His face seemed set in graven lines. For all the effect the other's words had upon him, he might have been wearing a mask.
"The law here in some respects is very curious," Draconmeyer continued. "Some of the statutes have been unaltered for a thousand years. I have been given to understand by a person who knows, that if this man should die, notwithstanding the circumstances of the case, you might find yourself in an exceedingly awkward position. If I might venture, therefore, to give you a word of disinterested advice, I would suggest that you return to England at once, if only for a week or so."
His eyes had narrowed. Through his spectacles he was watching intently for the effect of his words. Hunterleys, however, only nodded thoughtfully, as though to some extent impressed by the advice he had received.
"Very likely you are right," he admitted. "I will discuss the matter with my wife."
"She is playing over there," Draconmeyer pointed out. "And while we are talking in a more or less friendly fashion," he went on earnestly, "might I give you just one more word of counsel? For the sake of the friendship which exists between our wives, I feel sure you will believe that I am disinterested."
He paused. Hunterleys' expression was now one of polite interest. He waited, however, for the other to continue.
"I wish that you could persuade Lady Hunterleys to play for somewhat lower stakes."
Hunterleys was genuinely startled for a moment.
"Do you mean that my wife is gambling beyond her means?" he asked.
Draconmeyer shrugged his shoulders.
"How can I tell that? I don't know what her means are, or yours. I only know that she changes mille notes more often than I change louis, and it seems to me that her luck is invariably bad. I think, perhaps, just a word or two from you, who have the right to speak, might be of service."
"I am very much obliged to you for the hint," Hunterleys said smoothly. "I will certainly mention the matter to her."
"And if I don't see you again," Draconmeyer concluded, watching him closely, "good-bye!"
Hunterleys did not appear to notice the tentative movement of the other's hand. He was already on his way to the spot where his wife was sitting. Draconmeyer watched his progress with inscrutable face. Selingman, who had been sitting near, rose and joined him.
"Will he go?" he whispered. "Will our friend take this very reasonable hint and depart?"
Draconmeyer's eyes were still fixed upon Hunterleys' slim, self-possessed figure. His forehead was contorted into a frown. Somehow or other, he felt that during their brief interview he had failed to score; he had felt a subtle, underlying note of contempt in Hunterleys' manner, in his whole attitude.
"I do not know," he replied grimly. "I only hope that if he stays, we shall find the means to make him regret it!"
Hunterleys stood for several minutes, watching his wife's play from a new point of view. She was certainly playing high and with continued ill-fortune. For the first time, too, he noticed symptoms which disturbed him. She sat quite motionless, but there was an unfamiliar glitter in her eyes and a hardness about her mouth. It was not until he had stood within a few feet of her for nearly a quarter of an hour, that she chanced to see him.
"Did you want me?" she asked, with a little start.
"There is no hurry," he replied. "If you could spare me a few moments later, I should be glad."
She rose at once, thrusting her notes and gold into the satchel which she was carrying, and stood by his side. She was very elegantly dressed in black and white, but she was pale, and, watching her with a new intentness, he discovered faint violet lines under her eyes, as though she had been sleeping ill.
"I am rather glad you came," she said. "I was having an abominable run of bad luck, and yet I hated to give up my seat without an excuse. What did you want, Henry?"
"I should like," he explained, "to talk to you for a quarter of an hour. This place is rather crowded and it is getting on my nerves. We seem to live here, night and day. Would you object to driving with me—say as far as Mentone and back?"
"I will come if you wish it," she answered, looking a little surprised. "Wait while I get my cloak."
Hunterleys hired an automobile below and they drove off. As soon as they were out of the main street, he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat and smoothed out that half-sheet of notepaper upon his knee.
"Violet," he said, "please read that."
She read the few lines instructing the English Bank to hand over Sir Henry Hunterleys' letters to the bearer. Then she looked up at him with a puzzled frown.
"I don't understand."
"Did you write that?" he enquired.
She looked at him indignantly.
"What an absurd question!" she exclaimed. "Your correspondence has no interest for me."
Her denial, so natural, so obviously truthful, was a surprise to him. He felt a sudden impulse of joy, mingled with shame. Perhaps, after all, he had been altogether too censorious. Once more he directed her attention to the sheet of paper. There was a marked change in his voice and manner.
"Violet," he begged, "please look at it. Accepting without hesitation your word that you did not write it, doesn't it occur to you that the body of the letter is a distinct imitation of your handwriting, and the signature a very clever forgery of mine?"
"It is rather like my handwriting," she admitted, "and as for the signature, do you mean to say really that that is not yours?"
"Certainly not," he assured her. "The whole thing is a forgery."
"But who in the world should want to get your letters?" she asked incredulously. "And why should you have them addressed to the bank?"
He folded up the paper then and put it in his pocket.
"Violet," he said earnestly, "for the disagreements which have resulted in our separation I may myself have been to some extent responsible, but we have promised one another not to refer to them again and I will not break our compact. All I can say is that there is much in my life which you know little of, and for which you do not, therefore, make sufficient allowance."
"Then you might have treated me," she declared, "with more confidence."
"It was not possible," he reminded her, "so long as you chose to make an intimate friend of a man whose every interest in life is in direct antagonism to mine."
"Mr. Draconmeyer?"
"Mr. Draconmeyer," he assented.
She smiled contemptuously.
"You misunderstand Mr. Draconmeyer completely," she insisted. "He is your well-wisher and he is more than half an Englishman. It was he who started the league between English and German commercial men for the propagation of peace. He formed one of the deputation who went over to see the Emperor. He has done more, both by his speeches and letters to the newspaper, to promote a good understanding between Germany and England, than any other person. You are very much mistaken about Mr. Draconmeyer, Henry. Why you cannot realise that he is simply an ordinary commercial man of high intelligence and most agreeable manners, I cannot imagine."
"The fact remains, my dear Violet," Hunterleys said emphatically, "that it is not possible for me to treat you with the confidence I might otherwise have done, on account of your friendship with Mr. Draconmeyer."
"You are incorrigible!" she exclaimed. "Can we change the subject, please? I want to know why you showed me that forged letter?"
"I am coming to that," he told her. "Please be patient. I want to remind you of something else. So far as I remember, my only request, when I gave you your liberty and half my income, was that your friendship with the Draconmeyers should decrease. Almost the first persons I see on my arrival in Monte Carlo are you and Mr. Draconmeyer. I learn that you came out with them and that you are staying at the same hotel."
"Your wish was an unreasonable one," she protested. "Linda and I were school-girls together. She is my dearest friend and she is a hopeless invalid. I think that if I were to desert her she would die."
"I have every sympathy with Mrs. Draconmeyer," he said slowly, "but you are my wife. I am going to make one more effort—please don't be uneasy—not to re-establish any relationship between us, but to open your eyes as to the truth concerning Mr. Draconmeyer. You asked me a moment ago why I had shown you that forged letter. I will tell you now. It was Draconmeyer who was the forger."
