Arm in arm, Prince Terniloff and his host climbed the snow-covered slope at the back of a long fir plantation, towards the little beflagged sticks which indicated their stand. There was not a human being in sight, for the rest of the guns had chosen a steeper but somewhat less circuitous route.
“Von Ragastein,” the Ambassador said, “I am going to give myself the luxury of calling you by your name. You know my one weakness, a weakness which in my younger days very nearly drove me out of diplomacy. I detest espionage in every shape and form even where it is necessary. So far as you are concerned, my young friend,” he went on, “I think your position ridiculous. I have sent a private despatch to Potsdam, in which I have expressed that opinion.”
“So far,” Dominey remarked, “I have not been overworked.”
“My dear young friend,” the Prince continued, “you have not been overworked because there has been no legitimate work for you to do. There will be none. There could be no possible advantage accruing from your labours here to compensate for the very bad effect which the discovery of your true name and position would have in the English Cabinet.”
“I must ask you to remember,” Dominey begged, “that I am here as a blind servant of the Fatherland. I simply obey orders.”
“I will grant that freely,” the Prince consented. “But to continue. I am now at the end of my first year in this country. I feel able to congratulate myself upon a certain measure of success. From that part of the Cabinet with whom I have had to do, I have received nothing but encouragement in my efforts to promote a better understanding between our two countries.”
“The sky certainly seems clear enough just now,” agreed Dominey.
“I have convinced myself,” the Prince said emphatically, “that there is a genuine and solid desire for peace with Germany existing in Downing Street. In every argument I have had, in every concession I have asked for, I have been met with a sincere desire to foster the growing friendship between our countries. I am proud of my work here, Von Ragastein. I believe that I have brought Germany and England nearer together than they have been since the days of the Boer War.”
“You are sure, sir,” Dominey asked, “that you are not confusing personal popularity with national sentiment?”
“I am sure of it,” the Ambassador answered gravely. “Such popularity as I may have achieved here has been due to an appreciation of the more healthy state of world politics now existing. It has been my great pleasure to trace the result of my work in a manuscript of memoirs, which some day, when peace is firmly established between our two countries, I shall cause to be published. I have put on record there evidences of the really genuine sentiment in favour of peace which I have found amongst the present Cabinet.”
“I should esteem it an immense privilege,” Dominey said, “to be given a private reading of these memoirs.”
“That may be arranged,” was the suave reply. “In the meantime, Von Ragastein, I want you to reconsider your position here.”
“My position is not voluntary,” Dominey repeated. “I am acting under orders.”
“Precisely,” the other acquiesced, “but matters have changed very much during the last six months. Even at the risk of offending France, England is showing wonderful pliability with regard to our claims in Morocco. Every prospect of disagreement between our two countries upon any vital matter has now disappeared.”
“Unless,” Dominey said thoughtfully, “the desire for war should come, not from Downing Street but from Potsdam.”
“We serve an honourable master,” Terniloff declared sternly, “and he has shown me his mind. His will is for peace, and for the great triumphs to which our country is already entitled by reason of her supremacy in industry, in commerce, in character and in genius. These are the weapons which will make Germany the greatest Power in the world. No empire has ever hewn its way to permanent glory by the sword alone. We have reached our stations, I see. Come to me after this drive is finished, my host. All that I have said so far has been by way of prelude.”
The weather had turned drier, the snow was crisp, and a little party of women from the Hall reached the guns before the beaters were through the wood. Caroline and Stephanie both took their places by Dominey's side. The former, however, after a few minutes passed on to Terniloff's stand. Stephanie and Dominey were alone for the first time since their stormy interview in the library.
“Has Maurice been talking to you?” she asked a little abruptly.
“His Excellency and I are, to tell you the truth,” Dominey confessed, “in the midst of a most interesting conversation.”
“Has he spoken to you about me?”
“Your name has not yet been mentioned.”
She made a little grimace. In her wonderful furs and Russian turban hat she made a rather striking picture against the background of snow.
“An interesting conversation in which my name has not been mentioned!” she repeated satirically.
“I think you were coming into it before very long,” Dominey assured her. “His Excellency warned me that all he had said so far was merely the prelude to a matter of larger importance.”
Stephanie smiled.
“Dear Maurice is so diplomatic,” she murmured. “I am perfectly certain he is going to begin by remonstrating you for your shocking treatment of me.”
