Her Majesty's Minister. Le Queux William
alias – eh?”
“I think so,” I said. “Your daughter should be warned against him. They had better not meet.”
“I will see to that,” he said, and the next instant the telephone-bell rang loudly, announcing the response from Alderhurst.
In a moment we were both at the instrument. Then with the receiver at my car I inquired who was there.
“Durnford, Alderhurst,” was the response. “Are you Ingram?”
I replied in the affirmative, adding the word without the receipt of which no cipher despatch is ever sent by telephone, lest some trickery should be attempted.
“Take down, then,” came the secretary’s voice from the other side of the Channel. “From the Marquess of Malvern, to His Excellency, Lord Barmouth, Paris. July 12th, 2:10 a.m.;” and then followed a long row of ciphers, each of which I carefully wrote down upon the paper before me, reading it through aloud, in order that he might compare it with his copy.
Then, when the voice from Alderhurst gave the word “End,” I hung up the receiver and gave the paper into His Excellency’s eager hands.
Those puzzling lines of letters and numerals were secret instructions from the ruler of England’s destiny, who had been called from his bed to decide one of the most critical problems of statesmanship. Truly the position of the British Minister for Foreign Affairs is no enviable one. The responsibility is the heaviest weighing upon any one man in the whole world.
His Excellency seated himself quickly at his table, and with the aid of a second book which I handed him from the safe proceeded to decipher the Chief’s despatch. With his pen he placed the equivalent beneath each cipher, and as he did so I saw that his countenance fell. He went pale as death.
“Ah!” he gasped, when he had finished the arrangement and had read the deciphered message through. “It is exactly as I feared. Never in the course of my career as Ambassador has such a serious complication arisen —never!”
I was silent. What, indeed, could I say? I well knew that he was not the man to betray the slightest emotion without good reason.
For a moment he sat there, resting his brow upon his hand, staring blankly at the paper I had given him. The nature of his secret instructions I knew not. His utter despair was sufficient to convince me, however, that a catastrophe was inevitable. Only the low ticking of the clock upon the high mantelshelf broke the painful silence. The representative of Her Majesty – one of England’s most skilled and trusted diplomats – sighed heavily, for he knew too well how black was the outlook at that moment – how, indeed, because of our mysterious betrayal, our enemies had triumphed, and how, at the other embassies, that very night the downfall of England’s power was being discussed.
“All this is a woman’s doing, I tell you!” he cried, striking the table fiercely, rising and pacing the room. “We must discover the truth – we must, you hear?”
“I am making every possible effort,” I answered; adding, “I think I have hitherto shown myself worthy of your confidence?”
“Certainly, Ingram,” he hastened to assure me. “Without you here I should not dare to act as I have done. I know that nothing escapes you. Your shrewdness is equal to that of old Sterk, the Chief of Police in Vienna.”
“You are too complimentary,” I said; “I have merely done my duty.”
“But if we could only get at the truth in this affair!”
“At present it is an absolute mystery. Only two persons were aware of the secret. You knew it, and I also knew it. And yet it is out – indeed, the very terms of the agreement are known!”
Suddenly halting, he pushed open the window, and looked out upon the hot, overcast night. Paris was still bright with her myriad electric lights, and the glaring cafés on the boulevards were still as busy as during the hour of the absinthe. The City of Pleasure never sleeps.
He leaned over the balcony, gasping for air; but in an instant I was behind him, saying:
“Someone may be watching outside. Is it really wise for you to be seen?”
“No,” he answered. “You’re right, Ingram;” and he turned back and closed the long windows opening upon the balcony. “A bold front must be maintained through all.” He walked to his table, took up the despatch, and, striking a vesta, ignited it, holding it until it was completely consumed. Then he cast the blackened tinder into the grate, growing in a single instant calm again. “You are right, Ingram,” he repeated rather hoarsely. “Our enemies must not obtain any inkling that we know the truth, if we are to effect a successful counter-plot. In this affair I detect the hand of a woman. Is not that your opinion?”
“I must admit that it is,” I responded. “I believe there is a female spy somewhere.”
“But who is she?” he cried anxiously.
“Ah!” I said, “we have yet to discover her name.”
“It is not Yolande?” he asked dubiously.
“No. Of that I feel quite certain.”
“But you are certain of nothing else?”
“All the rest is, I regret, an absolute mystery.”
There was no disguising the fact that the information which by very mysterious means had leaked out from the Embassy had created the most intense excitement in certain other foreign embassies in Paris. Kaye, the chief of our secret service in the French capital – a shrewd fellow, whose capacity for learning which way the diplomatic wind was blowing was little short of marvellous – had come to me at midnight to report that the Spanish Ambassador was exchanging frequent despatches with Madrid. That statement was sufficient to show the enemy’s hand.
For fully six months France had been scheming to obtain a naval station in the Mediterranean, and the point she coveted was Ceuta, on the Moorish coast, opposite Gibraltar. Knowledge of this caused us to exercise the most delicate diplomacy in order to thwart the conspiracy to aim a blow against England’s naval power in the Mediterranean. A week ago I had been in London, and the Marquess of Malvern himself had given me a crossed despatch to convey to my chief in Paris. This had contained certain instructions in cipher, which, on my return, I had helped to translate into English. Then the despatch was burnt by His Excellency, and we alone knew its contents. From the moment I received it in the Marquess’s private room at the Foreign Office, until the moment when I handed it over to Lord Barmouth in Paris with its five great seals intact, it had never left the pouch of chamois-leather which, when travelling with despatches, I always wore around my waist, next my skin. For spies to have obtained a copy of it was impossible. I had seen it written, and had likewise seen it destroyed. It was not likely either that the British Ambassador had himself exposed his secret instructions in a matter of such delicacy, where the greatest finesse and the most skilful diplomacy were necessary; and equally certain was it that I myself had not uttered a single word.
The secret instructions showed marvellous foresight, as did all the actions of the great statesman in whose hands rested the prestige of England among the Powers. They were briefly to show with great delicacy to the Spanish Ambassador that his Government, having regard to existing relations, had no right to sell Ceuta to any Power, and that if any attempt were made by any other Government to establish a naval station there, England would oppose it to the utmost, even to the extent of hostilities. Yet somehow, by means that formed a most puzzling enigma, these secret instructions had become instantly known to France; and even before Lord Barmouth could obtain an interview with the Marquis Leon y Castillo, the French Minister of Foreign Affairs had called at the Embassy in the Boulevard de Courcelles, and had apparently arranged a line of action. Thus England had been checkmated, and in all probability the sale of that most important strategic point in the Mediterranean had already been effected.
Kaye had been to Madrid, and his inquiries in the Spanish capital tended to confirm this theory.
Truly we were in evil case. So decisive had been His Excellency’s instructions that if he did not now vigorously protest and threaten a cessation of diplomatic