The Duke paused, in his way across the crowded reception rooms, to speak to his host, Sir Edward Bransome, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
“I have just written you a line, Bransome,” he said, as they shook hands. “The chief tells me that he is going to honor us down at Devenham for a few days, and that we may expect you also.”
“You are very kind, Duke,” Bransome answered. “I suppose Haviland explained the matter to you.”
The Duke nodded.
“You are going to help me entertain my other distinguished visitor,” he remarked. “I fancy we shall be quite an interesting party.”
Bransome glanced around.
“I hope most earnestly,” he said, “that we shall induce our young friend to be a little more candid with us than he has been. One can’t get a word out of Hesho, but I’m bound to say that I don’t altogether like the look of things. The Press are beginning to smell a rat. Two leading articles this morning, I see, upon our Eastern relations.”
The Duke nodded.
“I read them,” he said. “We are informed that the prestige and success of our ministry will entirely depend upon whether or not we are able to arrange for the renewal of our treaty with Japan. I remember the same papers shrieking themselves hoarse with indignation when we first joined hands with our little friends across the sea!”
His secretary approached Bransome and touched him on the shoulder.
“There is a person in the anteroom, sir,” he said, “whom I think that you ought to see.”
The Duke nodded and passed on. The Secretary drew his chief on one side.
“This man has just arrived from Paris, sir,” he continued, “and is the bearer of a letter which he is instructed to deliver into your hands only.”
Bransome nodded.
“Is he known to us at all?” he asked. “From whom does the letter come?”
The young man hesitated.
“The letter itself, sir, has nothing to do with France, I imagine,” he said. “The person I refer to is an American, and although I have no positive information, I believe that he is sometimes intrusted with the carrying of despatches from Washington to his Embassy. Once or twice lately I have had it reported to me that communications from the other side to Mr. Harvey have been sent by hand. It seems as though they had some objection to committing important documents to the post.”
Bransome walked through the crowded rooms by the side of his secretary, stopping for a moment to exchange greetings here and there with his friends. His wife was giving her third reception of the session to the diplomatic world.
“Washington has certainly shown signs of mistrust lately,” he remarked, “but if communications from them are ever tampered with, it is more likely to be on their side than ours. They have a particularly unscrupulous Press to deal with, besides political intriguers. If this person you speak of is really the bearer of a letter from there,” he added, “I think we can both guess what it is about.”
The secretary nodded.
“Shall I ring up Mr. Haviland, sir?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Bransome answered. “It is just possible that this person requires an immediate reply, in which case it may be convenient for me not to be able to get at the Prime Minister. Bring him along into my private room, Sidney.”
Sir Edward Bransome made his way to his study, opened the door with a Yale key, turned on the electric lights, and crossed slowly to the hearthrug. He stood there, for several moments, with his elbow upon the mantelpiece, looking down into the fire. A darker shadow had stolen across his face as soon as he was alone. In his court dress and brilliant array of orders, he was certainly a very distinguished-looking figure. Yet the last few years had branded lines into his face which it was doubtful if he would ever lose. To be Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the greatest power which the world had as yet known must certainly seem, on paper, to be as brilliant a post as a man’s ambition could covet. Many years ago it had seemed so to Bransome himself. It was a post which he had deliberately coveted, worked for, and strived for. And now, when in sight of the end, with two years of office only to run, he was appalled at the ever-growing responsibilities thrust upon his shoulders. There was never, perhaps, a time when, on paper, things had seemed smoother, when the distant mutterings of disaster were less audible. It was only those who were behind the curtain who realized how deceptive appearances were.
In a few minutes his secretary reappeared, ushering in Mr. James B. Coulson. Mr. Coulson was still a little pale from the effects of his crossing, and he wore a long, thick ulster to conceal the deficiencies of his attire. Nevertheless his usual breeziness of manner had not altogether deserted him. Sir Edward looked him up and down, and finding him look exactly as Mr. James B. Coulson of the Coulson & Bruce Syndicate should look, was inclined to wonder whether his secretary had made a mistake.