Their conversation was interrupted for a few minutes by the sport. Dominey called the faithful Middleton to his side for a further supply of cartridges. Stephanie bided her time, which came when the beaters at last emerged from the wood.
“Shocking,” Stephanie repeated reverting to their conversation, “is the mildest word in my vocabulary which I can apply to your treatment of me. Honestly, Leopold, I feel bruised all over inside. My pride is humbled.”
“It is because you look at the matter only from a feminine point of view,” Dominey persisted.
“And you,” she answered in a low tone, “once the fondest and the most passionate of lovers, only from a political one. You think a great deal of your country, Leopold. Have I no claims upon you?”
“Upon Everard Dominey, none,” he insisted. “When the time comes, and Leopold Von Ragastein can claim all that is his right, believe me, you will have no cause to complain of coldness or dilatoriness. He will have only one thought, only one hope—to end the torture of these years of separation as speedily as may be.”
The strained look passed from her face. Her tone became more natural.
“But, dear,” she pleaded, “there is no need to wait. Your Sovereign gives you permission. Your political chief will more than endorse it.”
“I am on the spot,” Dominey replied, “and believe me I know what is safest and best. I cannot live as two men and keep my face steadfast to the world. The Prince, however, has not spoken to me yet. I will hear what he has to say.”
Stephanie turned a little haughtily away.
“You are putting me in the position of a supplicant!” she exclaimed. “To-night we must have an understanding.”
The little party moved on all together to another cover. Rosamund had joined them and hung on to Dominey's arm with delight. The brisk walk across the park had brought colour to her cheeks. She walked with all the free and vigorous grace of a healthy woman. Dominey found himself watching her, as she deserted him a little later on to stand by Terniloff's side, with a little thrill of tangled emotions. He felt a touch on his arm. Stephanie, who was passing with another of the guns, paused to whisper in his ear:
“There might be a greater danger—one that has evaded even your cautious mind—in overplaying your part!”
Dominey was taken possession of by Caroline on their walk to the next stand. She planted herself on a shooting stick by his side and commenced to take him roundly to task.
“My dear Everard,” she said, “you are one of the most wonderful examples of the reformed rake I ever met! You have even acquired respectability. For heaven's sake, don't disappoint us all!”
“I seem to be rather good at that,” Dominey observed a little drearily.
“Well, you are the master of your own actions, are you not?” she asked. “What I want to say in plain words is, don't go and make a fool of yourself with Stephanie.”
“I have not the least intention of doing anything of the sort.”
“Well, she has! Mark my words, Everard, I know that woman. She is clever and brilliant and anything else you like, but for some reason or other she has set her mind upon you. She looks at dear little Rosamund as though she hadn't a right to exist. Don't look so sorry for yourself. You must have encouraged her.”
Dominey was silent. Fortunately, the exigencies of the next few minutes demanded it. His cousin waited patiently until there came a pause in the shooting.
“Now let me hear what you have to say for yourself, sir? So far as I can see, you've been quite sweet to your wife, and she adores you. If you want to have an affair with the Princess, don't begin it here. You'll have your wife ill again if you make her jealous.”
“My dear Caroline, there will be no affair between Stephanie and me. Of that you may rest assured.”
“You mean to say that this is altogether on her side, then?” Caroline persisted.
“You exaggerate her demeanour,” he replied, “but even if what you suggest were true—”
“Oh, I don't want a lot of protestations!” she interrupted. “I am not saying that you encourage her much, because I don't believe you do. All I want to point out is that, having really brought your wife back almost to health, you must be extraordinarily and wonderfully careful. If you want to talk nonsense with Stephanie, do it in Belgrave Square.”
Dominey was watching the gyrations of a falling pheasant. His left hand was stretched out towards the cartridge bag which Caroline was holding. He clasped her fingers for a moment before he helped himself.
“You are rather a dear,” he said. “I would not do anything to hurt Rosamund for the world.”
“If you can't get rid of your old tricks altogether and must flirt,” she remarked, “well, I'm always somewhere about. Rosamund wouldn't mind me, because there are a few grey hairs in my sandy ones.—And here comes your man across the park—looks as though he had a message for you. So long as nothing has happened to your cook, I feel that I could face ill tidings with composure.”