She leaned back in her seat. She was looking at him incredulously.
"You mean to say that Mr. Draconmeyer wrote that order—that he wanted to get possession of your letters?"
"Not only that," Hunterleys continued, "but he carried out the business in such a devilish manner as to make me for a moment believe that it was you who had helped him. You are wrong about Draconmeyer. The man is a great schemer, who under the pretence of occupying an important commercial position in the City of London, is all the time a secret agent of Germany. He is there in her interests. He studies the public opinion of the country. He dissects our weaknesses. He is there to point out the best methods and the opportune time for the inevitable struggle. He is the worst enemy to-day England has. You think that he is here in Monte Carlo on a visit of pleasure—for the sake of his wife, perhaps. Nothing of the sort! He is here at this moment associated with an iniquitous scheme, the particulars of which I can tell you nothing of. Furthermore, I repeat what I told you on our first meeting here—that in his still, cold way he is in love with you."
"Henry!" she cried.
"I cannot see how you can remain so wilfully blind," Hunterleys continued. "I know the man inside out. I warned you against him in London, I warn you against him now. This forged letter was designed to draw us further apart. The little brown man who has dogged your footsteps is a spy employed by him to make you believe that I was having you watched. You are free still to act as you will, Violet, but if you have a spark of regard for me or yourself, you will go back to London at once and drop this odious friendship."
She leaned back in the car. They had turned round now and were on the way back to Monte Carlo by the higher road. She sat with her eyes fixed upon the mountains. Her heart, in a way, had been touched, her imagination stirred by her husband's words. She felt a return of that glow of admiration which had thrilled her on the previous night, when he and Richard Lane alone amongst that motley company had played the part of men. A curious, almost pathetic wistfulness crept into her heart. If only he would lean towards her at that moment, if she could see once more the light in his eyes that had shone there during the days of their courtship! If only he could remember that it was still his part to play the lover! If he could be a little less grave, a little less hopelessly correct and fair! Despite her efforts to disbelieve, there was something convincing about his words. At any moment during that brief space of time, a single tremulous word, even a warm clasp of the hand, would have brought her into his arms. But so much of inspiration was denied him. He sat waiting for her decision with an eagerness of which he gave no sign. Nevertheless, the fates were fighting for him. She thought gratefully, even at that moment, yet with less enthusiasm than ever before, of the devout homage, the delightful care for her happiness and comfort, the atmosphere of security with which Draconmeyer seemed always to surround her. Yet all this was cold and unsatisfying, a poor substitute for the other things. Henry had been different once. Perhaps it was jealousy which had altered him. Perhaps his misconception of Draconmeyer's character had affected his whole outlook. She turned towards him, and her voice, when she spoke, was no longer querulous.
"Henry," she said, "I cannot admit the truth of all that you say concerning Mr. Draconmeyer, but tell me this. If I were willing to leave this place to-night—"
She paused. For some reason a sudden embarrassment had seized her. The words seemed to come with difficulty. She turned ever so slightly away from him. There was a tinge of colour at last in her pale cheeks. She seemed to him now, as she leaned a little forward in her seat, completely beautiful.
"If I make my excuses and leave Monte Carlo to-night," she went on, "will you come with me?"
He gave a little start. Something in his eyes flashed an answer into her face. And then the flood of memory came. There was his mission. He was tied hand and foot.
"It is good of you to offer that, Violet," he declared. "If I could—if only I could!"
Already her manner began to change. The fear of his refusal was hateful, her lips were trembling.
"You mean," she faltered, "that you will not come? Listen. Don't misunderstand me. I will order my boxes packed, I will catch the eight o'clock train either through to London or to Paris—anywhere. I will do that if you will come. There is my offer. That is my reply to all that you have said about Mr. Draconmeyer. I shall lose a friend who has been gentleness and kindness and consideration itself. I will risk that. What do you say? Will you come?"
"Violet, I cannot," he replied hoarsely. "No, don't turn away like that!" he begged. "Don't change so quickly, please! It isn't fair. Listen. I am not my own master."
"Not your own master?" she repeated incredulously. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I am here in Monte Carlo not for my own pleasure. I mean that I have work, a purpose—"
"Absurd!" she interrupted him, almost harshly. "There is nobody who has any better claim upon you than I have. You are over-conscientious about other things. For once remember your duty as a husband."
He caught her wrist.
"You must trust me a little," he pleaded. "Believe me that I really appreciate your offer. If I were free to go, I should not hesitate for a single second.... Can't you trust me, Violet?" he implored, his voice softening.
The woman within her was fighting on his side. She stifled her wounded feelings, crushed down her disappointment that he had not taken her at once into his arms and answered her upon her lips.
"Trust me, then," she replied. "If you refuse my offer, don't hint at things you have to do. Tell me in plain words why. It is not enough for you to say that you cannot leave Monte Carlo. Tell me why you cannot. I have invited you to escort me anywhere you will—I, your wife.... Shall we go?"
The woman had wholly triumphed. Her voice had dropped, the light was in her eyes. She swayed a little towards him. His brain reeled. She was once more the only woman in the world for him. Once more he fancied that he could feel the clinging of her arms, the touch of her lips. These things were promised in her face.
"I tell you that I cannot go!" he cried sharply. "Believe me—do believe me, Violet!"
She pulled down her veil suddenly. He caught at her hand. It lay passively in his. He pleaded for her confidence, but the moment of inspiration had gone. She heard him with the air of one who listens no longer. Presently she stopped him.
"Don't speak to me for several minutes, please," she begged. "Tell him to put me down at the hotel. I can't go back to the Club just yet."
"You mustn't leave me like this," he insisted.
"Will you tell me why you refuse my offer?" she asked.
"I have a trust!"
The automobile had come to a standstill. She rose to her feet.
"I was once your trust," she reminded him, as she passed into the hotel.
Richard Lane, as he made his way up the avenue towards the Villa Mimosa, wondered whether he was not indeed finding his way into fairyland. On either side of him were drooping mimosa trees, heavy with the snaky, orange-coloured blossom whose perfumes hung heavy upon the windless air. In the background, bordering the gardens which were themselves a maze of colour, were great clumps of glorious purple rhododendrons, drooping clusters of red and white roses. A sudden turn revealed a long pergola, smothered in pink blossoms and leading to the edge of the terrace which overhung the sea. The villa itself, which seemed, indeed, more like a palace, was covered with vivid purple clematis, and from the open door of the winter-garden, which was built out from the front of the place in a great curve, there came, as he drew near, a bewildering breath of exotic odours. The front-door was wide open, and before he could reach the bell a butler had appeared.
"Is Mr. Grex at home?" Richard enquired.
"Mr. Grex is not at home, sir," was the immediate reply.
"I should like to see Miss Grex, then," Richard proceeded.
