Her Majesty's Minister

“Because of some suspicion that had been aroused regarding the Ceuta incident.”

“Nonsense!” I cried, unable to believe his allegation. “What possible connection could she have with that?”

“A rather intimate one, judging from the result of our inquiries.”

“In what manner?”

“Well, as a secret agent.”

“In the employ of whom?”

“Of France.”

“Of France?” I echoed. “Impossible!”

“My dear Mr Ingram,” he protested, “I’m not in the habit of misleading you or of making statements which I can’t substantiate. I repeat that Miss Edith Austin, the lady who has been here with you this afternoon, is a French agent.”

“I can’t believe it!” I gasped, utterly staggered. “Why, she’s a simple, charming English girl, leading a quiet life in that sleepy little village, and scarcely seeing anybody for weeks together.”

“Exactly. I don’t deny that. But as her affection for you is prompted by ulterior motives – pray pardon me for saying so – you should be forewarned; and this is the more desirable in view of the fact which you yourself discovered.”

“What fact?”

“That she has a secret lover.”

“Ah!” I cried eagerly. “Tell me, who is he?”

“An Italian named Bertini – Paolo Bertini.”

“Bertini,” I repeated, the name sounding somewhat familiar. “Surely I’ve heard that name before!”

“Of course. You remember, when you were in Brussels, the bold attempt he made one afternoon in your room at the Embassy?”

“Ah! I remember. Why, of course! And is he actually the same man?”

In an instant I recalled the face of Edith’s midnight visitor, and recollected where I had seen it on a previous occasion.

Kaye’s words brought back to me in that moment an incident which showed plainly the dastardly tricks of the foreign spies who constantly hover about every legation or embassy on the Continent. One afternoon, years ago, in Brussels, a well-dressed, gentlemanly man called to see His Excellency, and was shown into my room. Half an hour before, a Foreign Office messenger had arrived from London with despatches, and I was busily engaged in deciphering them when the servant showed in the stranger. The latter, who introduced himself as a shipowner of Antwerp, was seated near my table, and was talking to me about a complaint he had recently lodged against one of our consuls, when suddenly he stopped, turned pale, and fell back in a faint. I sprang up, and, rushing out of the room, went to get a glass of water. Fortunately I had on thin shoes, and the carpet in the corridor was so thick that my feet fell noiselessly. Judge of my surprise when, on my return, I saw my visitor standing in a perfect state of health with one of the deciphered despatches pinned against the wall and a camera in his hand! He had actually photographed it during my absence.

Without an instant’s hesitation I sprang upon him from behind, wrenched the camera from his hand, shouted for help, and held him until some of the servants came, when he was taken in charge by the police. After a short trial, during which it was proved that he was one of the cleverest spies employed by France, he was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for attempted theft, while the camera, together with the photographic films, was returned to us. The latter, on being developed, proved extremely interesting and very valuable, for not only did we find the photograph of our own despatch, but those of three other secret documents taken in the Italian Embassy in Brussels.

And it was this artful adventurer who had become Edith’s lover. She, young and inexperienced, had no doubt fallen his victim. She had become enmeshed in the net he had spread for her, and was the subordinate by means of whom he intended to operate further against us.

“What you tell me, Kaye, really staggers belief,” I said after a pause. “That man is absolutely unscrupulous.”

“He’s one of the most ingenious of all the army of secret agents. Indeed, I have a suspicion that he is the chief of the French spies operating in England. His intimate acquaintance with your friend Miss Austin shows conclusively that he is contemplating a big coup.”

Had this matter, I wondered, any connection with the gigantic conspiracy of which the Princess had told me? My promise of secrecy given to her prevented me from mentioning it to Kaye. Only a few weeks ago the Figaro had announced that Her Highness the Princess Léonie von Leutenberg had left the Château de Chantoiseau, and had returned to her mansion in the Frieung, in Vienna. She had left France without sending me a word.

“What connection had this man Bertini with the exposure of the Ceuta negotiations?” I inquired.

“He got to know of them by some means – how, I can’t tell. It is an absolute enigma.”

“And that despatch I brought from London, the exact contents of which were known a few hours after my return here, what of that?”

“Through him, I feel assured,” answered the clever man before me. “I only returned from London three days ago. I went myself to make inquiries.”