Dominey found himself watching with fixed eyes the approach of his rather sad-faced manservant through the snow. Parkins was not dressed for such an enterprise, nor did he seem in any way to relish it. His was the stern march of duty, and, curiously enough, Dominey felt from the moment he caught sight of him that he was in some respects a messenger of Fate. Yet the message which he delivered, when at last he reached his master's side, was in no way alarming.
“A person of the name of Miller has arrived here, sir,” he announced, “from Norwich. He is, I understand, a foreigner of some sort, who has recently landed in this country. I found it a little difficult to understand him, but her Highness's maid conversed with him in German, and I understand that he either is or brings you a message from a certain Doctor Schmidt, with whom you were acquainted in Africa.”
The warning whistle blew at that moment, and Dominey swung round and stood at attention. His behaviour was perfectly normal. He let a hen pheasant pass over his head, and brought down a cock from very nearly the limit distance. He reloaded before he turned to Parkins.
“Is this person in a hurry?” he said.
“By no means, sir,” the man replied. “I told him that you would not be back until three or four o'clock, and he is quite content to wait.”
Dominey nodded.
“Look after him yourself then, Parkins,” he directed. “We shall not be shooting late to-day. Very likely I will send Mr. Seaman back to talk to him.”
The man raised his hat respectfully and turned back towards the house. Caroline was watching her companion curiously.
“Do you find many of your acquaintances in Africa look you up, Everard?” she asked.
“Except for Seaman,” Dominey replied, looking through the barrels of his gun, “who really does not count because we crossed together, this is my first visitor from the land of fortune. I expect there will be plenty of them by and by, though. Colonials have a wonderful habit of sticking to one another.”
There was nothing in the least alarming about the appearance of Mr. Ludwig Miller. He had been exceedingly well entertained in the butler's private sitting-room and had the air of having done full justice to the hospitality which had been offered him. He rose to his feet at Dominey's entrance and stood at attention. But for some slight indications of military training, he would have passed anywhere as a highly respectable retired tradesman.
“Sir Everard Dominey?” he enquired.
Dominey nodded assent. “That is my name. Have I seen you before?”
The man shook his head. “I am a cousin of Doctor Schmidt. I arrived in the Colony from Rhodesia, after your Excellency had left.”
“And how is the doctor?”
“My cousin is, as always, busy but in excellent health,” was the reply. “He sends his respectful compliments and his good wishes. Also this letter.”
With a little flourish the man produced an envelope inscribed:
To Sir Everard Dominey, Baronet,
Dominey Hall,
In the County of Norfolk,
England.
Dominey broke the seal just as Seaman entered.
“A messenger here from Doctor Schmidt, an acquaintance of mine in East Africa,” he announced. “Mr. Seaman came home from South Africa with me,” he explained to his visitor.
The two men looked steadily into each other's eyes. Dominey watched them, fascinated. Neither betrayed himself by even the fall of an eyelid. Yet Dominey, his perceptive powers at their very keenest in this moment which instinct told him was one of crisis, felt the unspoken, unbetokened recognition which passed between them. Some commonplace remark was uttered and responded to. Dominey read the few lines which seemed to take him back for a moment to another world:
“Honoured and Honourable Sir,
“I send you my heartiest and most respectful greeting. Of the progress of all matters here you will learn from another source.
“I recommend to your notice and kindness my cousin, the bearer of this letter—Mr. Ludwig Miller. He will lay before you certain circumstances of which it is advisable for you to have knowledge. You may speak freely with him. He is in all respects to be trusted.
“KARL SCHMIDT.” (Signed)
“Your cousin is a little mysterious,” Dominey remarked, as he passed the letter to Seaman. “Come, what about these circumstances?”
Ludwig Miller looked around the little room and then at Seaman. Dominey affected to misunderstand his hesitation.
“Our friend here knows everything,” he declared. “You can speak to him as to myself.”
The man began as one who has a story to tell.
“My errand here is to warn you,” he said, “that the Englishman whom you left for dead at Big Bend, on the banks of the Blue River, has been heard of in another part of Africa.”
Dominey shook his head incredulously. “I hope you have not come all this way to tell me that! The man was dead.”
“My cousin himself,” Miller continued, “was hard to convince. The man left his encampment with whisky enough to kill him, thirst enough to drink it all, and no food.”
“So I found him,” Dominey assented, “deserted by his boys and raving. To silence him forever was a child's task.”
“The task, however, was unperformed,” the other persisted. “From three places in the colony he has been heard of, struggling to make his way to the coast.”