The man's face was curiously expressionless, but a momentary silence perhaps betrayed as much surprise as he was capable of showing.
"Miss Grex is not at home, sir," he announced.
Richard hesitated and just then she came out from the winter-garden. She was wearing a pink linen morning gown and a floppy pink hat. She had a book under her arm and a parasol swinging from her fingers. When she saw Lane, she stared at him in amazement. He advanced a step or two towards her, his hat in his hand.
"I took the liberty of calling to see your father, Miss Grex," he explained. "As he was not at home, I ventured to enquire for you."
She was absolutely helpless. It was impossible to ignore his outstretched hand. Very hesitatingly she held out her fingers, which Richard grasped and seemed in no hurry at all to release.
"This is quite the most beautiful place I have seen anywhere near Monte Carlo," he remarked enthusiastically.
"I am glad," she murmured, "that you find it attractive."
He was standing by her side now, his hat under his arm. The butler had withdrawn a little into the background. She glanced around.
"Did my father ask you to call, Mr. Lane?" she enquired, dropping her voice a little.
"He did not," Richard confessed. "I must say that I gave him plenty of opportunities but he did not seem to be what I should call hospitably inclined. In any case, it really doesn't matter. I came to see you."
She bit her lip, struggling hard to repress a smile.
"But I did not ask you to call upon me either," she reminded him gravely.
"Well, that's true," Lane admitted, a little hesitatingly. "I don't quite know how things are done over here. Say, are you English, or French, or what?" he asked, point blank. "I have been puzzling about that ever since I saw you."
"I am not sure that my nationality matters," she observed.
"Well, over on the other side," he continued,—"I mean America, of course—if we make up our minds that we want to see something of a girl and there isn't any real reason why one shouldn't, then the initiative generally rests with the man. Of course, if you are an only daughter, I can quite understand your father being a bit particular, not caring for men callers and that sort of thing, but that can't go on for ever, you know, can it?"
"Can't it?" she murmured, a little dazed.
"I have a habit," he confided, "of making up my mind quickly, and when I decide about a thing, I am rather hard to turn. Well, I made up my mind about you the first moment we met."
"About me?" she repeated.
"About you."
She turned and looked at him almost wonderingly. He was very big and very confident; good to look upon, less because of his actual good looks than because of a certain honesty and tenacity of purpose in his expression; a strength of jaw, modified and rendered even pleasant by the kindness and humour of his clear grey eyes. He returned her gaze without embarrassment and he wondered less than ever at finding himself there. Her complexion in this clear light seemed more beautiful than ever. Her rich golden-brown hair was waved becomingly over her forehead. Her eyebrows were silky and delicately straight, her mouth delightful. Her figure was girlish, but unusually dignified for her years.
"You know," he said suddenly, "you look to me just like one of those beautiful plants you have in the conservatory there, just as though you'd stepped out of your little glass home and blossomed right here. I am almost afraid of you."
She laughed outright this time—a low, musical laugh which had in it something of foreign intonation.
"Well, really," she exclaimed, "I had not noticed your fear! I was just thinking that you were quite the boldest young man I have ever met."
"Come, that's something!" he declared. "Couldn't we sit down somewhere in these wonderful gardens of yours and talk?"
She shook her head.
"But have I not told you already," she protested, "that I do not receive callers? Neither does my father. Really, your coming here is quite unwarrantable. If he should return at this moment and find you here, he would be very angry indeed. I am afraid that he would even be rude, and I, too, should suffer for having allowed you to talk with me."
"Let's hope that he doesn't return just yet, then," Richard observed, smiling easily. "I am very good-tempered as a rule, but I do not like people to be rude to me."
"Fortunately, he cannot return for at least an hour—" she began.
"Then we'll sit down on that terrace, if you please, for just a quarter of that time," he begged.
She opened her lips and closed them again. He was certainly a very stubborn young man!
"Well," she sighed, "perhaps it will be the easiest way of getting rid of you."
She motioned him to follow her. The butler, from a discreet distance, watched her as though he were looking at a strange thing. Round the corner of the villa remote from the winter-garden, was a long stone terrace upon which many windows opened. Screened from the wind, the sun here was of almost midsummer strength. There was no sound. The great house seemed asleep. There was nothing but the droning of a few insects. Even the birds were songless. The walls were covered with drooping clematis and roses, roses that twined over the balustrades. Below them was a tangle of mimosa trees and rhododendrons, and further below still the blue Mediterranean. She sank into a chair.
"You may sit here," she said, "just long enough for me to convince you that your coming was a mistake. Indeed that is so. I do not wish to seem foolish or unkind, but my father and I are living here with one unbreakable rule, and that is that we make no acquaintances whatsoever."
"That sounds rather queer," he remarked. "Don't you find it dull?"
"If I do," she went on, "it is only for a little time. My father is here for a certain purpose, and as soon as that is accomplished we shall go away. For him to accomplish that purpose in a satisfactory manner, it is necessary that we should live as far apart as possible from the ordinary visitors here."
"Sounds like a riddle," he admitted. "Do you mind telling me of what nationality you are?"
"I see no reason why I should tell you anything."
"You speak such correct English," he continued, "but there is just a little touch of accent. You don't know how attractive it sounds. You don't know—"
He hesitated, suddenly losing some part of his immense confidence.
"What else is there that I do not know?" she asked, with a faintly amused smile.
"I have lost my courage," he confessed simply. "I do not want to offend you, I do not want you to think that I am hopelessly foolish, but you see I have the misfortune to be in love with you."
She laughed at him, leaning back in her chair with half-closed eyes.
"Do people talk like this to casual acquaintances in your country?" she asked.
"They speak sometimes a language which is common to all countries," he replied quickly. "The only thing that is peculiar to my people is that when we say it, it is the sober and the solemn truth."
She was silent for a moment. She had plucked one of the blossoms from the wall and was pulling to pieces its purple petals.
"Do you know," she said, "that no young man has ever dared to talk to me as you have done?"
"That is because no one yet has cared so much as I do," he assured her. "I can quite understand their being frightened. I am terribly afraid of you myself. I am afraid of the things I say to you, but I have to say them because they are in my heart, and if I am only to have a quarter of an hour with you now, you see I must make the best use of my time. I must tell you that there isn't any other girl in the world I could ever look at again, and if you won't promise to marry me some day, I shall be the most wretched person on earth."
"I can never, never marry you," she told him emphatically. "There is nothing which is so impossible as that."
"Well, that's a pretty bad start," he admitted.
"It is the end," she said firmly.
He shook his head. There was a terrible obstinacy in his face. She frowned at him.
"You do not mean that you will persist after what I have told you?"
He looked at her, almost surprised.
"There isn't anything else for me to do, that I know of," he declared, "so long as you don't care for any one else. Tell me again, you are sure that there is no one?"
