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 Café 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