“Does he call himself by his own name?” Dominey asked.
“He does not,” Miller admitted. “My cousin, however, desired me to point out to you the fact that in any case he would probably be shy of doing so. He is behaving in an absurd manner; he is in a very weakly state; and without a doubt he is to some degree insane. Nevertheless, the fact remains that he is in the Colony, or was three months ago, and that if he succeeds in reaching the coast you may at any time be surprised by a visit from him here. I am sent to warn you in order that you may take whatever steps may be necessary and not be placed at a disadvantage if he should appear.”
“This is queer news you have brought us, Miller,” Seaman said thoughtfully.
“It is news which greatly disturbed Doctor Schmidt,” the man replied. “He has had the natives up one after another for cross-examination. Nothing can shake their story.”
“If we believed it,” Seaman continued, “this other European, if he had business in this direction, might walk in here at any moment.”
“It was to warn you of that possibility that I am here.”
“How much do you know personally,” Seaman asked, “of the existent circumstances?”
The man shook his head vaguely.
“I know nothing,” he admitted. “I went out to East Africa some years ago, and I have been a trader in Mozambique in a small way. I supplied outfits for officers and hospitals and sportsmen. Now and then I have to return to Europe to buy fresh stock. Doctor Schmidt knew that, and he came to see me just before I sailed. He first thought of writing a very long letter. Afterwards he changed his mind. He wrote only these few lines I brought, but he told me those other things.”
“You have remembered all that he told you?” Dominey asked.
“I can think of nothing else,” was the reply, after a moment's pause. “The whole affair has been a great worry to Doctor Schmidt. There are things connected with it which he has never understood, things connected with it which he has always found mysterious.”
“Hence your presence here, Johann Wolff?” Seaman asked, in an altered tone.
The visitor's expression remained unchanged except for the faint surprise which shone out of his blue eyes.
“Johann Wolff,” he repeated. “That is not my name. I am Ludwig Miller, and I know nothing of this matter beyond what I have told you. I am just a messenger.”
“Once in Vienna and twice in Cracow, my friend, we have met,” Seaman reminded him softly but very insistently.
The other shook his head gently. “A mistake. I have been in Vienna once many years ago, but Cracow never.”
“You have no idea with whom you are talking?”
“Herr Seaman was the name, I understood.”
“It is a very good name,” Seaman scoffed. “Look here and think.”
He undid his coat and waistcoat and displayed a plain vest of chamois leather. Attached to the left-hand side of it was a bronze decoration, with lettering and a number. Miller stared at it blankly and shook his head.
“Information Department, Bureau Twelve, password—'The Day is coming,'” Seaman continued, dropping his voice.
His listener shook his head and smiled with the puzzled ignorance of a child.
“The gentleman mistakes me for some one else,” he replied. “I know nothing of these things.”
Seaman sat and studied this obstinate visitor for several minutes without speaking, his finger tips pressed together, his eyebrows gently contracted. His vis-a-vis endured this scrutiny without flinching, calm, phlegmatic, the very prototype of the bourgeois German of the tradesman class.
“Do you propose,” Dominey enquired, “to stay in these parts long?”
“One or two days—a week, perhaps,” was the indifferent answer. “I have a cousin in Norwich who makes toys. I love the English country. I spend my holiday here, perhaps.”
“Just so,” Seaman muttered grimly. “The English country under a foot of snow! So you have nothing more to say to me, Johann Wolff?”
“I have executed my mission to his Excellency,” was the apologetic reply. “I am sorry to have caused displeasure to you, Herr Seaman.”
The latter rose to his feet. Dominey had already turned towards the door.
“You will spend the night here, of course, Mr. Miller?” he invited. “I dare say Mr. Seaman would like to have another talk with you in the morning.”
“I shall gladly spend the night here, your Excellency,” was the polite reply. “I do not think that I have anything to say, however, which would interest your friend.”
“You are making a great mistake, Wolff,” Seaman declared angrily. “I am your superior in the Service, and your attitude towards me is indefensible.”
“If the gentleman would only believe,” the culprit begged, “that he is mistaking me for some one else!”
There was trouble in Seaman's face as the two men made their way to the front of the house and trouble in his tone as he answered his companion's query.
“What do you think of that fellow and his visit?”
“I do not know what to think, but there is a great deal that I know,” Seaman replied gravely. “The man is a spy, a favourite in the Wilhelmstrasse and only made use of on important occasions. His name is Wolff—Johann Wolff.”