"Certainly not," she replied stiffly. "The subject has not yet been made acceptable to me. You must forgive my adding that in my country it is not usual for a girl to discuss these matters with a man before her betrothal."
"Say, I don't understand that," he murmured, looking at her thoughtfully. "She can't get engaged before she is asked."
"The preliminaries," she explained, "are always arranged by one's parents."
He smiled pityingly.
"That sort of thing's no use," he asserted confidently. "You must be getting past that, in whatever corner of Europe you live. What you mean to say, then, is that your father has some one up his sleeve whom he'll trot out for you before long?"
"Without doubt, some arrangement will be proposed," she agreed.
"And you'll have to be amiable to some one you've never seen in your life before, I suppose?" he persisted.
"Not necessarily. It sometimes happens, in my position," she went on, raising her head, "that certain sacrifices are necessary."
"In your position," he repeated quickly. "What does that mean? You aren't a queen, are you, or anything of that sort?"
She laughed.
"No," she confessed, "I am not a queen, and yet—"
"And yet?"
"You must go back," she insisted, rising abruptly to her feet. "The quarter of an hour is up. I do not feel happy, sitting here talking with you. Really, if my father were to return he would be more angry with me than he has ever been in his life. This sort of thing is not done amongst my people."
"Little lady," he said, gently forcing her back into her place, "believe me, it's done all the world over, and there isn't any girl can come to any harm by being told that a man is fond of her when it's the truth, when he'd give his life for her willingly. It's just like that I feel about you. I've never felt it before. I could never feel it for any one else. And I am not going to give you up."
She was looking at him half fearfully. There was a little colour in her cheeks, her eyes were suddenly moist.
"I think," she murmured, "that you talk very nicely. I think I might even say that I like to hear you talk. But it is so useless. Won't you go now? Won't you please go now?"
"When may I come again?" he begged.
"Never," she replied firmly. "You must never come again. You must not even think of it. But indeed you would not be admitted. They will probably tell my father of your visit, as it is, and he will be very angry."
"Well, when can I see you, then, and where?" he demanded. "I hope you understand that I am not in the least disheartened by anything you have said."
"I think," she declared, "that you are the most persistent person I ever met."
"It is only," he whispered, leaning a little towards her, "because I care for you so much."
She was suddenly confused, conscious of a swift desire to get rid of him. It was as though some one were speaking a new language. All her old habits and prejudices seemed falling away.
"I cannot make appointments with you," she protested, her voice shaking. "I cannot encourage you in any way. It is really quite impossible."
"If I go now, will you be at the Club to-morrow afternoon?" he pleaded.
"I am not sure," she replied. "It is very likely that I may be there. I make no promise."
He took her hand abruptly, and, stooping down, forced her to look into his eyes.
"You will be there to-morrow afternoon, please," he begged, "and you will give me the rose from your waistband."
She laughed uneasily.
"If the rose will buy your departure—" she began.
"It may do that," he interrupted, as he drew it through his buttonhole, "but it will assuredly bring me back again."
Richard walked down the hill, whistling softly to himself and with a curious light in his eyes. As he reached the square in front of the Casino, he was accosted by a stranger who stood in the middle of the pavement and respectfully removed his hat.
"You are Mr. Richard Lane, is it not so, monsieur?"
"You've guessed it in one," Richard admitted. "Have I ever seen you before?"
"Never, monsieur, unless you happened to notice me on your visit to the prison. I have an official position in the Principality. I am commissioned to speak to you with respect to the little affair in which you were concerned at La Turbie."
"Well, I thought we'd thrashed all that out," Lane replied. "Anyway, Sir Henry Hunterleys and I have engaged a lawyer to look after our interests."
"Just so," the little man murmured. "A very clever man indeed is Monsieur Grisson. Still, there is a view of the matter," he continued, "which is perhaps hard for you Englishmen and Americans to understand. Assault of any description is very severely punished here, especially when it results in bodily injury. Theft of all sorts, on the other hand, is very common indeed. The man whom you injured is a native of Monte Carlo. To a certain extent, the Principality is bound to protect him."
"Why, the fellow was engaged in a flagrant attempt at highway robbery!" Richard declared, genuinely astonished.
His companion stretched out his hands.
"Monsieur," he replied, "every one robs here, whether they are shop-keepers, restaurant keepers, or loafers upon the streets. The people expect it. At the adjourned trial next week there will be many witnesses who are also natives of Monte Carlo. I have been commissioned to warn monsieur. It would be best, on the whole, if he left Monte Carlo by the next train."
"Why in the name of mischief should I do that?" Richard demanded.
"In the first place," the other pointed out, "because this man, whom you treated a little roughly, has many friends and associates. They have sworn revenge. You are even now being followed about, and the police of the Principality have enough to do without sparing an escort to protect you against violence. In the second place, I am not at all sure that the finding of the court next week will be altogether to your satisfaction."
"Do you mean this?" Richard asked incredulously.
"Without a doubt, monsieur."
"Then all I can say," Richard declared, "is that your magistrate or judge, or whatever he calls himself, is a rotter, and your laws absurd. I sha'n't budge."
"It is in your own interests, monsieur, this warning," the other persisted. "Even if you escape these desperadoes, you still run some risk of discovering what the inside of a prison in Monaco is like."
"I think not," Lane answered grimly. "If there's anything of that sort going about, I shall board my yacht yonder and hoist the Stars and Stripes. I shall take some getting into prison, I can tell you, and if I once get there, you'll hear about it."
"Monsieur will be much wiser to avoid trouble," the official advised.
Lane placed his hand upon the other's shoulder.
"My friend," he said, "not you or a dozen like you could make me stir from this place until I am ready, and just now I am very far from ready. See? You can go and tell those who sent you, what I say."
The emissary of the law shrugged his shoulders. His manner was stiff but resigned.
"I have delivered my message, monsieur," he announced. "Monsieur naturally must decide for himself."
He disappeared with a bow. Richard continued on his way and a few minutes later ran into Hunterleys.
"Say, did you ever hear such cheek!" he exclaimed, passing his arm through the latter's. "A little bounder stopped me in the street and has been trying to frighten me into leaving Monte Carlo, just because I broke that robber's wrist. Same Johnny that came to you, I expect. What are they up to, anyway? What do they want to get rid of us for? They ought to be jolly grateful."
Hunterleys shook his head.
"So far as I am concerned," he said, "their reasons for wanting to get rid of me are fairly obvious, I am afraid, but I must say I don't know where you come in, unless—"
He stopped short.
"Well, unless what?" Richard interposed. "I should just like to know who it is trying to get me kicked out."
"Can't you guess?" Hunterleys asked. "There is one person who I think would be quite as well pleased to see the back of you."
"Here in Monte Carlo?"
"Absolutely!"
Richard was mystified.
"You are not very bright, I am afraid," Hunterleys observed. "What about your friend Mr. Grex?"