“I was told that you wished to see me,” he said. “I am Sir Edward Bransome.”
Mr. James B. Coulson nodded appreciatively.
“Very good of you, Sir Edward,” he said, “to put yourself out at this time of night to have a word or two with me. I am sorry to have troubled you, anyway, but the matter was sort of urgent.”
Sir Edward bent his head.
“I understand, Mr. Coulson,” he said, “that you come from the United States.”
“That is so, sir,” Mr. Coulson replied. “I am at the head of a syndicate, the Coulson & Bruce Syndicate, which in course of time hope to revolutionize the machinery used for spinning wool all over the world. Likewise we have patents for other machinery connected with the manufacture of all varieties of woollen goods. I am over here on a business trip, which I have just concluded.”
“Satisfactorily, I trust?” Sir Edward remarked.
“Well, I’m not grumbling, sir,” Mr. Coulson assented. “Here and there I may have missed a thing, and the old fashioned way of doing business on this side bothers me a bit, but on the whole I’m not grumbling.”
Bransome bowed. Perhaps, after all, the man was not a fool!
“I have a good many friends round about Washington,” Mr. Coulson continued, “and sometimes, when they know I am coming across, one or the other of them finds it convenient to hand me a letter. It isn’t the postage stamp that worries them,” he added with a little laugh, “but they sort of feel that anything committed to me is fairly safe to reach its right destination.”
“Without disputing that fact for one moment, Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward remarked, “I might also suggest that the ordinary mail service between our countries has reached a marvellous degree of perfection.”
“The Post Office,” Mr. Coulson continued meditatively, “is a great institution, both on your side and ours, but a letter posted in Washington has to go through a good many hands before it is delivered in London.”
Sir Edward smiled.
“It is a fact, sir,” he said, “which the various Governments of Europe have realized for many years, in connection with the exchange of communications one with the other. Your own great country, as it grows and expands, becomes, of necessity, more in touch with our methods. Did I understand that you have a letter for me, Mr. Coulson?”
Mr. Coulson produced it.
“Friend of mine you may have heard of,” he said, “asked me to leave this with you. I am catching the Princess Cecilia from Southampton tomorrow. I thought, perhaps, if I waited an hour or so, I might take the answer back with me.”
“It is getting late, Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward reminded him, glancing at the clock.
Mr. Coulson smiled.
“I think, Sir Edward,” he said, “that in your line of business time counts for little.”
Sir Edward motioned his visitor to a chair and touched the bell.
“I shall require the A3X cipher, Sidney,” he said to his secretary.
Mr. Coulson looked up.
“Why,” he said, “I don’t think you’ll need that. The letter you’ve got in your hand is just a personal one, and what my friend has to say to you is written out there in black and white.”
Sir Edward withdrew the enclosure from its envelope and raised his eyebrows.
“Isn’t this a trifle indiscreet?” he asked.
“Why, I should say not,” Mr. Coulson answered. “My friend—Mr. Jones we’ll call him—knew me and, I presume, knew what he was about. Besides, that is a plain letter from the head of a business firm to—shall we say a client? There’s nothing in it to conceal.”
“At the same time,” Sir Edward remarked, “it might have been as well to have fastened the flap of the envelope.”
Mr. Coulson held out his hand.
“Let me look,” he said.
Sir Edward gave it into his hands. Mr. Coulson held it under the electric light. There was no indication in his face of any surprise or disturbance.
“Bit short of gum in our stationery office,” he remarked.
Sir Edward was looking at him steadily.
“My impressions were,” he said, “when I opened this letter, that I was not the first person who had done so. The envelope flew apart in my fingers.”
Mr. Coulson shook his head.
“The document has never been out of my possession, sir,” he said. “It has not even left my person. My friend Mr. Jones does not believe in too much secrecy in matters of this sort. I have had a good deal of experience now and am inclined to agree with him. A letter in a double-ended envelope, stuck all over with sealing wax, is pretty certain to be opened in case of any accident to the bearer. This one, as you may not have noticed, is written in the same handwriting and addressed in the same manner as the remainder of my letters of introduction to various London and Paris houses of business.”