“And this story of his?”
“You ought to be the best judge of that.”
“I am,” Dominey assented confidently. “Without the shadow of a doubt I threw the body of the man I killed into the Blue River and watched it sink.”
“Then the story is a fake,” Seaman decided. “For some reason or other we have come under the suspicion of our own secret service.”
Seaman, as they emerged into the hall, was summoned imperiously to her side by the Princess Eiderstrom. Dominey disappeared for a moment and returned presently, having discarded some of his soaked shooting garments. He was followed by his valet, bearing a note upon a silver tray.
“From the person in Mr. Parkins' room—to Mr. Seaman, sir,” the man announced, in a low tone.
Dominey took it from the salver with a little nod. Then he turned to where the youngest and most frivolous of his guests were in the act of rising from the tea table.
“A game of pills, Eddy,” he proposed. “They tell me that pool is one of your greatest accomplishments.”
“I'm pretty useful,” the young man confessed, with a satisfied chuckle. “Give you a black at snooker, what?”
Dominey took his arm and led him into the billiard-room.
“You will give me nothing, young fellow,” he replied. “Set them up, and I will show you how I made a living for two months at Johannesberg!”
The evening at Dominey hall was practically a repetition of the previous one, with a different set of guests from the outer world. After dinner, Dominey was absent for a few minutes and returned with Rosamund upon his arm. She received the congratulations of her neighbours charmingly, and a little court soon gathered around her. Doctor Harrison, who had been dining, remained upon the outskirts, listening to her light-hearted and at times almost brilliant chatter with grave and watchful interest. Dominey, satisfied that she was being entertained, obeyed Terniloff's gestured behest and strolled with him to a distant corner of the hall.
“Let me now, my dear host,” the Prince began, with some eagerness in his tone, “continue and, I trust, conclude the conversation to which all that I said this morning was merely the prelude.”
“I am entirely at your service,” murmured his host.
“I have tried to make you understand that from my own point of view—and I am in a position to know something—the fear of war between this country and our own has passed. England is willing to make all reasonable sacrifices to ensure peace. She wants peace, she intends peace, therefore there will be peace. Therefore, I maintain, my young friend, it is far better for you to disappear at once from this false position.”
“I am scarcely my own master,” Dominey replied. “You yourself must know that. I am here as a servant under orders.”
“Join your protests with mine,” the Prince suggested. “I will make a report directly I get back to London. To my mind, the matter is urgent. If anything should lead to the discovery of your false position in this country, the friendship between us which has become a real pleasure to me must seriously undermine my own position.”
Dominey had risen to his feet and was standing on the hearthrug, in front of a fire of blazing logs. The Ambassador was sitting with crossed legs in a comfortable easy-chair, smoking one of the long, thin cigars which were his particular fancy.
“Your Excellency,” Dominey said, “there is just one fallacy in all that you have said.”
“A fallacy?”
“You have come to the absolute conclusion,” Dominey continued, “that because England wants peace there will be peace. I am of Seaman's mind. I believe in the ultimate power of the military party of Germany. I believe that in time they will thrust their will upon the Kaiser, if he is not at the present moment secretly in league with them. Therefore, I believe that there will be war.”
“If I shared that belief with you, my friend,” the Ambassador said quietly, “I should consider my position here one of dishonour. My mandate is for peace, and my charge is from the Kaiser's lips.”
Stephanie, with the air of one a little weary of the conversation, broke away from a distant group and came towards them. Her beautiful eyes seemed tired, she moved listlessly, and she even spoke with less than her usual assurance.
“Am I disturbing a serious conversation?” she asked. “Send me away if I am.”
“His Excellency and I,” Dominey observed, “have reached a cul-de-sac in our argument,—the blank wall of good-natured but fundamental disagreement.”
“Then I shall claim you for a while,” Stephanie declared, taking Dominey's arm. “Lady Dominey has attracted all the men to her circle, and I am lonely.”
The Prince bowed.
“I deny the cul-de-sac,” he said, “but I yield our host! I shall seek my opponent at billiards.”
He turned away and Stephanie sank into his vacant place.
“So you and my cousin,” she remarked, as she made room for Dominey to sit by her side, “have come to a disagreement.”
“Not an unfriendly one,” her host assured her.
