General rose thoughtfully to his feet. The Prime Minister, whose nerves were a little on edge, waved him back again.
“It is no good taking this matter the wrong way, Burns,” he said. “We are having far more trouble with M.2.XX. at Scotland Yard than with you. There was a fight of some sort in Major Fawley’s rooms at the Albany last night. His young brother got rather badly wounded. Fawley simply insists upon it that the whole affair be hushed up, yet we know that in that room were the Princess Elida di Vasena, Prince Patoni, her cousin—the private secretary of Berati, mark you—and Fawley. To add to the complication, the young man, who was third secretary at Rome, has resigned from the Service and is going back to New York to-morrow, if he is well enough to travel. The Sub-commissioner is furious with the Home Secretary and the Home Secretary complains to us. Nothing matters. We have given our word to Fawley and we have to keep it.”
“Why?” the General asked calmly.
The Prime Minister smiled.
“I don’t blame you for asking that question, General,” he went on, “and I will give you an honest reply. Because I myself, and the two others who have to bear the brunt of affairs during these days of fierce anxiety, have come to one definite conclusion. Fawley is the only man in Europe to-day who can save us from war.”
Malcolm made a hurried entrance.
“The call to Washington is through, sir, in your private cabinet,” he announced.
General Burns saluted and took his leave. The Prime Minister hurried to the telephone.
* * * * *
It was ten minutes later when a furious ringing of the bell in the small room sent Malcolm hurrying in to his chief. The Prime Minister was restlessly pacing up and down the room. There seemed to be new lines in his face. He was haggard as though with a sense of fresh responsibilities. Yet with it all there was a glow of exaltation. He was like a man in the grip of mighty thoughts. He looked at Malcolm for a moment, as the latter entered the room and closed the door behind him, almost vaguely.
“You have spoken to Washington, sir?”
The Prime Minister nodded.
“Malcolm,” he instructed his secretary, “I want Fawley here within half an hour.”
“Fawley, sir?” the young man repeated anxiously. “But you know our agreement? As a matter of fact, the house is being watched at this minute. London seems to have become as full of spies as any place on the Continent could be. Would it not be best, sir—”
“I must see Fawley myself and at once,” the Prime Minister said firmly. “If an armed escort is necessary, provide it. Do you think that you can find him?”
“There will be no difficulty about that, sir,” the young man replied doubtfully. “He keeps us informed of his movements from hour to hour. If this Prince Patoni, the envoy from Italy, discovers that Fawley is in direct communication with you, though, sir, it might lead to any sort of trouble,” Malcolm said gravely.
“It is worth the risk,” was the dogged reply. “Have a squad of police, if you want them, and clear the street. Anderson will see to that for you. Fawley can arrive as an ordinary dinner guest in a taxicab, but whatever happens, Fawley must come.”
“It shall be arranged, sir,” Malcolm promised.
CHAPTER XXIV
After all, it seemed as though a great deal of fuss had been made about nothing. There were certainly half a dozen curious strollers in Downing Street but the small cordon of policemen around the entrance to Number Ten awakened no more than ordinary comment. People of international importance were passing through those portals by day and by night and in these disturbed times an escort was not unusual. Fawley himself, dressed in the clubman’s easy garb of short jacket and black tie, with a black slouch hat pulled over his eyes and a scarf around his throat, was quite unrecognisable as he jumped lightly from the taxi, passed the fare up to the driver and stepped swiftly across the pavement and through the already opened door. He was ushered at once into Malcolm’s room. The two men, who were old friends, shook hands.
“Any idea what’s wrong?” Fawley asked.
“Very likely nothing at all,” Malcolm replied. “I have spoken to Washington twice to-day and I gathered there was something stirring in our department. They wanted the Prime Minister himself at seven o’clock. The Chief spoke and came out from the box looking rather like a man who had had a shock and yet who had found something exciting at the back of it all. He insisted upon breaking all rules and seeing you here himself at once. I hope you did not mind the cavalcade. It was my job to get you here safely, at all costs.”
“I generally find I am safer alone,” Fawley confided, “but I didn’t mind at all. The others dropped out at the corner of the street and made a sort of semicircular drive down. Queer days we are living in, Malcolm.”
There was a knock at the door. The butler entered.
“The Prime Minister asks if you have dined, sir,” he said, addressing Fawley. “If not, will you join him in a simple dinner in ten minutes.”
“Delighted,” Fawley assented.
“I was to ask you to entertain Major Fawley for that time, sir,” the man went on, turning to Malcolm.
“You and I will do the entertaining together, Philpott,” the secretary replied, with a smile.
“Dry Martinis, sir?” the man asked.
“A couple each and strong,” Malcolm specified. “This has been a wearing day. And bring some more cigarettes, Philpott.”
“This sounds like good news,” Fawley remarked, installing himself in an armchair. “The cocktails, I mean. Any late news from Berlin?”
“We had a message through half an hour ago,” Malcolm confided. “The city is still in a turmoil but Behrling seems to have got them going. I think the Chief hit it on the nail at the luncheon to-day when he remarked that he could not make up his mind whether a weak and disrupted Germany for a time or a strong and united country gave us the best hope of peace.”
Fawley sipped his cocktail appreciatively. He made no comment on the other’s remarks. Just at the moment he had nothing to say about Germany, even to the secretary of the British Prime Minister.
“Good show at the American Embassy last night,” he observed.
“I didn’t go,” Malcolm regretted. “The Chief just now is too restless for me to get away anywhere and feel comfortable. I cannot help feeling that there is something of terrific importance in the air, of which even I know nothing.”
The two men smoked on for a minute or two in silence. Then Fawley asked his host a question.
“Are those fellows outside waiting to ride home with me?”
“I’m afraid so,” Malcolm assented. “You see, the Chief gave special orders to M.I.2. and they brought Scotland Yard