“And what did you find?”

“He carries on the business of a jeweller, and has a small shop half-way up the Edgware Road, one of those cheap Brummagem places that sell earrings and brooches for servant-girls. He poses as quite a respectable shopkeeper, and employs an Englishman as manager. The signor, it appears, has many friends in London, and when they call to see him they are always shown to his private room over the shop. I also learnt that your visitor of to-day has called upon him there.”

“Are you sure?” I cried quickly. “Are you absolutely certain of that?”

“I gave her description and name to the manager, who said he recollected her calling there twice about three weeks ago. Once his master was not in, but on the second occasion she had an interview with him. It has more than once struck me as curious that this fellow Bertini should have been near you on the day of the mysterious theft of the contents of that despatch. You don’t think that he followed you from Ryburgh to London?”

“I can’t tell. If he did, I had no suspicion of it. And besides, not a soul except the Chief could have possibly obtained sight of that despatch. I saw it written, saw it sealed, and it never left my possession for a single instant.”

“She did not accompany you to London?” he asked half-suspiciously.

“Certainly not,” I said.

Then I told him all that occurred on that well-remembered night, and how I had wandered in the early morning over the country-side to the village inn where for a moment I saw the Italian.

“Then he evidently saw and recognised you there!” Kaye exclaimed quickly. “In all probability he followed you to London. That the copy of the despatch was transmitted to Paris by him is certain.”

“And with regard to the Ceuta incident?”

“In that, I believe, he made Yolande de Foville his agent. Undoubtedly it was through her ingenuity that Lord Barmouth’s instructions leaked out.”

“But how could she possibly have known them?” I demanded. “Remember, you have denounced her as a spy, but as yet have given me no proof whatever.”

“You have sufficient proof in the fact that she fled in alarm from Paris, I should think.”

“But I understood from you that she was in the German service. If so, she would certainly never ally herself with Bertini!”

“He might, on the other hand, ally himself with her,” remarked the secret agent shrewdly. “It would be distinctly to his advantage if he could obtain her aid, for by means of her he could ascertain various facts which might be considered extremely valuable at the Quai d’Orsay.”

“It is all astounding!” I declared, puzzled. “Half the women one knows here seem to be secret agents. Paris is just now a veritable hotbed of diplomatic intrigue.”

“I quite agree; and it all tends to show that never, in the history of Europe, has there been a blacker outlook than to-day.”

I was silent. What he said was only too true; and, further, the mysterious exposure of the secret instructions contained in the despatch I had brought from London had thwarted English diplomacy throughout Europe, and tied the hands of all our ambassadors at the various Courts. Signs everywhere convinced me that the statement of the Princess was actually true, and that we were on the brink of a war in which the whole of Europe would be involved.

Russia alone remained inactive. It is the fashion of journalists who know nothing of the inner life of the diplomatic circle, and of alarmist writers who build up political theories for themselves, to abuse Russia and Russian methods. We have been told for the past half-century that Russia means to seize India, merely because she has taken steps to colonise her enormous Asiatic possessions. Why, a Russian ambassador in any one of the capitals may hardly pare his nails without a sensational article in the Press appearing next day. All this is very amusing; for the truth is, Russia does not intend to be aggressive, nor does she want war. Peaceful expansion of her commerce and the development of Siberia are her aims; and if certain journalists insist on exhibiting to us the war bogey, it is because they have never been in Russia, and know absolutely nothing of the conduct of Muscovite diplomacy. This, it must be confessed, is, next to that of the Vatican, the second best in the world; but it is never aggressive; as every genuine diplomatist will hasten to admit. Indeed, if the truth were told, there have been times in recent years when only the firmness of Russia and the peaceful policy of the Czar have averted war!

It is the journalist, nearly always the journalist, who creates the European scares! Because of this state of affairs, we at the embassies are compelled to be always on our guard against those ubiquitous writers who vie with one another in obtaining interviews.

The present situation was, however, no journalistic canard, but a stern and perilous reality. The tension of the acute crisis, which had been increasing ever since the Ceuta incident, was terrible. Everywhere in diplomacy there was a spirit of reserve, which showed that the amity of nations was strained to its utmost limit. War might be declared upon England at any moment.