Her Majesty's Minister

From Downing Street to Paris

I sprang quickly to the door, and looked down the passage out into the village street; but he had already made his exit. By the time I had reached the porch of the inn he was already striding quickly along the dusty highway. He turned to glance back, and I perceived that he was thin-faced, with high cheekbones and a small black beard. He was carrying his thick stick jauntily, and walking smartly, with an easy gait which at that moment struck me as being distinctly military.

“Who is that man?” I inquired eagerly of the landlord, who stood beside me, evidently surprised at my sudden rush towards the door.

“A stranger, sir. I don’t know who he is.”

“When did he arrive?”

“He came by the last train to Massingham last night, sir, and had a bed here. My missis, however, didn’t like the looks of ’im.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know. There was something about him a bit peculiar. Besides, he went out before one o’clock, and didn’t return till an hour ago. Then he went up, washed, had a cup o’ tea in his room, paid, and now he’s gone.”

“Rather peculiar behaviour, isn’t it?” I suggested, hoping to find some clue to his identity from what this man might tell me. “Did he have no luggage?”

“None. He seemed a bit down on his luck. His clothes were very shabby, and he evidently hadn’t had a clean collar for a week.”

Then the opinion I had formed of him – namely, that he was shabby genteel – was correct.

“You’re certain you’ve never seen him before?”

“Quite certain,” he replied.

At that moment his wife entered, and, addressing her, he said:

“We’re talking of that stranger who’s just gone, missus. His movements were a bit suspicious, weren’t they?”

“Yes. Why he should want to go out half the night wandering about the neighbourhood I can’t make out, unless he were a burglar or something o’ that sort,” the woman answered, adding: “I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear that one of the houses about here has been broken into. Anyhow, we’d know him again among a thousand.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Tall and dark, with a beard, and a pair of eyes that seemed to look you through. He spoke all right, but I’ve my doubts as to whether he wasn’t a foreigner.”

“A foreigner!” I echoed quickly, interested. “What made you suspect that?”

“I really can’t tell. I had a suspicion of it the first moment I saw him. He pronounced his ‘r’s’ rather curiously. His clothes seemed to be of foreign cut, and his boots, although worn out, were unusually long and narrow. I brushed ’em this morning, and saw on the tabs a foreign name. I think it was ‘Firenze,’ or something like that.”

I reflected for an instant. The word “Firenze” was Italian for Florence, the town where the boots had evidently been made. Therefore the mysterious stranger might be Italian.

“You didn’t actually detect anything foreign in his style of speaking?”

“He didn’t speak much. He seemed very glum and thoughtful. I sent him up some toast with his tea, but he hasn’t touched it.”

“He didn’t say where he was going?”

“Not a word. When he arrived he only explained that he had come by the last train from Lynn, and that he wanted a bed – that’s all. I should think by the look of him that he’s gone on tramp.”

My first impulse was to follow him; but on reflection I saw that by doing so I should in all probability lose my train, and to dog the fellow’s footsteps would, after all, be of no benefit now that I knew the truth of Edith’s perfidy. So I stood there chatting, discussing the stranger, and wondering who he could be.

“He’s up to no good, that I feel certain,” declared the landlord’s wife. “There’s something about him that aroused my suspicion at once last night. I can’t, however, explain what it was. But a man don’t prowl about all night to admire the moon.”

And thus I waited until it was time to catch the train; then, wishing the innkeeper and his wife good-morning, left them and strolled in the morning sunlight to the station, arriving at Fakenham shortly before seven. I took the short cut through Starmoor Wood to Ryburgh, and, finding Miss Foskett’s maid polishing the door-handle, entered and went upstairs.

Upon the toilet-table was a telegram, which the maid said had just arrived, and on opening it I found a message from the Foreign Office, which had been forwarded from the Club, asking me to call at the earliest possible moment, and to be prepared to return to my post by the afternoon service from Charing Cross. I knew what that implied. The Marquess desired me to bear a secret despatch to my Chief.

I washed, tidied myself after my dusty walk, strapped my bag, and with a feeling of regret that I was compelled to meet my false love again face to face before departure, I descended the stairs.

She was awaiting me, looking cool and fresh in her white gown, with a bunch of fresh roses she had plucked from the garden in her breast. She smiled gladly, and stretched forth her hand as though I were all the world to her. What admirable actresses some women are! Her affected sweetness that yesterday had so charmed me now sickened me. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I was angry with myself that I had ever allowed myself to lose control of my feelings and love her. She was false – false! That one thought alone ran in my mind as she laughed merrily.

“Why, Gerald, wherever have you been? A telegram came for you by special messenger from Fakenham at half-past six, and when Ann knocked at your door she found you were out. And you went out by the dining-room window, too.”

“Yes,” I said, not without a touch of sarcasm, “I felt that I wanted fresh air, so I went for a stroll.”

“You are an early bird,” she answered. “Did you go far?”

“No, not very far. Only down the Lynn road a little way.”

“I always thought that you people in Paris never got up till your déjeuner at eleven?”

“I’m an exception,” I said shortly. “I prefer the morning air in the country to lying in bed.”

“And the telegram? Is it anything particular?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I must leave at once. I am summoned to Downing Street, and must leave London this afternoon.”

“What! return to Paris at once?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It is an order from the Chief. There’s a train to London at 9:50, I think. I must not fail to catch that.”

I had not kissed her, and I saw that she was somewhat puzzled by my coolness. Did the fact that I had let myself out by the dining-room window give her any clue to the reason why I had chosen that mode of egress?

“I thought you would remain here with us at least to-day,” she pouted. “That’s the worst of diplomacy. You never seem to know what you may do next.”

We were standing alone in the dining-room, where breakfast was already laid and the copper kettle was hissing above the spirit-lamp. As Aunt Hetty had not entered, it was upon the tip of my tongue to charge Edith with that clandestine meeting; yet if I did so, I reflected, a scene would certainly be created. Aunt Hetty would first be scandalised and afterwards wax indignant, while my departure would doubtless be fraught with considerable unpleasantness. Therefore I resolved to keep my anger within my heart, and on my return to Paris to write a letter of explanation to this smiling, bright-faced woman who had thus played me false.

“You cannot tell how wretched I am at the thought of your departure, Gerald,” she said, her dark eyes suddenly grave and serious. “Each time we part I always fear that we shall not meet again.”

I smiled, rather bitterly, I think, and uttered some weak platitude without appearing to be much interested. Then with a quick movement she took my hand, but next instant was compelled to drop it, for Miss Foskett entered suddenly, and, after an explanation of my unexpected call by telegram, we seated ourselves and breakfasted.

As the woman I had so dearly loved sat opposite me I saw that she was strangely nervous and agitated, and that she was eager to question me; but with feigned indifference I chatted and laughed with the punctilious old spinster until the boy brought round the pony-trap and it was time for me to depart for Fakenham, where I could join the express for London.

Edith drove me to the station, but, the boy being with us, she could say nothing confidential until we were walking together upon the platform. Then, looking at me in strange eagerness, she suddenly asked:

“Gerald, tell me why you are so cold towards me this morning? You were so different yesterday. Have I displeased you?”

“Yes,” I said in a hard voice, “you have.”