Her Majesty's Minister

“How?” she gasped, laying her gloved hand upon my arm and stopping short.

I was silent. Should I tell her, or should I say nothing about my knowledge of her perfidy?

“Why do you not speak?” she urged. “Surely if I have caused you pain I ought to know the reason!”

“You know the reason,” I answered in a mechanical voice, regarding her coldly.

“No, I do not.”

“In this matter it is entirely unnecessary to lie to me, Edith,” I said; “I am aware of the truth.”

“The truth? What truth?”

“That you do not love me,” I said hoarsely.

At that instant the train rushed into the station, and my voice was almost drowned by the noise of the escaping steam. As I thought she deserved to suffer, I was not sorry for the interruption.

“Gerald!” she cried, gripping me by the hand, “what are you saying? What have I done?”

“It is enough,” I answered, my voice broken by emotion, which I could no longer suppress, for my heart was at that moment bursting with grief. “Good-bye;” and turning, I raised my hat and stepped into the empty compartment, in which a porter had placed my bag.

In an instant she was leaning in at the doorway, imploring me to tell her the truth. But I evaded her questions.

The guard came and closed the door.

“Gerald!” she cried, bursting into tears, “tell me why you treat me thus when I love you so dearly! It is cruel! You cannot guess how deeply I have suffered these two hours! Will you not kiss me once before you go?” and she raised her white face to the window with an imploring expression.

“No,” I said, “I cannot, Edith.”

“You refuse to kiss me this once – for the last time?” she wailed.

“Yes,” I answered in a strained voice. “If you desire to know the reason of this refusal you will discover it when you reflect upon your actions of last night.”

“What!” she gasped, pale to the lips. “You saw him!”

“Yes,” I answered gravely, “I saw him.”

Then the train moved off, leaving her standing there pale and rigid; and without further glance at the blanched but beautiful face which only twelve hours ago I had believed to be the open countenance of the purest and sweetest woman on earth, I flung myself back into the corner, plunged in my own bitter reflections. I had told her the ghastly truth, and we had parted. Edith Austin, whom I had hoped to make my wife, was lost to me for ever.

At midday I wearily ascended the great marble staircase at the Foreign Office, those stairs which every diplomatist in London climbs, and in the corridor met Boyd, one of the Marquess’s private secretaries, who informed me that a meeting of the Cabinet was being held, and that his lordship had left instructions that I was to wait until he returned, when he would give me a despatch to carry at once to Paris.

So, accompanied by Boyd and my friend Thorne, of the Treaty Department, I strolled along Parliament Street and lunched at the Ship, that old coffee-house frequented by Foreign Office and other officials. In the days before I received my appointment abroad I used to lunch there regularly, and as I entered I found many of my old colleagues at the tables.

After an hour I returned to Downing Street, and went up to the Foreign Secretary’s private room. He was seated at his great table at the farther end of the sombre, green-painted apartment, the windows of which looked down upon the silent courtyard, where the cooing pigeons strut undisturbed. Upon his grey, refined face was an intensely anxious look, and by the nervous manner in which he toyed with his quill as he acknowledged my salutation I knew that the subject discussed by the Cabinet had been a momentous one. The meeting had been specially and unexpectedly convened, and I had heard below that during its sitting several despatches had been exchanged over the private wire to Windsor, facts which in themselves were sufficient to show that some complication had arisen, and that the lines of British policy had been discussed and submitted to the Sovereign for approbation.

“You are returning to Paris this afternoon, Mr Ingram?” said the Marquess. “I am just writing a private despatch to Lord Barmouth, which must be placed in his hands at the earliest possible moment. The instructions contained in it are secret – you understand?”

“I shall deliver it, I hope, before eleven o’clock this evening,” I said.

“Good,” he answered approvingly; and while I walked to the window and looked out upon the courtyard, the great statesman continued tracing the cipher upon the large sheet of blue despatch-paper with his creaking quill. I glanced at a newspaper to while away the time, until presently one of the secretaries entered, prepared the taper and wax, and I watched the Marquess affix the five seals upon the envelope, impressing his own arms with the large old fob seal which he wore upon his watch-guard. He affixed the last seal, held the envelope for a few moments in order that the wax should set, then handed it to me, saying:

“Remember, Ingram, none of our friends across the Channel must be allowed to get sight of this. It is entirely confidential. Please ask Lord Barmouth to telephone me to-night an acknowledgment of its safe receipt.”