Richard whistled softly.
"Are you serious?"
"Of course I am," Hunterleys assured him.
"But has he any pull here, this Mr. Grex?"
Hunterleys' eyes twinkled for a moment.
"Yes," he replied, "I think that Mr. Grex has very considerable influence in this part of the world, and he is a man who, I should say, was rather used to having his own way."
"I gathered that I wasn't exactly popular with him this afternoon," Richard remarked meditatively. "I've been out there to call."
Hunterleys stopped short upon the pavement.
"What?" he exclaimed.
"I have been out to call at the Villa Mimosa," Richard repeated. "I don't see anything extraordinary in that."
"Did you see—Miss Fedora?"
"Rather! And thank you for telling me her name, at any rate. We sat on the terrace and chatted for a quarter of an hour. She gave me to understand, though, that the old man was dead against me. It all seems very mysterious. Anyway, she gave me this rose I am wearing, and I think she'll be at the Club to-morrow afternoon."
Hunterleys was silent for a moment. He seemed much impressed.
"You know, Richard," he declared, "there is something akin to genius in your methods."
"That's all very well," the young man protested, "but can you give me a single solid reason why, considering I am in love with the girl, I shouldn't go and call upon her? Who is this Mr. Grex, anyway?"
"I've a good mind to tell you," Hunterleys said meditatively.
"I don't care whether you do or not," Lane pronounced firmly, as they parted. "I don't care whether Mr. Grex is the Sultan of Turkey or the Czar of Russia. I'm going to marry his daughter. That's settled."
At a few minutes before eight o'clock that evening Lady Hunterleys descended the steps of the Casino and crossed the square towards the Hotel de Paris. She walked very slowly and she looked neither to the right nor to the left. She had the air of seeing no one. She acknowledged mechanically the low bow of the commissionaire who opened the door for her. A reception clerk who stood on one side to let her pass, she ignored altogether. She crossed the hall to the lift and pressed the bell. Draconmeyer, who had been lounging in an easy-chair waiting for her, watched her entrance and noticed her abstracted manner with kindling eyes. He threw away his newspaper and, hastily approaching her, touched her arm.
"You are late," he remarked.
She started.
"Yes, I am late."
"I did not see you at the Club."
"I have been to the Casino instead," she told him. "I thought that it might change my luck."
"Successful, I trust?"
She shook her head. Then she opened her gold satchel and showed him. It was empty.
"The luck must turn sometime," he reminded her soothingly. "How long will you be changing?"
"I am tired," she confessed. "I thought that to-night I would not dine. I will have something sent up to my room."
He was obviously disappointed.
"Couldn't you dine as you are?" he begged. "You could change later, if you wished to. It is always such a disappointment when you do not appear—and to-night," he added, "especially."
Violet hesitated. She was really longing only to be alone and to rest. She thought, however, of the poor invalid to whom their meeting at dinner-time was the one break of the day.
"Very well," she promised, "I will be down in ten minutes."
Draconmeyer, as the lift bore her upwards, strolled away. Although the custom was a strange one to him, he sought out the American bar and drank a cocktail. Then he lit a cigarette and made his way back into the lounge, moving restlessly about, his hands behind his back, his forehead knitted. In his way he had been a great schemer, and in the crowded hall of the hotel that night, surrounded by a wonderfully cosmopolitan throng of loungers and passers-by, he lived again through the birth and development of many of the schemes which his brain had conceived since he had left his mother-country. One and all they had been successful. He seemed, indeed, to have been imbued with the gift of success. He had floated immense loans where other men had failed; he had sustained the credit of his country on a high level through more than one serious financial crisis; he had pulled down or built up as his judgment or fancy had dictated; and all the time the man's relaxations, apart from the actual trend of great affairs, had been few and slight. Then had come his acquaintance with Linda's school-friend. He looked back through the years. At first he had scarcely noticed her visits. Gradually he had become conscious of a dim feeling of thankfulness to the woman who always seemed able to soothe his invalid wife. Then, scarcely more than a year or so ago, he had found himself watching her at unexpected moments, admiring the soft grace of her movements, the pleasant cadence of her voice, the turn of her head, the colour of her hair, the elegance of her clothes, her thin, fashionable figure. Gradually he had begun to look for her, to welcome her at his table—and from that, the rest. Finally the birth of this last scheme of his. He had very nearly made a fatal mistake at the very commencement, had pulled himself right again only with a supreme effort. His heart beat quicker even now as he thought of that moment. They had been alone together one evening. She had sat talking with him after Linda had gone to bed worse than usual, and in the dim light he had almost lost his head, he had almost said those words, let her see the things in his eyes for which the time was not yet ripe. She had kept away for a while after that. He had treated it as a mistake but he had been very careful not to err again. By degrees she forgot. The estrangement between husband and wife was part of his scheme, largely his doing. He was all the time working to make the breach wider. The visit to Monte Carlo, rather a difficult accomplishment, he had arranged. He had seen with delight the necessity for some form of excitement growing up in her, had watched her losses and only wished that they had been larger. He had encouraged her to play for higher stakes and found that she needed very little encouragement indeed. To-night he felt that a crisis was at hand. There was a new look upon her face. She had probably lost everything. He knew exactly how she would feel about asking her husband for help. His eyes grew brighter as he waited for the lift.
She came at last and they walked together into the dining-room. When she reached their accustomed table, it was empty, and only their two places were laid. She looked at him in surprise.
"But I thought you said that Linda would be so disappointed!" she reminded him.
He shook his head.
"I do not think that I mentioned Linda's name," he protested. "She went to bed soon after tea in an absolutely hopeless state. I am afraid that to-night I was selfish. I was thinking of myself. I have had nothing in the shape of companionship all day. I came and looked at the table, and the thought of dining alone wearied me. I have to spend a great deal of time alone, unfortunately. You and I are, perhaps, a little alike in that respect."
She seated herself after a moment's hesitation. He moved his chair a little closer to hers. The pink-shaded lamp seemed to shut them off from the rest of the room. A waiter poured wine into their glasses.
"I ordered champagne to-night," he remarked. "You looked so tired when you came in. Drink a glass at once."
She obeyed him, smiling faintly. She was, as a matter of fact, craving for something of the sort.
"It was thoughtful of you," she declared. "I am tired. I have been losing all day, and altogether I have had a most depressing time."
"It is not as it should be, that," he observed, smiling. "This is a city of pleasure. One was meant to leave one's cares behind here. If any one in this world," he added, "should be without them, it should be you."
He looked at her respectfully yet with an admiration which he made no effort to conceal. There was nothing in the look over-personal. She accepted it with gratitude.
"You are always kind," she murmured.
"This reminds me of some of our evenings in London," he went on, "when we used to talk music before we went to the Opera. I always found those evenings so restful and pleasant. Won't you try and forget that you have lost a few pennies; forget, also, your other worries, whatever they may be? I have had a letter to-day from the one great writer whom we both admire. I shall read it to you. And I have a list of the operas for next week. I see that your husband's little protégée, Felicia Roche, is here."