“That I am sure of. Maurice seems, indeed, to have taken a wonderful liking to you. I cannot remember that you ever met before, except for that day or two in Saxony?”
“That is so. The first time I exchanged any intimate conversation with the Prince was in London. I have the utmost respect and regard for him, but I cannot help feeling that the pleasant intimacy to which he has admitted me is to a large extent owing to the desire of our friends in Berlin. So far as I am concerned I have never met any one, of any nation, whose character I admire more.”
“Maurice lives his life loftily. He is one of the few great aristocrats I have met who carries his nobility of birth into his simplest thought and action. There is just one thing,” she added, “which would break his heart.”
“And that?”
“The subject upon which you two disagree—a war between Germany and this country.”
“The Prince is an idealist,” Dominey said. “Sometimes I wonder why he was sent here, why they did not send some one of a more intriguing character.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You agree with that great Frenchman,” she observed, “that no ambassador can remain a gentleman—politically.”
“Well, I have never been a diplomat, so I cannot say,” Dominey replied.
“You have many qualifications, I should think,” she observed cuttingly.
“Such as?”
“You are absolutely callous, absolutely without heart or sympathy where your work is concerned.”
“I do not admit it,” he protested.
“I go back to London to-morrow,” she continued, “a very miserable and unhappy woman. I take with me the letter which should have brought me happiness. The love for which I have sacrificed my life has failed me. Not even the whip of a royal command, not even all that I have to offer, can give me even five seconds of happiness.”
“All that I have pleaded for,” Dominey reminded her earnestly, “is delay.”
“And what delay do you think,” she asked, with a sudden note of passion in her tone, “would the Leopold Von Ragastein of six years ago have pleaded for? Delay! He found words then which would have melted an iceberg. He found words the memory of which comes to me sometimes in the night and which mock me. He had no country then save the paradise where lovers walk, no ruler but a queen, and I was she. And now—”
Dominey felt a strange pang of distress. She saw the unusual softening in his face, and her eyes lit up.
“Just for a moment,” she broke off, “you were like Leopold. As a rule, you know, you are not like him. I think that you left him somewhere in Africa and came home in his likeness.”
“Believe that for a little time,” Dominey begged earnestly.
“What if it were true?” she asked abruptly. “There are times when I do not recognise you. There are words Leopold used to use which I have never heard from your lips. Is not West Africa the sorcerer's paradise? Perhaps you are an imposter, and the man I love is there still, in trouble—perhaps ill. You play the part of Everard Dominey like a very king of actors. Perhaps before you came here you played the part of Leopold. You are not my Leopold. Love cannot die as you would have me believe.”
“Now,” he said coolly, “you are coming round to my way of thinking. I have been assuring you, from the very first moment we met at the Carlton, that I was not your Leopold—that I was Everard Dominey.”
“I shall put you to the test,” she exclaimed suddenly, rising to her feet. “Your arm, if you please.”
She led him across the hall to where little groups of people were gossiping, playing bridge, and Seaman, the center of a little group of gullible amateur speculators, was lecturing on mines. They stopped to say a word or two here and there, but Stephanie's fingers never left her companion's arm. They passed down a corridor hung with a collection of wonderful sporting prints in which she affected some interest, into a small gallery which led into the ballroom. Here they were alone. She laid her hands upon his shoulders and looked up into his eyes. Her lips drew nearer to his.
“Kiss me—upon the lips, Leopold,” she ordered.
“There is no Leopold here,” he replied; “you yourself have said it.”
She came a little nearer. “Upon the lips,” she whispered.
He held her, stooped down, and their lips met. Then she stood apart from him. Her eyes were for a moment closed, her hands were extended as though to prevent any chance of his approaching her again.
“Now I know the truth,” she muttered.
Dominey found an opportunity to draw Seaman away from his little group of investment-seeking friends.
“My friend,” he said, “trouble grows.”
“Anything more from Schmidt's supposed emissary?” Seaman asked quickly.
“No. I am going to keep away from him this evening, and I advise you to do the same. The trouble is with the Princess.”
“With the Princess,” declared Seaman. “I think you have blundered. I quite appreciate your general principles of behaving internally and externally as though you were the person whom you pretend to be. It is the very essence of all successful espionage. But you should know when to make exceptions. I see grave objections myself to your obeying the Kaiser's behest. On the other hand, I see no objection whatever to your treating the Princess in a more human manner, to your visiting her in London, and giving her more ardent proofs of your continued affection.”