Sir Edward said no more. He read the few lines written on a single sheet of notepaper, starting a little at the signature. Then he read them again and placed the document beneath a paper weight in front of him. When he leaned across the table, his folded arms formed a semicircle around it.
“This letter, Mr. Coulson,” he said, “is not an official communication.”
“It is not,” Mr. Coulson admitted. “I fancy it occurred to my friend Jones that anything official would be hardly in place and might be easier to evade. The matter has already cropped up in negotiations between Mr. Harvey and your Cabinet, but so far we are without any definite pronouncement,—at least, that is how my friend Mr. Jones looks at it.”
Sir Edward smiled.
“The only answer your friend asks for is a verbal one,” he remarked.
“A verbal one,” Mr. Coulson assented, “delivered to me in the presence of one other person, whose name you will find mentioned in that letter.”
Sir Edward bowed his head. When he spoke again, his manner had somehow changed. It had become at once more official,—a trifle more stilted.
“This is a great subject, Mr. Coulson,” he said. “It is a subject which has occupied the attention of His Majesty’s Ministers for many months. I shall take the opinion of the other person whose name is mentioned in this letter, as to whether we can grant Mr. Jones’ request. If we should do so, it will not, I am sure, be necessary to say to you that any communication we may make on the subject tonight will be from men to a man of honor, and must be accepted as such. It will be our honest and sincere conviction, but it must also be understood that it does not bind the Government of this country to any course of action.”
Mr. Coulson smiled and nodded his head.
“That is what I call diplomacy, Sir Edward,” he remarked. “I always tell our people that they are too bullheaded. They don’t use enough words. What about that other friend of yours?”
Sir Edward glanced at his watch.
“It is possible,” he said, “that by this time Mr.——- Mr. Smith, shall we call him, to match your Mr. Jones?—is attending my wife’s reception, from which your message called me. If he has not yet arrived, my secretary shall telephone for him.”
Mr. Coulson indicated his approval.
“Seems to me,” he remarked, “that I have struck a fortunate evening for my visit.”
Sir Edward touched the bell and his secretary appeared.
“Sidney,” he said, “I want you to find the gentleman whose name I am writing upon this piece of paper. If he is not in the reception rooms and has not arrived, telephone for him. Say that I shall be glad if he would come this way at once. He will understand that it is a matter of some importance.”
The secretary bowed and withdrew, after a glance at the piece of paper which he held in his hand. Sir Edward turned toward his visitor.
“Mr. Coulson,” he said, “will you allow me the privilege of offering you some refreshment?”
“I thank you, sir,” Mr. Coulson answered. “I am in want of nothing but a smoke.”
Sir Edward turned to the bell, but his visitor promptly stopped him.
“If you will allow me, sir,” he said, “I will smoke one of my own. Home-made article, five dollars a hundred, but I can’t stand these strong Havanas. Try one.”
Sir Edward waved them away.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I will smoke a cigarette. Since you are here, Mr. Coulson, I may say that I am very glad to meet you. I am very glad, also, of this opportunity for a few minutes’ conversation upon another matter.”
Mr. Coulson showed some signs of surprise.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“There is another subject,” Sir Edward said, “which I should like to discuss with you while we are waiting for Mr. Smith.”
Mr. Coulson moved his cigar into a corner of his mouth, as though to obtain a clear view of his questioner’s face. His expression was one of bland interest.
“Well, I guess you’ve got me puzzled, Sir Edward,” he said. “You aren’t thinking of doing anything in woollen machinery, are you?”
Sir Edward smiled.
“I think not, Mr. Coulson,” he answered. “At any rate, my question had nothing to do with your other very interesting avocation. What I wanted to ask you was whether you could tell me anything about a compatriot of yours—a Mr. Hamilton Fynes?”
“Hamilton Fynes!” Mr. Coulson repeated thoughtfully. “Why, that’s the man who got murdered on the cars, going from Liverpool to London.”