"My husband's protégée?" she repeated. "I don't quite understand."
He seemed, for a moment, embarrassed.
"I am sorry," he said. "I had no idea. But your husband will tell you if you ask him. It was he who paid for her singing education, and her triumph is his. But the name must be known to you."
"I have never heard it in connection with my husband," she declared, frowning slightly. "Henry does not always take me into his confidence."
"Then I am sorry," he continued penitently, "that I mentioned the matter. It was clumsy of me. I had an idea that he must have told you all about her.... Another glass of wine, please, and you will find your appetite comes. Jules has prepared that salmon trout specially. I'll read you the letter from Maurice, if you like, and afterwards there is a story I must tell you."
The earlier stages of dinner slipped pleasantly away. Draconmeyer was a born conversationalist,—a good talker and a keen tactician. The food and the wine, too, did their part. Presently Violet lifted her head, the colour came back to her cheeks, she too began to talk and laugh. All the time he was careful not to press home his advantage. He remembered that one night in the library at Grosvenor Square, when she had turned her head and looked at him for a moment before leaving. She must be different now, he told himself fiercely. It was impossible that she could continue to love a husband who neglected her, a man whose mistaken sense of dignity kept him away from her!
"I want you," he begged, as they drew towards the close of the meal, "to treat me, if you will, just a little more confidentially."
She glanced up at him quickly, almost suspiciously.
"What do you mean?"
"You have troubles of which you do not speak," he went on. "If my friendship is worth anything, it ought to enable me to share those troubles with you. You have had a little further disagreement with your husband, I think, and bad luck at the tables. You ought not to let either of these things depress you too much. Tell me, do you think that I could help with Sir Henry?"
"No one could help," she replied, her tone unconsciously hardening. "Henry is obstinate, and it is my firm conviction that he has ceased to care for me at all. This afternoon—this very afternoon," she went on, leaning across the table, her voice trembling a little, her eyes very bright, "I offered to go away with him."
"To leave Monte Carlo?"
"Yes! He refused. He said that he must stay here, for some mysterious reason. I begged him to tell me what that reason was, and he was silent. It was the end. He gives me no confidence. He has refused the one effort I made at reconciliation. I am convinced that it is useless. We have parted finally."
Draconmeyer tried hard to keep the light from his eyes as he leaned towards her.
"Dear lady," he said, "if I do not admit that I am sorry—well, there are reasons. Your husband did well to be mysterious. I can tell you the reason why he will not leave Monte Carlo. It is because Felicia Roche makes her début at the Opera House to-morrow night. There! I didn't mean to tell you but the whole world knows it. Even now I would not have told you but for other things. It is best that you know the truth. It is my firm belief that your husband does not deserve your interest, much more your affection. If only I dared—"
He paused for a moment. Every word he was compelled to measure.
"Sometimes," he continued, "your condition reminds me so much of my own. I think that there is no one so lonely in life as I am. For the last few years Linda has been fading away, physically and mentally. I touch her fingers at morning and night, we speak of the slight happenings of the day. She has no longer any mind or any power of sympathy. Her lips are as cold as her understanding. For that I know she is not to blame, yet it has left me very lonely. If I had had a child," he went on, "even if there were one single soul of whom I was fond, to whom I might look for sympathy; even if you, my dear friend—you see, I am bold, and I venture to call you my dear friend—could be a little kinder sometimes, it would make all the difference in the world."
She turned her head and looked at him. His teeth came together hastily. It seemed to him that already she was on her guard.
"You have something more to say, haven't you?" she asked.
He hesitated. Her tone was non-committal. It was a moment when he might have risked everything, but he feared to make a mistake.
"This is what I mean," he declared, with the appearance of great frankness. "I am going to speak to you upon the absurd question of money. I have an income of which, even if I were boundlessly extravagant, I could not hope to spend half. A speculation, the week before I left England, brought me a profit of a million marks. But for the banking interests of my country and the feeling that I am the trustee for thousands of other people, it would weary me to look for investments. And you—you came in to-night, looking worn out just because you had lost a handful or so of those wretched plaques. There, you see it is coming now. I should like permission to do more than call myself your friend. I should like permission to be also your banker."
She looked at him quietly and searchingly. His heart began to beat faster. At least she was in doubt. He had not wholly lost. His chance, even, was good.
"My friend," she said, "I believe that you are honest. I do indeed recognise your point of view. The thing is an absurdity, but, you know, all conventions, even the most foolish, have some human and natural right beneath them. I think that the convention which forbids a woman accepting money from a man, however close a friend, is like that. Frankly, my first impulse, a few minutes ago, was to ask you to lend me a thousand pounds. Now I know that I cannot do it."
"Do you really mean that?" he asked, in a tone of deep disappointment. "If you do, I am hurt. It proves that the friendship which to me is so dear, is to you a very slight thing."
"You mustn't think that," she pleaded. "And please, Mr. Draconmeyer, don't think that I don't appreciate all your kindness. Short of accepting your money, I would do anything to prove it."
"There need be no question of a gift," he reminded her, in a low tone. "If I were a perfect stranger, I might still be your banker. You must have money from somewhere. Are you going to ask your husband?"
She bit her lip for a moment. If indeed he had known her actual position, his hopes would have been higher still.
"I cannot possibly ask Henry for anything," she confessed. "I had made up my mind to ask him to authorise the lawyers to advance me my next quarter's allowance. After—what has passed between us, though, and—considering everything, I don't feel that I can do it."
"Then may I ask how you really mean to get more money?" he went on gently.
She looked at him a little piteously.
"Honestly, I don't know," she admitted. "I will be quite frank with you. Henry allows me two thousand, five hundred a year. I brought nine hundred pounds out with me, and I have nothing more to come until June."
"And how much have you left of the nine hundred pounds?" he asked.
"Not enough to pay my hotel bill," she groaned.
He smiled.
"Circumstances are too strong for you," he declared. "You must go to a banker. I claim the right of being that banker. I shall draw up a promissory note—no, we needn't do that—two or three cheques, perhaps, dated June, August and October. I shall charge you five per cent. interest and I shall lend you a thousand pounds."
Her eyes sparkled. The thought of the money was wonderful to her. A thousand pounds in mille notes that very night! She thought it all over rapidly. She would never run such risks again. She would play for small amounts each day—just enough to amuse herself. Then, if she were lucky, she would plunge, only she would choose the right moment. Very likely she would be able to pay the whole amount back in a day or two. If Henry minded, well, it was his own fault. He should have been different.
"You put it so kindly," she said gratefully, "that I am afraid I cannot refuse. You are very, very considerate, Mr. Draconmeyer. It certainly will be nicer to owe you the money than a stranger."
