongeuses de monde!
Faisons sauter avec nous
Nos michets et nos marlous.
Dansons la ronde!
Paris est a nous!"
With that single exception all was silent. From half-past three till
four in the morning is the quietest period that the City of Pleasure
experiences. She is dormant only one half-hour in the whole
twenty-four.
Yolande was suspected of being a spy! The thought seemed absolutely
absurd. She was Belgian, it was true, and there is somehow always a
prejudice against Belgian women in Paris, due perhaps to the fact that
although they speak French with an accent, they are often perfect
linguists. But for Yolande to be actually a spy--why, the thing was
ridiculous!
Arrived at my own rooms, I found Mackenzie, my old Scotch manservant,
awaiting me.
"Mr. Kaye called, sir, half an hour ago," he said. "He could not wait,
for he was leaving Paris."
"Leaving Paris?" I echoed, for the ubiquitous chief of the secret
service had only come back from Madrid a few hours before.
"Yes, sir. He left you a note;" and my well-trained man drew a letter
from his pocket. He always kept my letters upon his person, in order
that any callers might not pry into them during my absence.
I tore open the note eagerly, and read the few scribbled lines. Next
instant the paper almost fell from my fingers. I held my breath,
scarcely believing my own eyes. Yet the writing was plain enough, and
was as follows:
"_Within the past hour I have ascertained that your friend Yolande de
Foville is a secret agent. Keep strict watch upon her. I have left
instructions that if she leaves Paris she is to be followed. I go to
Berlin at once to make inquiries, and am leaving by the 4:30 train this
morning. I have the address you gave, and the particulars concerning
her. Shall return as soon as possible_.
"K."
I crushed the note in my hand, and, walking on into my sitting-room,
gulped down some brandy. Everything had conspired against me. When I
had given Kaye those details concerning my charming little friend three
years ago, I had never dreamed that he would register them and
afterwards use them in an endeavour to fasten upon her a charge of being
a spy. Yet he was actually on his way to Berlin, and any attempt upon
my part to hinder him would only be misconstrued into a treasonable
endeavour to shield her.
Upon the table before me stood her photograph in a silver frame, looking
out at me. I took it up. Those eyes were so innocent that I could not
bring myself to believe that any evil lurked in them. Surely she would
not attempt to harm me? Such an action was absolutely contrary to any
woman's nature.
Yolande! The sound of that name brought back to me a sweet, tender
memory of the past. I sighed as the recollection of that bygone day
arose within me, and flung myself down into an easy-chair to smoke and
to think. In the blue ascending rings from my cigarette her face seemed
to smile at me with those red parted lips and merry eyes, clear and
azure as a child's. How charming and chic she had once appeared to me
in those days when we had first met--in those days before I had known
Edith Austin, my absent well-beloved! Her portrait, too, was there--the
picture of a woman, sweet, tender, grave-faced, of similar age perhaps,
but whose peerless beauty was typically English and devoid of any
artificiality. I took it up and touched it reverently with my lips. I
loved the original of that photograph with all the strength of my being,
hoping always that some day ere long I might ask her to become my wife.
Some there are who hold the theory that to all diplomatists, ambassadors
excepted, wives are an unnecessary encumbrance. I admit that there is
much to be said in favour of the celibate state as the ideal existence
for the secretary or attache, who is bound, more or less, to make
himself agreeable to the many cosmopolitan ladies who make up the
diplomatic circle, and sometimes even to flirt with them, when occasion
requires. Yet after fifteen years or so beneath the shadows of the
various thrones of Europe, a man tires of the life, and longs for the
one sweet woman whom he can trust and love. In this I was no exception.
I loved Edith Austin with all my heart and all my soul; and she, I felt
assured, reciprocated my affection.
It is part of the diplomatist's creed to be on good terms with all and
sundry of the feminine butterflies who hover about the embassies, no
matter what their age or nationality. Hence it was that five years ago,
while stationed at Brussels, I had become attracted by Yolande de
Foville. Once, long before I met Edith, I fancied myself in love with
her. Her father, Count de Foville, was aide-de-camp to King Leopold,
and with her mother she moved in the best society in Paris and Brussels.
On several occasions I had been invited for the boar hunting at the
great gloomy old chateau at Houffalize, in the Ardennes forest, where
the powerful de Fovilles had been seigneurs through five centuries.
It was a dull, snowbound, dreary place in winter, bare and chill,
furnished in ancient style, and situated thirty miles from the nearest
railway, in the midst of a flat forest country. It was, therefore, not
surprising that on the death of the Count, Yolande and her mother should
prefer to leave Belgium and travel in England and Italy, spending the
winter at Rome or at Monte Carlo, the spring in Paris, and summer in one
or other of the fashionable French watering-places. During three years
we had been excellent friends, and after I had been promoted from
Brussels to the Embassy in Rome, she came with her mother and spent the
spring in the Eternal City, with the result that our firm friendship
became even firmer. I am fain to admit that our flirtation was of the
kind called desperate, and that it had ended in love.
And a week ago she had suddenly arrived in Paris at the smart little
flat in the Rue de Courcelles, which her mother had possessed for years,
but now so seldom occupied. Her arrival was unexpected, and I had only
known of it from Giraud, the military attache at the Belgian Legation, a
friend of my Brussels days, whom I met in the Cafe de Paris one evening
after the opera, and who had said suddenly:
"Do you, my dear Ingram, know that a little friend of yours has arrived
in Paris?"
"Who?" I inquired eagerly.
"Yolande," was the response. "You used to be her cavalier in Brussels
in the old days. Have you forgotten her?"
His announcement surprised me. Since my friendship with Edith had grown
to be a grand passion, I had exchanged no correspondence with Yolande.
Indeed, the last I had heard of her was that she and the Countess were
at Cairo spending the winter.
To tell the truth I was rather glad that she had not sought me out, for
I had no wish to renew her acquaintance, now that I had found a woman in
England whom I meant to try to win for my wife. Yet as I looked back at
the past through the haze of my cigarette-smoke I was compelled to admit
that I had spent some charming hours by her side, dancing at those
brilliant balls in Brussels or driving in that pretty wood so beloved of
the Bruxellois, the Bois de la Cambre. Many were the incidents that
came back to me as I sat there pondering. Nevertheless, in the
storehouse of memory I found nothing half sweet enough to tempt me from
my love for Edith.
The denunciation of the pretty Yolande as a spy staggered belief; yet
the Chief himself, as well as Kaye, was convinced, and the latter was
already on his way to the north to prosecute inquiries.
What, I wondered, had really aroused their suspicions? As His
Excellency had not seen Kaye since his return from Madrid, they could
not have exchanged views. It seemed my duty to call and see her, to
renew the acquaintance that I so strongly desired to end, and, indeed,
to continue the flirtation of bygone days with a view to discovering the
truth. Was it fair? Was it just? I hesitated to call upon her, half
fearful lest her charm and natural chic should again attract me towards
her. Nevertheless, it was my duty, as servant of my Sovereign, to
attempt to discover England's secret enemies.