The Amateur Diplomat. Thomas B. Costain

On a sunny spring day in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and fifteen, a fiacre drove up to a big house in the Lodz, the winding, crescent-shaped street in Serajoz, the capital of Ironia, in which were to be found the Embassies and the residences of the wealthier class. There was nothing singular, apparently, in that particular fiacre driving up to that particular house. Fiacres in scores drove up there and drove away again day after day the year through and occasioned little remark. Yet if certain influential gentlemen in Ironia had known who it was that jumped out of the fiacre on that sunny spring day, and if these influential Ironians had had the gift of prophetic vision in superlative degree, they might have taken some action to prevent him from reaching the house of Baroness Draschol and her husband, Mr. Percival Varden. And then, perhaps, this story would never have been written, because Ironia might never have——But this is anticipating.

The fiacre stopped. Almost before all motion had ceased, a tall, alert-looking young man jumped out and, fishing out a handful of coins from his pocket, implored the driver to take what was his due. The driver knew him for an American or an Englishman, or anything but an Ironian, and, carefully abstracting from the outstretched palm the equivalent of twice the legitimate fare, drove away with a smile on his face and a blessing upon foreigners who had not the gift of tongues.

The young man stood on the sidewalk a moment. Then, with the quick step which characterises the man of action, he strode up the narrow path to the house and rang the bell. It was answered by a pompous individual, resplendent in a dull strawberry-coloured plush suit, who, with the combination of obsequiousness and dignity which can be found only in the lackey in the Balkans, ushered the caller into a reception-room and retired with his card.

The young man looked around him appreciatively. The splendid paintings which adorned the walls, the luxurious hangings, the rich, deep carpet, the handsome lounge on which he was sitting, all appeared to surprise him.

"Some change from that den of Varden's in Montreal," he murmured.

The curtains at the end of the room parted and a tall, well-groomed man of about thirty-five came quickly across the floor with outstretched hands.

"Don Fenton, by all that's holy!" he exclaimed, pumping his visitor's hands up and down with vigorous exuberance.

"Percy Varden, by all that's—er—profane!" said Fenton, with equal enthusiasm.

"Old Don Fenton!" repeated Varden, slapping the other on the back and beaming on him with real affection. "And in Serajoz, of all places!"

"A pretty good place to be, if I'm to judge by your surroundings," said Fenton. "You must be a deputy-sultan at least, Yarden, to live in such state."

"Ironia isn't a bad place, Don," said Varden, with sudden soberness. "Or at least it won't be if a certain event comes to pass. If that certain event doesn't happen, I intend to leave all this"—he made a broad gesture to indicate the luxurious room in which they stood—"and find a place for myself in the line with the boys in khaki. When your country's at war, it's hard

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