"I am only glad that you are going to be reasonable," he remarked,—"glad, really, for both our sakes. And remember," he went on cheerfully, "that one isn't young and at Monte Carlo too many times in one's life. Make up your mind to enjoy yourself. If the luck goes against you for a little longer, come again. You are bound to win in the end. Now, if you like, we'll have our coffee outside. I'll go and fetch the money and you shall make out your cheques."
He scribbled hastily on a piece of paper for a moment.
"These are the amounts," he pointed out. "I have charged you five per cent. per annum interest. As I can deal with money at something under four, I shall make quite a respectable profit—more than enough," he added good-naturedly, "to pay for our dinner!"
She seemed suddenly years younger. The prospect of the evening before her was enchanting.
"You really are delightful!" she exclaimed. "You can't think how differently I shall feel when I go into the Club to-night. I am perfectly certain that it's having plenty of money that helps one to win."
He smiled.
"And plenty of courage," he added. "Don't waste your time trifling with small stakes. Bid up for the big things. It is the only way in gambling and in life."
He rose to his feet and their eyes met for a moment. Once more she felt vaguely troubled. She put that disturbing thought away from her, however. It was foolish to think of drawing back now. If he admired her—well, so did most men!
The Villa Mimosa flamed with lights from the top story to the ground-floor. The entrance gates stood wide-open. All along the drive, lamps flashed from unsuspected places beneath the yellow-flowering trees. One room only seemed shrouded in darkness and mystery, and around that one room was concentrated the tense life of the villa. Thick curtains had been drawn with careful hands. The heavy door had been securely closed. The French-windows which led out on to the balcony had been almost barricaded. The four men who were seated around the oval table had certainly secured for themselves what seemed to be a complete and absolute isolation. Yet there was, nevertheless, a sense of uneasiness, an indescribable air of tension in the atmosphere. The quartette had somehow the appearance of conspirators who had not settled down to their work. It was the last arrival, the man who sat at Mr. Grex's right hand, who was responsible for the general unrest.
Mr. Grex moved a little nervously in the chair which he had just drawn up to the table. He looked towards Draconmeyer as he opened the proceedings.
"Monsieur Douaille," he said, "has come to see us this evening at my own urgent request. Before we commence any sort of discussion, he has asked me to make it distinctly understood to you both—to you, Mr. Draconmeyer, and to you, Herr Selingman—that this is not in any sense of the word a formal meeting or convention. We are all here, as it happens, by accident. Our friend Selingman, for instance, who is a past master in the arts of pleasant living, has not missed a season here for many years. Draconmeyer is also an habitué. I myself, it is true, have spent my winters elsewhere, for various reasons, and am comparatively a stranger, but my visit here was arranged many months ago. You yourself, Monsieur Douaille, are a good Parisian, and no good Parisian should miss his yearly pilgrimages to the Mecca of the pleasure-seeker. We meet together this evening, therefore, purely as friends who have a common interest at heart."
The man from whom this atmosphere of nervousness radiated—a man of medium height, inclined towards corpulence, with small grey imperial, a thin red ribbon in his buttonhole, and slightly prominent features—promptly intervened. He had the air of a man wholly ill-at-ease. All the time Mr. Grex had been speaking, he had been drumming upon the table with his forefinger.
"Precisely! Precisely!" he exclaimed. "Above all things, that must be understood. Ours is a chance meeting. My visit in these parts is in no way connected with the correspondence I have had with one of our friends here. Further," Monsieur Douaille continued impressively, "it must be distinctly understood that any word I may be disposed to utter, either in the way of statement or criticism, is wholly and entirely unofficial. I do not even know what the subject of our discussion is to be. I approach it with the more hesitation because I gather, from some slight hint which has fallen from our friend here, that it deals with a scheme which, if ever it should be carried into effect, is to the disadvantage of a nation with whom we are at present on terms of the greatest friendship. My presence here, except on the terms I have stated," he concluded, his voice shaking a little, "would be an unpardonable offence to that country."
Monsieur Douaille's somewhat laboured explanation did little to lighten the atmosphere. It was the genius of Herr Selingman which intervened. He leaned back in his chair and he patted his waistcoat thoughtfully.
"I have things to say," he declared, "but I cannot say them. I have nothing to smoke—no cigarette, no cigar. I arrive here choked with dust. As yet, the circumstance seems to have escaped our host's notice. Ah! what is that I see?" he added, rising suddenly to his feet. "My host, you are acquitted. I look around the table here at which I am invited to seat myself, and I perceive nothing but a few stumpy pens and unappetising blotting-paper. By chance I lift my eyes. I see the parting of the curtains yonder, and behold!"
He rose and crossed the room, throwing back a curtain at the further end. In the recess stood a sideboard, laden with all manner of liqueurs and wines, glasses of every size and shape, sandwiches, pasties, and fruit. Herr Selingman stood on one side with outstretched hand, in the manner of a showman. He himself was wrapped for a moment in admiration.
"For you others I cannot speak," he observed, surveying the label upon a bottle of hock. "For myself, here is nectar."
With careful fingers he drew the cork. At a murmured word of invitation from Mr. Grex, the others rose from their places and also helped themselves from the sideboard. Selingman took up his position in the centre of the hearth-rug, with a long tumbler of yellow wine in one hand and a sandwich in the other.
"For myself," he continued, taking a huge bite, "I wage war against all formality. I have been through this sort of thing in Berlin. I have been through it in Vienna, I have been through it in Rome. I have sat at long tables with politicians, have drawn little pictures upon the blotting-paper and been bored to death. In wearisome fashion we have drafted agreements, we have quarrelled and bickered, we have yawned and made of ourselves men of parchment. But to-night," he added, taking another huge bite from his sandwich, "to-night nothing of that sort is intended. Draconmeyer and I have an idea. Mr. Grex is favourably inclined towards it. That idea isn't a bit of good to ourselves or any one else unless Monsieur Douaille here shares our point of view. Here we are, then, all met together—let us hope for a week or two's enjoyment. Little by little we must try and see what we can do towards instilling that idea into the mind of Monsieur Douaille. We may succeed, we may fail, but let us always remember that our conversations are the conversations of four friends, met together upon what is nothing more or less than a holiday. I hate the sight of those sheets of blotting-paper and clean pens. Who wants to make notes, especially of what we are going to talk about! The man who cannot carry notes in his head is no statesman."
Monsieur Douaille, who had chosen champagne and was smoking a cigarette, beamed approval. Much of his nervousness had departed.
"I agree," he declared, "I like well the attitude of our friend Selingman. There is something much too formal about this table. I am not here to talk treaties or to upset them. To exchange views, if you will—no more. Meanwhile, I appreciate this very excellent champagne, the cigarettes are delicious, and I remove myself to this easy-chair. If any one would talk world politics, I am ready. Why not? Why should we pretend that there is any more interesting subject to men like ourselves, in whom is placed the trust of our country?"