“That is so,” Sir Edward admitted.
Mr. Coulson shook his head.
“I told that reporter fellow all I knew about him,” he said. “He was an unsociable sort of chap, you know, Sir Edward, and he wasn’t in any line of business.”
“H’m! I thought he might have been,” the Minister answered, glancing keenly for a moment at his visitor. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Coulson, we have been a great deal bothered about that unfortunate incident, and by the subsequent murder of the young man who was attached to your Embassy here. Scotland Yard has strained every nerve to bring the guilty people to justice, but so far unsuccessfully. It seems to me that your friends on the other side scarcely seem to give us credit for our exertions. They do not help us in the least. They assure us that they had no knowledge of Mr. Fynes other than has appeared in the papers. They recognize him only as an American citizen going about his legitimate business. A little more confidence on their part would, I think, render our task easier.”
Mr. Coulson scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully.
“Well,” he said, “I can understand their feeling a bit sore about it. I’m not exactly given to brag when I’m away from my own country—one hears too much of that all the time—but between you and me, I shouldn’t say that it was possible for two crimes like that to be committed in New York City and for the murderer to get off scot free in either case.”
“The matter,” Sir Edward declared, “has given us a great deal of anxiety, and I can assure you that the Home Secretary himself has taken a strong personal interest in it, but at the same time, as I have just pointed out to you, our investigations are rendered the more difficult from the fact that we cannot learn anything definite concerning this Mr. Hamilton Fynes or his visit to this country. Now, if we knew, for instance,” Sir Edward continued, “that he was carrying documents, or even a letter, similar to the one you have just handed to me, we might at once discover a motive to the crime, and work backwards until we reached the perpetrator.”
Mr. Coulson knocked the ash from his cigar.
“I see what you are driving at,” he said. “I am sorry I can be of no assistance to you, Sir Edward.”
“Neither in the case of Mr. Hamilton Fynes or in the case of Mr. Richard Vanderpole?” Sir Edward asked.
Mr. Coulson shook his head.
“Quite out of my line,” he declared.
“Notwithstanding the fact,” Sir Edward reminded him quietly, “that you were probably the last person to see Vanderpole alive? He came to the Savoy to call upon you before he got into the taxicab where he was murdered. That is so, isn’t it?”
“Sure!” Mr. Coulson answered. “A nice young fellow he was, too. Well set up, and real American manners,—Hail, fellow, well met!’ with you right away.”
“I suppose, Mr. Coulson,” the Minister suggested smoothly, “it wouldn’t answer your purpose to put aside that bluff about patents for the development of the woollen trade for a few moments, and tell me exactly what passed between you and Mr. Vanderpole at the Savoy Hotel, and the object of his calling upon you? Whether, for instance, he took away with him documents or papers intended for the Embassy and which you yourself had brought from America?”
“You do think of things!” Mr. Coulson remarked admiringly. “You’re on the wrong track this time, though, sure. Still, supposing I were able to tell you that Mr. Vanderpole was carrying papers of importance to my country, and that Mr. Hamilton Fynes was also in possession of the same class of document, how would it help you? In what fresh direction should you look then for the murderers of these two men?”
“Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward said, “we should consider the nature of those documents, and we should see to whose advantage it was that they were suppressed.”
Mr. Coulson’s face seemed suddenly old and lined. He spoke with a new vigor, and his eyes were very keen and bright under his bushy eyebrows.
“And supposing it was your country’s?” he asked. “Supposing they contained instructions to our Ambassador which you might consider inimical to your interests? Do you mean that you would look at home for the murderer? You mean that you have men so devoted to their native land that they were willing to run the risk of death by the hangman to aid her? You mean that your Secret Service is perfected to that extent, and that the scales of justice are held blindfolded? Or do you mean that Scotland Yard would have its orders, and that these men would go free?”
“I was not thinking of my own country,” Sir Edward admitted. “I must confess that my thoughts had turned elsewhere.”
