secretary was seated typing. Dumesnil himself, who had raced on from the pass, rose to his feet mechanically at their entrance. He handed a sheet of paper to Berati, who was the first to stagger in. The latter waved it away.
“Read it to me,” he begged. “My eyes are blind with the horrors they have looked upon.”
“It is my first report to headquarters,” Dumesnil confided.
I have to report that ten apparently enemy aeroplanes endeavoured to cross the frontier to-night at varying distances. All ten machines were at once destroyed and all pilots are believed to have perished. I regret also to announce that Air Marshal Luigi Bastani, one of the observers selected by the Italian War Office, having left the shelter provided, was killed by the falling fragments of one of the planes.
DUMESNIL,
Colonel.
“The Air Marshal’s body was brought in a few minutes ago,” the Colonel announced…“My orderly has prepared coffee in the mess room.”
A soldier servant threw open the door of the next room. Somehow or other, every one staggered in that direction. The windows looked across the precipice to the mountains eastward. As they sank into their places, the first rays of the rising sun in ribald beauty moved across the snows.
CHAPTER XXX
Fawley reached Berlin a tired man, with the firm determination, however, to sleep for twenty-four hours. At the end of that time he came back into the world, submitted himself to the full ministrations of an adequate coiffeur and sent around a note, asking for an interview with Heinrich Behrling. There seemed to be some slight hesitation about granting his request, but in the end it was acceded to. Behrling, now established in a palace, received him a little coolly.
“You lacked confidence in me, I fear, Major Fawley,” Behrling remarked, motioning him towards a chair but making no effort to shake hands. “Well, you see what has happened. I suppose you know? Some of the newspapers have done their best to hide their heads in the sand but the truth is all the time there.”
“I never lacked confidence in you,” Fawley said. “I never doubted your star. You have triumphed as you deserve to triumph. I have come here to make sure that you retain all that you have won.”
Behrling moved uneasily in his chair.
“What do you mean—retain what I have won?” he demanded harshly. “There is no question about that.”
“Perhaps not,” Fawley replied. “At the same time, it is necessary that you should forget the satisfaction of small triumphs. You must rise above them. Italy, if she turned towards any one, would turn towards you. Any idea of a treaty signed by any one else on behalf of Germany has been washed out. On the other hand, the treaty itself has vanished.”
Behrling looked keenly at his visitor. During the last few weeks the former’s appearance had changed. He was wearing well-tailored clothes, his untidy moustache was close-cropped, his hair was no longer an unkempt mass; it conformed in its smooth backward brushing to the fashion of the times. Success had agreed with him and he seemed to have gained in dignity and confidence.
“The treaty has been washed out,” he repeated meditatively.
“The War Office of Italy has abandoned its scheme,” Fawley confided. “I dare say you know that already. If they had made their alliance with Krust and the monarchists, as at one time seemed probable, they would have remained a vassal State for another thirty years. A merciful Providence—I ask your forgiveness for a somewhat slang phrase—put them on a winner. They distrusted Von Salzenburg, and Krust and Berati were never on good terms.”
“There was some other happening, though?” Behrling asked, his voice hardening.
“There was never any intention of keeping you in the dark,” Fawley assured him, “but naturally they did not want the Press to get hold of it. France issued a private challenge to Italy and Italy accepted it. What happened will always remain a chapter of secret history, but it was a very wonderful chapter. France and Italy have shaken hands. There will be no war.”
“Between France and Italy?”
“There will be no war at all.”
Behrling sat motionless in his chair. The lines of thought were deeply engraved on his face. He drummed with his fist upon the table. His eyes never left his visitor’s. They seemed trying to bore their way into the back of his mind.
“Germany has yet to speak,” he reminded Fawley at last.
“There is no one who knows better than you yourself,” the latter said calmly, “that Germany cannot go to war without the alliance of another nation.”
“A million of the finest young men any race has ever produced—”
Fawley, who was rarely impetuous in conversation, interrupted almost savagely.
“The most reckless military fanatic who ever breathed, Herr Behrling, would never dare to sacrifice the whole youth of his country in an unequal struggle to gain—God knows what. You are without munitions, a sufficiency of guns; you have not even rifles, you have not the food to support an army, you have not an established commissariat, you have no navy to follow your movements at sea. You cannot make war, Herr Behrling.”
Behrling’s face was dark with passion.
“Who are you who come here to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he demanded furiously. “You appear first as an envoy of Italy. You are an American who bargains in Downing Street. You were at the Quai d’Orsay a week ago. Whose agent are you? For whom do you work?”
“The time has come for me to answer that question,” Fawley replied. “I am glad that you have asked it. I work for no nation. I work for what people have called a dream but which is soon to become reality. I work for the peace of civilised countries and for the peace of Europe.”
“You take your instructions from some one,” Behrling insisted.
“From no one. Nor do I give instructions. I am here, though, to tell you why there will be no war, if you care to listen.”
“There have been rumours of a pact,” Behrling remarked cynically. “Pacts I am sick of. They start with acclamation. When the terms are announced, enthusiasm dwindles. In a month or two they are just a pile of parchment.”
“The pact I am speaking of has survived all those troubles.”
Behrling squared his shoulders.
“Well, tell me about it,” he invited with resignation. “I warn you I am no sympathetic listener. I am sick of promises and treaties. The bayonet is the only real olive branch.”
“You will have to forget those crisp little journalistic epigrams if you stay where you are, Behrling,” his visitor said firmly.
Behrling was furious. He rose to his feet and pointed towards the door. Fawley shook his head.
“Too