“If I once begin—”
“Look here,” Seaman interrupted, “the Princess is a woman of the world. She knows what she is doing, and there is a definite tie between you. I tell you frankly that I could not bear to see you playing the idiot for a moment with Lady Dominey, but with the Princess, scruples don't enter into the question at all. You should by no means make an enemy of her.”
“Well, I have done it,” Dominey acknowledged. “She has gone off to bed now, and she is leaving early to-morrow morning. She thinks I have borrowed some West African magic, that I have left her lover's soul out there and come home in his body.”
“Well, if she does,” Seaman declared, “you are out of your troubles.”
“Am I!” Dominey replied gloomily. “First of all, she may do a lot of mischief before she goes. And then, supposing by any thousand to one chance the story of this cousin of Schmidt's should be true, and she should find Dominey out there, still alive? The Princess is not of German birth, you know. She cares nothing for Germany's future. As a matter of fact, I think, like a great many Hungarians, she prefers England. They say that an Englishman has as many lives as a cat. Supposing that chap Dominey did come to life again and she brings him home? You say yourself that you do not mean to make much use of me until after the war has started. In the parlance of this country of idioms, that will rather upset the apple cart, will it not?”
“Has the Princess a suite of rooms here?” Seaman enquired.
“Over in the west wing. Good idea! You go and see what you can do with her. She will not think of going to bed at this time of night.”
Seaman nodded.
“Leave it to me,” he directed. “You go out and play the host.”
Dominey played the host first and then the husband. Rosamund welcomed him with a little cry of pleasure.
“I have been enjoying myself so much, Everard!” she exclaimed. “Everybody has been so kind, and Mr. Mangan has taught me a new Patience.”
“And now, I think,” Doctor Harrison intervened a little gruffly, “it's time to knock off for the evening.”
She turned very sweetly to Everard.
“Will you take me upstairs?” she begged. “I have been hoping so much that you would come before Doctor Harrison sent me off.”
“I should have been very disappointed if I had been too late,” Dominey assured her. “Now say good night to everybody.”
“Why, you talk to me as though I were a child,” she laughed. “Well, good-bye, everybody, then. You see, my stern husband is taking me off. When are you coming to see me, Doctor Harrison?”
“Nothing to see you for,” was the gruff reply. “You are as well as any woman here.”
“Just a little unsympathetic, isn't he?” she complained to Dominey. “Please take me through the hall, so that I can say good-bye to every one else. Is the Princess Eiderstrom there?”
“I am afraid that she has gone to bed,” Dominey answered, as they passed out of the room. “She said something about a headache.”
“She is very beautiful,” Rosamund said wistfully. “I wish she looked as though she liked me a little more. Is she very fond of you, Everard?”
“I think that I am rather in her bad books just at present,” Dominey confessed.
“I wonder! I am very observant, and I have seen her looking at you sometimes—Of course,” Rosamund went on, “as I am not really your wife and you are not really my husband, it is very stupid of me to feel jealous, isn't it, Everard?”
“Not a bit,” he answered. “If I am not your husband, I will not be anybody else's.”
“I love you to say that,” she admitted, with a little sigh, “but it seems wrong somewhere. Look how cross the Duchess looks! Some one must have played the wrong card.”
Rosamund's farewells were not easily made; Terniloff especially seemed reluctant to let her go. She excused herself gracefully, however, promising to sit up a little later the next evening. Dominey led the way upstairs, curiously gratified at her lingering progress. He took her to the door of her room and looked in. The nurse was sitting in an easy-chair, reading, and the maid was sewing in the background.
“Well, you look very comfortable here,” he declared cheerfully. “Pray do not move, nurse.”
Rosamund held his hands, as though reluctant to let him go. Then she drew his face down and kissed him.
“Yes,” she said a little plaintively, “it's very comfortable.—Everard?”
“Yes, dear?”
She drew his head down and whispered in his ear.
“May I come in and say good night for two minutes?”
He smiled—a wonderfully kind smile—but shook his head.
“Not to-night, dear,” he replied. “The Prince loves to sit up late, and I shall be downstairs with him. Besides, that bully of a doctor of yours insists upon ten hours' sleep.”
She sighed like a disappointed child.
“Very well.” She paused for a moment to listen. “Wasn't that a car?” she asked.
“Some of our guests going early, I dare say,” he replied, as he turned away.