“Let me tell you this, sir,” Mr. Coulson continued. “I should imagine that the trouble with Washington, if there is any, is simply that they will not believe that your police have a free hand. They will not believe that you are honestly and genuinely anxious for the discovery of the perpetrator of these crimes. I speak without authority, you understand? I am no more in a position to discuss this affair than any other tourist from my country who might happen to come along.”
Sir Edward shrugged his shoulders.
“Can you suggest any method,” he asked a little dryly, “by means of which we might remove this unfortunate impression?”
Mr. Coulson flicked the ash once more from the end of his cigar and looked at it thoughtfully.
“This isn’t my show,” he said, “and, you understand, I am giving the views of Mr. James B. Coulson, and nobody but Mr. James B. Coulson, but if I were in your position, and knew that a friendly country was feeling a little bit sore at having two of her citizens disposed of so unceremoniously, I’d do my best to prove, by the only possible means, that I was taking the matter seriously.”
“The only possible means being?” Sir Edward asked.
“I guess I’d offer a reward,” Mr. Coulson admitted.
Sir Edward did not hesitate for a moment.
“Your idea is an excellent one, Mr. Coulson,” he said. “It has already been mooted, but we will give it a little emphasis. Tomorrow we will offer a reward of one thousand pounds for any information leading to the apprehension of either murderer.”
“That sounds bully,” Mr. Coulson declared.
“You think that it will have a good effect upon your friends in Washington?”
“Me?” Mr. Coulson asked. “I know nothing about it. I’ve given you my personal opinion only. Seems to me, though, it’s the best way of showing that you’re in earnest.”
“Before we quit this subject finally, Mr. Coulson,” Sir Edward said, “I am going to ask you a question which you have been asked before.”
“Referring to Hamilton Fynes?” Mr. Coulson asked.
“Yes!”
“Get your young man to lay his hand on that copy of the Comet,” Mr. Coulson begged earnestly. “I told that pushing young journalist all I knew and a bit more. I assure you, my information isn’t worth anything.”
“Was it meant to be worth anything?” Sir Edward asked.
Mr. Coulson remained imperturbable.
“If you don’t mind, Sir Edward,” he said, “I guess we’ll drop the subject of Mr. Hamilton Fynes. We can’t get any forwarder. Let it go at that.”
There was a knock at the door. Sir Edward’s secretary ushered in a tall, plainly dressed gentleman, who had the slightly aggrieved air of a man who has been kept out of his bed beyond the usual time.
“My dear Bransome,” he said, shaking hands, “isn’t this a little unreasonable of you? Business at this hour of the night! I was in the midst of a most amusing conversation with a delightful acquaintance of your wife’s, a young lady who turned up her nose at Hegel and had developed a philosophy of her own. I was just beginning to grasp its first principles. Nothing else, I am quite sure, would have kept me awake.”
Sir Edward leaned across the table towards Mr. Coulson. Mr. Coulson had risen to his feet.
“This gentleman,” he said, “is Mr. Smith.”
The newcomer opened his lips to protest, but Sir Edward held out his hand.
“One moment,” he begged. “Our friend here—Mr. J. B. Coulson from New York—has brought a letter from America. He is sailing tomorrow,—leaving London somewhere about eight o’clock in the morning, I imagine. He wishes to take back a verbal reply. The letter, you will understand, comes from a Mr. Jones, and the reply is delivered in the presence of—Mr. Smith. Our friend here is not personally concerned in these affairs. As a matter of fact, I believe he has been on the Continent exploiting some patents of his own invention.”
The newcomer accepted the burden of his altered nomenclature and took up the letter. He glanced at the signature, and his manner became at once more interested. He accepted the chair which Sir Edward had placed by his side, and, drawing the electric light a little nearer, read the document through, word by word. Then he folded it up, and glanced first at his colleague and afterwards at Mr. Coulson.
“I understand,” he said, “that this is a private inquiry from a private gentleman, who is entitled, however, to as much courtesy as it is possible for us to show him.”
