There was war in the air. At the Embassy we could not conceal from
ourselves the seriousness of the situation. From hour to hour we were
living in dread lest diplomatic negotiations should be broken off with
the French Republic. We had discovered what seemed very much like a
conspiracy against England, and as an energetic protest it appeared
quite possible that the Marquess of Malvern might order my Chief to
leave Paris. This would mean a rupture of diplomatic relations, and in
all probability war.
Never in the history of modern Europe had there been a day so critical
as that blazing, well-remembered one in mid-July. There were ugly
rumours of complications in the Transvaal. The fate of certain nations
trembled in the balance. In every capital diplomatists were active,
some striving to force war, others endeavouring to prevent it. A
diplomatist's life is assuredly no sinecure. The British public, as I
have said before, little dreams of the constant anxiety and terrible
tension which are parts of the daily life of its faithful servants
abroad.
On my return to the Embassy I found that some important despatches had
been brought from London by Anderson, the foreign service messenger.
He was sitting in my room smoking a cigarette, and awaiting me in order
to obtain the receipt for his despatch-box. A tall, round-faced, merry
man of middle age, he was an especial favourite in all the embassies as
far as Teheran. A thorough cosmopolitan and man of the world, he had
resigned his commission in the Scots Greys to become one of that
half-dozen of the greyhounds of Europe known as Queen's messengers.
"Well, Anderson," I exclaimed, shaking his hand on entering, "what's the
news from Downing Street?"
"Oh, nothing very fresh," he laughed, sinking back in his chair again,
and passing me over the receipt for signature. "Old Tuite, of the
Treaty Department, has retired on his pension this week. That's about
all that's new. The Chief, however, seems busy. I'm loaded with
despatches."
"Where for?"
"Vienna and Constantinople. I leave by the Orient express in an hour's
time," he answered, with a glance at his watch.
"Then you're getting over a little ground just now?" I laughed.
"A little ground!" he echoed. "Well, I've been two trips to Petersburg
this month, twice here to Paris, and once to Vienna. I've only slept
one night in London since the 1st."
"You're a bit sick of it, I should think," I observed, looking at the
round face lit up by its pair of merry grey eyes. He was an easy-going
fellow; his good-humour never seemed ruffled.
"Oh, it agrees with me," he laughed lightly. "I don't care as long as I
get the monthly run to Teheran now and then. That's a bit of a change,
you know, after these everlasting railways, with their stuffy
sleeping-cars and abominable arrangements for giving a man indigestion."
I examined the box to see that the seals affixed in Downing Street were
intact, then signed the receipt and handed it back to him.
Of the corps of Queen's messengers--nicknamed "the greyhounds" because
of the badge which each wears suspended round his neck and concealed
beneath his cravat, a silver greyhound surmounted by the Royal arms--
Captain Jack Anderson was the most popular. A welcome guest at every
embassy or legation, he was on friendly terms with the whole staff, from
the Ambassador himself down to the hall-porter, and he carried the
gossip of the embassies to and fro across Europe. From him we all
gathered news of our old colleagues in other capitals--of their joys and
their sorrows, their difficulties and their junketings. His baggage
being by international courtesy free from Customs' examination, he
oft-times carried with him a new frock for an ambassador's wife or
daughter--a service which always put him high in the good graces of the
feminine portion of the diplomatic circle.
"Kaye seems bobbing about pretty much," he observed, handing me his
cigarette-case. Anderson's cigarettes were well known for their
excellence, for he purchased them at a shop in Petersburg, and often
distributed a box in one or other of the embassies. "I met him a week
ago on board the Calais boat, and two days later I came across him in
the buffet down at Bale. He was, however, as close as an oyster."
"Of course. It isn't likely that he'd talk very much," I remarked.
"His profession is to know everything, and at the same time to affect
ignorance. He went to Berlin last night."
"We had breakfast together in the early morning at Bale, and he
questioned me closely about a friend of yours."
"Who?"
"A lady--Mademoiselle de Foville. You remember her in Brussels, don't
you?"
"Mademoiselle de Foville!" I echoed. The denunciation of her as a
secret agent instantly flashed through my mind.
"Yes, you were extremely friendly with her in Brussels," he went on.
"Don't you recollect that you introduced me to her one evening at an
al-fresco concert in the Vauxhall Gardens, where we sat together for
quite a long time chatting?"
"I remember distinctly," I responded. Every detail of that balmy summer
night in those gaily illuminated gardens came back to me in that moment.
I loved Yolande in those long-past days. "And what did Kaye want to
know regarding her?"
"He asked me whether I had ever met her, and I told him that you had
once introduced us."
"Well?"
"Oh, nothing much else. He remarked how very charming she was--a
verdict in which we both agreed. Have you seen her lately?"