Mr. Grex nodded his head in assent.
"The fault is mine," he declared, "but, believe me, it was not intentional. It was never my wish to give too formal an air to our little meeting—in fact I never intended to do more than dwell on the outside edge of great subjects to-night. Unfortunately, Monsieur Douaille, neither you nor I, whatever our power or influence may be, are directly responsible for the foreign affairs of our countries. We can, therefore, speak with entire frankness. Our countries—your country and mine—are to-day bound together by an alliance. You have something which almost approaches an alliance with another country. I am going to tell you in plain words what I think you have been given to understand indirectly many times during the last few years—that understanding is not approved of in St. Petersburg."
Monsieur Douaille knocked the ash from his cigarette. He gazed thoughtfully into the fire of pine logs which was burning upon the open hearth.
"Mr. Grex," he said, "that is plainer speaking than we have ever received from any official source."
"I admit it," Mr. Grex replied. "Such a statement on my part may sound a little startling, but I make it advisedly. I know the feeling—you will grant that my position entitles me to know the feeling—of the men who count for anything in Russian politics. Perhaps I do not mean the titular heads of my Government. There are others who have even more responsibilities, who count for more. I honestly and truthfully assure you that I speak for the powers that are behind the Government of Russia when I tell you that the English dream of a triple alliance between Russia, England, and France will never be accepted by my country."
Monsieur Douaille sipped his champagne.
"This is candour," he remarked, "absolute candour. One speaks quite plainly, I imagine, before our friend the enemy?" he added, smiling towards Selingman.
"Why not?" Selingman demanded. "Why not, indeed? We are not fools here."
"Then I would ask you, Mr. Grex," Monsieur Douaille continued, "where in the name of all that is equitable are you to find an alliance more likely to preserve the status quo in Europe? Both logically and geographically it absolutely dovetails. Russia is in a position to absorb the whole attention of Austria and even to invade the north coast of Germany. The hundred thousand troops or so upon which we could rely from Great Britain, would be invaluable for many reasons—first, because a mixture of blood is always good; secondly, because the regular army which perforce they would have to send us, is of very fine fighting material; and thirdly, because they could land, to give away a very open secret to you, my friend Selingman, in a westerly position, and would very likely succeed thereby in making an outflanking movement towards the north. I presume that at present the German fleet would not come out to battle, in which case the English would certainly be able to do great execution upon the northern coast of Germany. All this, of course, has been discussed and written about, and the next war been mapped out in a dozen different ways. I must confess, however, that taking every known consideration into account, I can find no other distribution of powers so reasonable or so favourable to my country."
Mr. Grex nodded.
"I find no fault with any word of what you have said," he declared, "except that yours is simply the superficial and obvious idea of the man in the street as to the course of the next probable war. Now let us go a little further. I grant all the points which you urge in favour of your suggested triple alliance. I will even admit that your forecast of a war taking place under such conditions, is a fairly faithful one. We proceed, then. The war, if it came to pass, could never be decisive. An immense amount of blood would be shed, treasure recklessly poured out, Europe be rendered desolate, for the sake most largely of whom?—of Japan and America. That is the weakness of the whole thing. A war carried out on the lines you suggest would be playing the game of these two countries. Even the victors would be placed at a huge disadvantage with them, to say nothing of the losers, who must see slipping away from them forever their place under the sun. It is my opinion—and I have studied this matter most scientifically and with the help of the Secret Service of every country, not excepting your own, Herr Selingman—it is my opinion that this war must be indecisive. The German fleet would be crippled and not destroyed. The English fleet would retain its proportionate strength. No French advance into Germany would be successful, no German advance into France is likely. The war would languish for lack of funds, through sheer inanition it would flicker out, and the money of the world would flow into the treasuries of America. Russia would not be fighting for her living. With her it could be at best but a half-hearted war. She would do her duty to the alliance. Nothing more could be hoped from her. You could not expect, for instance, that she would call up all her reserves, leave the whole of her eastern frontier unprotected, and throw into mid-Europe such a force as would in time subjugate Germany. This could be done but it will not be done. We all know that."
Monsieur Douaille smoked thoughtfully for several moments.
"Very well," he pronounced at last, "I am rather inclined to agree with all that you have said. Yet it seems to me that you evade the great point. The status quo is what we desire, peace is what the world wants. If, before such a war as you have spoken of is begun, people realise what the end of it must be, don't you think that that itself is the greatest help towards peace? My own opinion is, I tell you frankly, that for many years to come, at any rate, there will be no war."
Herr Selingman set down his glass and turned slowly around.
"Then let me tell you that you are mistaken," he declared solemnly. "Listen to me, my friend Douaille—my friend, mind, and not the statesman Douaille. I am a German citizen and you are a French one, and I tell you that if in three years' time your country does not make up its mind to strike a blow for Alsace and Lorraine, then in three years' time Germany will declare war upon you."
Monsieur Douaille had the expression of a man who doubts. Selingman frowned. He was suddenly immensely serious. He struck the palm of one hand a great blow with his clenched fist.
"Why is it that no one in the world understands," he cried, "what Germany wants? I tell you, Monsieur Douaille, that we don't hate your country. We love it. We crowd to Paris. We expand there. It is the holiday place of every good German. Who wants a ruined France? Not we! Yet, unless there is a change in the international situation, we shall go to war with you and I will tell you why. There are no secrets about this sort of thing. Every politician who is worth his salt knows them. The only difficulty is to know when a country is in earnest, and how far it will go. That is the value of our meeting. That is what I am here to say. We shall go to war with you, Monsieur Douaille, to get Calais, and when we've got Calais—oh, my God!" Selingman almost reverently concluded, "then our solemn task will be begun."
"England!" Monsieur Douaille murmured.
There was a brief pause. Selingman had seemed, for a moment, to have passed into the clouds. There was a sort of gloomy rapture upon his face. He caught up Douaille's last word and repeated it.
"England! England, and through her...."
He moved to the sideboard and filled his tumbler with wine. When he came back to his place, his expression had lightened.
"Ah, well! dear Monsieur Douaille," he exclaimed, patting the other's shoulder in friendly fashion, "to-night we merely chatter. To-night we are here to make friends, to gain each the confidence of the other. To ourselves let us pretend that we are little boys, playing the game of our nation—France, Germany, and Russia. Germany and Russia, to be frank with you, are waiting for one last word from Germany's father, something splendid and definite to offer. What we would like France to do, while France loses its money at roulette and flirts with the pretty ladies at Ciro's, is to try and accustom itself not to an alliance with Germany—no! Nothing so utopian as that. The lion and the lamb may remain apart. They may agree to be friends, they may even wave paws at one another, but I do not suggest that they march side by side. What we ask of France is that she looks the other way. It is very easy to look the other way. She might look, for instance—towards Egypt."