“That is exactly the position, sir,” Mr. Coulson replied. “Negotiations of a more formal character are naturally conducted between your Foreign Office and the Foreign Office of my country. These few lines come from man to man. I think that it occurred to my friend that it might save a great deal of trouble, a great deal of specious diplomacy, and a great many hundred pages of labored despatches, if, at the bottom of it all, he knew your true feelings concerning this question. It is, after all, a simple matter,” Mr. Coulson continued, “and yet it is a matter with so many ramifications that after much discussion it might become a veritable chaos.”
Mr. Smith inclined his head gently.
“I appreciate the situation,” he said. “My friend here—Sir Edward Bransome—and I have already discussed the matter at great length. We have also had the benefit of the advice and help of a greater Foreign Minister than either of us could ever hope to become. I see no objection to giving you the verbal reply you ask for. Do you, Bransome?”
“None whatever, sir.”
“I leave it to you to put it in your own words,” Mr. Smith continued. “The affair is within your province, and the policy of His Majesty’s Ministers is absolutely fixed.”
Sir Edward turned toward their visitor.
“Mr. Coulson,” he said, “we are asked by your friend, in a few plain words, what the attitude of Great Britain would be in the event of a war between Japan and America. My answer—our answer—to you is this,—no war between Japan and America is likely to take place unless your Cabinet should go to unreasonable and uncalled-for extremes. We have ascertained, beyond any measure of doubt, the sincere feeling of our ally in this matter. Japan does not desire war, is not preparing for it, is unwilling even to entertain the possibility of it. At the same time she feels that her sons should receive the same consideration from every nation in the world as the sons of other people. Personally it is our profound conviction that the good sense, the fairness, and the generous instincts of your great country will recognize this and act accordingly. War between your country and Japan is an impossible thing. The thought of it exists only in the frothy vaporings of cheap newspapers, and the sensational utterances of the catch politician who must find an audience and a hearing by any methods. The sober possibility of such a conflict does not exist.”
Mr. Coulson listened attentively to every word. When Sir Edward had finished, he withdrew his cigar from his mouth and knocked the ash on to a corner of the writing table.
“That’s all very interesting indeed, Sir Edward,” he declared. “I am very pleased to have heard what you have said, and I shall repeat it to my friend on the other side, who, I am sure, will be exceedingly obliged to you for such a frank exposition of your views. And now,” he continued, “I don’t want to keep you gentlemen up too late, so perhaps you will be coming to the answer of my question.”
“The answer!” Sir Edward exclaimed. “Surely I made myself clear?”
“All that you have said,” Mr. Coulson admitted, “has been remarkably clear, but the question I asked you was this,—what is to be the position of your country in the event of war between Japan and America?”
“And I have told you,” Sir Edward declared, “that war between Japan and America is not a subject within the scope of practical politics.”
“We may consider ourselves—my friend Mr. Jones would certainly consider himself,” Mr. Coulson affirmed,—“as good a judge as you, Sir Edward, so far as regards that matter. I am not asking you whether it is probable or improbable. You may know the feelings of your ally. You do not know ours. We may look into the future, and we may see that, sooner or later, war between our country and Japan is a necessity. We may decide that it is better for us to fight now than later. These things are in the clouds. They only enter into the present discussion to this extent, but it is not for you to sit here and say whether war between the United States and Japan is possible or impossible. What Mr. Jones asks you is—what would be your position if it should take place? The little diatribe with which you have just favored me is exactly the reply we should have expected to receive formally from Downing Street. It isn’t that sort of reply I want to take back to Mr. Jones.”
Mr. Smith and his colleague exchanged glances, and the latter drew his chief on one side.
“You will excuse me for a moment, I know, Mr. Coulson,” he said.
“Why, by all means,” Mr. Coulson declared. “My time is my own, and it is entirely at your service. If you say the word, I’ll go outside and wait.”
“It is not necessary,” Sir Edward answered.