“Certainly,” I answered, placing it in my pocket. I then bowed, and wished the Minister good-day.

“Good-day,” he said, smiling pleasantly, “and a pleasant journey to you, Ingram.”

Then I withdrew, and drove in a cab to the club. Arrived there, I placed the despatch in my belt next my skin, and, taking my bag, went down to Charing Cross and caught the tidal train.

The journey was uneventful, the passage smooth, and about eleven o’clock that night I mounted the stairs of the Embassy in Paris, and went to his lordship’s private room. He was alone, enjoying a final cigar before turning in, and was surprised at my sudden return. I quickly explained the reason, and taking off my belt in his presence handed him the despatch.

Having assured himself that the seals were all intact, he broke them, and, taking it at once to the bureau, I got for him the key of the private cipher used only for the confidential despatches, written by the hand of the Prime Minister to the representatives abroad. Then, standing underneath the tall lamp, the Ambassador slowly deciphered it.

What he read caused him serious reflection, judging from the manner in which his countenance changed. Then, taking a match from his pocket, he crossed to the grate, lit the paper at the corner, and held it until it was all consumed.

The nature of that confidential communication none knew save the Cabinet in London and the Ambassador himself. That it was extremely important was certain, and I felt confident that some decision had been arrived at which would materially affect the European situation.

After telephoning an acknowledgment of the despatch to Downing Street, we returned together to the smoke-room, where I drank a whisky and soda, and then, lighting a cigar, left the Embassy and drove to my own rooms, wearied out after the journey.

At noon next day, when I went round to the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, Harding, the footman, met me in the hall, saying:

“His Excellency has just telephoned to you. He wishes to see you immediately.”

I went straight to his private room, and found him seated with Kaye, the lynx-eyed chief of the secret service.

The Ambassador’s face was pale as death, and his voice trembled as he hoarsely acknowledged my salutation.

“Ingram,” he said in a low tone, motioning me to close the door, “we have been betrayed!”

“Betrayed? How?” I gasped.

“A copy of the despatch you brought me last night reached the Quai d’Orsay at two o’clock this morning. Our secret agent there has handed a copy of it to Mr Kaye. The wording of the instructions, as sent to me by the Marquess, is exact. Here it is;” and he held towards me a sheet of that pale yellow paper used in the French Foreign Office, upon which a transcription of the despatch had been hurriedly traced in pencil.

I glanced at it, then stood speechless. The secret despatch had never left my possession. The theft was utterly incredible.

Chapter Twenty One

The Sister Arts

“But it is absolutely impossible that the despatch has been copied!” I cried, addressing His Excellency, when at last I found tongue. “I saw it written myself, and it never left my belt until I took it out here in your presence!”

“Well,” interposed Kaye grimly, turning to Lord Barmouth, “that it has really been copied is quite plain, for you have the copy in your hand. It was telegraphed to the Quai d’Orsay from Calais at half-past one o’clock this morning, and that copy reached my hands at four, half an hour after I had returned from Berlin. Our secret agent in the French Foreign Office happily lost no time in making us acquainted with our loss.”

“Fortunately for us,” remarked the Ambassador, pacing the floor from end to end. “Had we remained in ignorance that the secret of our policy was out, we might have found ourselves in a very awkward predicament. But how could the despatch possibly have been copied, when no other eyes have seen it except those of the Marquess and myself? The thing is incredible!”

“Ah! that’s the question,” observed Kaye. “The French system of espionage has very nearly approached perfection. Even though it be against our grain, as Englishmen, to employ spies ourselves, yet it is daily becoming more necessary. Every nation in the world has its elaborate secret service; therefore, England must not sleep and allow other nations to undermine her prestige.”

“I cannot imagine how it is possible that our enemies could have obtained sight of the despatch, even for an instant,” I said. “The only other person in the Chief’s room at Downing Street while he was writing was Boyd, who helped him seal it. I then took it, drove in a cab to the club, and there placed it in my belt beneath my clothes. It never left my person until, in the smoking-room here, I took it out and handed it to His Excellency.”