and written home from this same room his final report. The apartment was unchanged, the two doors were closed, the curtains were drawn, his solitude was assured. He broke the seal of the envelope and withdrew a small key, its sole contents. With the key he unlocked the despatch box and withdrew the code book. He pushed the case away and propped up the code book in a conspicuous place just in front of him. Then he drew out from the rack a pile of the heavy embossed, blue foolscap paper, examined his fountain pen and started to write.In two hours time his task was finished. The eight sheets of foolscap covered with clear, bold handwriting contained, in carefully chosen code, the result of one secret visit to Moscow and three briefer sojourns at Warsaw, Bucharest and Budapest. Mildenhall lit a cigarette and read through all that he had written. There was a faint flicker of self-satisfaction in his smile as he finished. He made no corrections, not a single alteration, but he added just two words in a code so utterly secret between himself and the person who would read his report that the code itself existed only in the memories of the two men. He folded up the eight sheets, found the proper linen envelope, used liberally the brown sealing wax and his own seal. Then he replaced the code book in the despatch box, locked it up and enclosed the key itself in another envelope, which he scaled and stamped. Finally he rang the bell. A young man wearing heavy glasses, pale and eminently secretarial, made his appearance. He greeted the solitary occupant of the room without a smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Mildenhall.”
“Good evening, Paul. There you are.”
He handed over the packet. The young man took it into his charge.
“I will place it in the safe deposit, sir, until we open it at midnight for the bag. His Excellency will have returned by then.”
“Who takes the plane over to-night?” Mildenhall asked.
“Major Grimmet, sir.”
“Nice safe fellow,” Mildenhall approved. “I wouldn’t mind a ride over with him myself.”
“You’re not leaving us just yet, sir?” the secretary asked.
“Not just yet,” was the somewhat vague reply. “Do you know if Mr. Lascelles is still in his room?”
“He is there and hoping to see you.”
“And Her Ladyship?”
“Her Ladyship is dining in. She told me that if you rang before nine o’clock you could go in and have a cocktail with her.”
Mildenhall glanced at his watch.
“Just five minutes,” he remarked. “A cocktail sounds extraordinarily good to me, Paul.”
“You will find Her Ladyship in the small drawing-room. Mr. Lascelles said that he would probably join you there.”
Lady Maxwell-Tremearne was the typical ambassador’s wife. She was born in Washington of American parents, had met her future husband on a winter-sports visit to the Austrian Tyrol and was married to him within a month or so of his appointment as First Secretary to the British Embassy in Washington. She was still under forty and exceedingly popular in Viennese society. She welcomed Charles Mildenhall warmly when he was announced by the seneschal of the household. She was lying on a sofa drawn up before a log fire and was surrounded with newspapers.
“My dear Charles!” she exclaimed. “How nice to see you.”
He kissed her fingers and drew a chair to her side.
“I’m sorry to see you reading all these semi-official newspapers,” he declared, after a few amenities had passed between them. “You’ll get in such a state of hopeless confusion if you try to read them all. There’s the official organ of the Heimwehr, the Nazi rag, the Government organ and the Schutzbund!”
“I know,” she sighed. “It’s terribly difficult. I used to think our American politics were involved enough, but it’s much worse over here. Tell me what’s going to happen, Charles.”
He laughed—almost light-heartedly.
“My dear Sarah,” he exclaimed, “why ask me? I thought you knew that politics weren’t in my line. I’ve come over here to escape from them. I’m always nervous that some day or other my family will insist upon my going into Parliament.”
“Politics in England are different,” she declared a little pettishly. “They don’t mean bloodshed as they do here. Do you know, there has been quite a lot of fighting in the streets and the way they are treating these poor Jews is something awful. You remember Otto von Lenberg?”
“Why, of course,” he answered.
“The Von Lenbergs aren’t really Jews at all,” she told him, “but just because he defended the Herzfelds when their properties were confiscated he has been turned out of the Courts and fined millions. He is in prison at the present moment and Olga is nearly out of her mind. Heaps and heaps of our friends have been branded suspects. The Austrian Nazis are getting stronger here every day. It really is alarming, Charles. We are expecting the Germans to cross the frontier at any moment and I can’t imagine what will happen then. I don’t particularly care for Jews, Charles, but some of them are quite delightful people and they are being treated brutally.”
“What does Sir John think about it?” Mildenhall asked.
“He doesn’t think anything, of course,” she answered. “He can’t. He’s the ambassador of a foreign country and he can’t open his mouth. It’s different with you. You’ve practically left the Service, John says. You must admit that this Jew baiting, for a civilized nation, is a filthy affair.”
“I’m dining with a Jew on Thursday,” Mildenhall remarked. “A Jew banker, too. I hope he’s not going to get into trouble.”
“Not one of the Rothschilds?”
He shook his head.
“No. Leopold Benjamin.”
She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows and an almost-frightened light in her eyes.
“Why, he’s just the one man I’m most alarmed about,” she confided. “I think he’s the most lovable creature, but they say he’s already had to pay two enormous fines and I heard only the other night that he is a marked man. I’ve never heard you speak of him before, have I?”
“I never met him until this afternoon,” Mildenhall replied. “I met him in his own bank and he asked me to dine. I want awfully to see his pictures.”
“He has the most gorgeous collection of everything artistic that you can imagine,” Lady Tremearne said impressively. “My dear, he has a Murillo I would give my soul for, and a Fra Filippo Lippi more beautiful than the one in the Pitti Palace. John says his collection must be worth many millions of dollars.”
“Must cost him some sleepless nights just now, I should think.”
“We’re getting used to them here,” she sighed. “There is fighting of a sort in the streets most nights. If you’ve come here for some fun, Charles, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. The café life still goes on, I believe, but there are no parties, not even amongst our own people. Everyone here seems to be sitting with bated breath waiting for something or other.