The room was a large one, and the two men walked slowly up and down, Mr. Smith leaning all the time upon his colleague’s shoulder. They spoke in an undertone, and what they said was inaudible to Mr. Coulson. During his period of waiting he drew another cigar from his pocket, and lit it from the stump of the old one. Then he made himself a little more comfortable in his chair, and looked around at the walls of the handsomely furnished but rather sombre apartment with an air of pleased curiosity. It was scarcely, perhaps, what he should have expected from a man in a similar position in his own country, but it was, at any rate, impressive. Presently they came back to him. This time it was Mr. Smith who spoke.
“Mr. Coulson,” he said, “we need not beat about the bush. You ask us a plain question and you want a plain answer. Then I must tell you this. The matter is not one concerning which I can give you any definite information. I appreciate the position of your friend Mr. Jones, and I should like to have met him in the same spirit as he has shown in his inquiry, but I may tell you that, being utterly convinced that Japan does not seek war with you, and that therefore no war is likely, my Government is not prepared to answer a question which they consider based upon an impossibility. If this war should come, the position of our country would depend entirely upon the rights of the dispute. As a corollary to that, I would mention two things. You read your newspapers, Mr. Coulson?”
“Sure!” that gentleman answered.
“You are aware, then,” Mr. Smith continued, “of the present position of your fleet. You know how many months must pass before it can reach Eastern waters. It is not within the traditions of this country to evade fulfillment of its obligations, however severe and unnatural they may seem, but in three months’ time, Mr. Coulson, our treaty with Japan will have expired.”
“You are seeking to renew it!” Mr. Coulson declared quickly.
Mr. Smith raised his eyebrows.
“The renewal of that treaty,” he said, “is on the knees of the gods. One cannot tell. I go so far only as to tell you that in three months the present treaty will have expired.”
Mr. Coulson rose slowly to his feet and took up his hat.
“Gentlemen both,” he said, “that’s what I call plain speaking. I suppose it’s up to us to read between the lines. I can assure you that my friend Mr. Jones will appreciate it. It isn’t my place to say a word outside the letter which I have handed to you. I am a plain business man, and these things don’t come in my way. That is why I feel I can criticize,—I am unprejudiced. You are Britishers, and you’ve got one eternal fault. You seem to think the whole world must see a matter as you see it. If Japan has convinced you that she doesn’t seek a war with us, it doesn’t follow that she’s convinced us. As to the rights of our dispute, don’t rely so much upon hearing one side only. Don’t be dogmatic about it, and say this thing is and that thing isn’t. You may bet your last dollar that America isn’t going to war about trifles. We are the same flesh and blood, you know. We have the same traditions to uphold. What we do is what we should expect you to do if you were in our place. That’s all, gentlemen. Now I wish you both good night! Mr. Smith, I am proud to shake hands with you. Sir Edward, I say the same to you.”
Bransome touched the bell and summoned his secretary.
“Sidney, will you see this gentleman out?” he said. “You are quite sure there is nothing further we can do for you, Mr. Coulson?”
“Nothing at all, I thank you, sir,” that gentleman answered. “I have only got to thank you once more for the pleasure of this brief interview. Good night!”
“Good night, and bon voyage!” Sir Edward answered.
The door was closed. The two men looked at one another for a moment. Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to a cigarette.
“I wonder,” he remarked thoughtfully, “how our friends in Japan convinced themselves so thoroughly that Mr. Jones was only playing ships!”
Sir Edward shook his head.
“It makes one wonder,” he said.
By midday on the following morning London was placarded with notices, the heading of which was sensational enough to attract observation from every passer-by, young or old, rich or poor. One thousand pounds’ reward for the apprehension of the murderer of either Hamilton Fynes or Richard Vanderpole! Inspector Jacks, who was amongst the first to hear the news, after a brief interview with his chief put on his hat and walked round to the Home Office. He sought out one of the underlings with whom he had some acquaintance, and whom he found ready enough, even eager, to discuss the matter.
“There wasn’t a word about any reward,” Inspector Jacks was told, “until this morning. We had a telephone message from the chief’s bedroom and phoned you up at once. It’s a pretty stiff amount, isn’t it?”
“It is,” the Inspector admitted. “Our chief seems to be taking quite a personal interest in the matter all at once.”
“I’ll lay two to one that some one was on to him at Sir Edward Bransome’s reception last night,” the other remarked. “I know very well that there was no idea of offering a reward yesterday afternoon. We might have come out with a hundred pounds or so, a little later on, perhaps, but there was nothing of this sort in the air. I’ve no desire to seem censorious, you know, Jacks,” the young man went on, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette, “but it does seem a dashed queer thing that you can’t put your finger upon either of these fellows.”
Inspector Jacks nodded gloomily.
“No doubt it seems so to you,” he admitted. “You forget that we have to have a reasonable amount of proof before we can tap a man on the shoulder and ask him to come with us. It isn’t so abroad or in America. There they can hand a man up with less than half the evidence we have to be prepared with, and, of course, they get the reputation of being smarter on the job. We may learn enough to satisfy ourselves easily, but to get up a case which we can put before a magistrate and be sure of not losing our man, takes time.”
“So you’ve got your eye on some one?” The young man asked curiously.
“I did not say so,” the Inspector answered warily. “By the bye, do you think there would be any chance of five minutes’ interview with your chief?”
The young man shook his head slowly.
“What a cheek you’ve got, Jacks!” he declared. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Perfectly,” Inspector Jacks answered. “And to tell you the truth, my young friend, I am half inclined to think that when he is given to understand, as he will be by you, if he doesn’t know it already, that I am in charge of the investigations concerning these two murders, he will see me.”
The young man was disposed to consider the point.
“Well,” he remarked, “the chief does seem plaguy interested, all of a sudden. I’ll pass your name in. If you take a seat, it’s just possible that he may spare you a minute or two in about an hour’s time. He won’t be able to before then, I’m sure. There’s a deputation almost due, and two other appointments before luncheon time.”
The Inspector accepted a newspaper and an easy chair. His young friend disappeared and returned almost immediately, looking a little surprised.
“I’ve managed it for you,” he explained. “The chief is going to spare you five minutes at once. Come along and I’ll show you in.”
Inspector Jacks took up his hat and followed his acquaintance to the private room of the Home Secretary. That personage nodded to him upon his entrance and continued to dictate a letter. When he had finished, he sent his clerk out of the room and, motioning Mr. Jacks to take a seat by his side, leaned back in his own chair with the air of one prepared to relax for a moment. He was a man of somewhat insignificant presence, but he had keen gray eyes, half the time concealed under thick eyebrows, and flashing out upon you now and then at least expected moments.
“From Scotland Yard, I understand, Mr. Jacks?” he remarked.
“At your service, sir,” the Inspector answered. “I am in charge of the investigations concerning these two recent murders.”
“Quite so,” the Home Secretary remarked. “I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Jacks. So far, I suppose, you are willing to admit that you gentlemen down at Scotland Yard have not exactly distinguished yourselves.”
“We are willing to admit that,” Inspector Jacks said.
“I do not know whether the reward will help you very much,” the Home Secretary continued. “So far as you people personally are concerned, I imagine that it will make no difference. The only point seems to be that it may bring you outside help which at the present time is being withheld.”
“The offering of the reward, sir,” Inspector Jacks said, “can do no harm, and it may possibly assist us very materially.”
“I am glad to have your opinion, Mr. Jacks,” the Home Secretary said.
There was a moment’s pause. The Minister trifled with some papers lying on the desk before him. Then he turned to his visitor and continued,—
“You will forgive my reminding you, Mr. Jacks, that I am a busy man and that this is a busy morning. You had some reason, I presume, for wishing to see me?”
“I had, sir,” the Inspector answered. “I took the liberty of waiting upon you, sir, to ask whether the idea of a reward for so large a sum came spontaneously from your department?”
The Home Secretary raised his eyebrows.
“Really, Mr. Jacks,” he began,—
“I hope, sir,” the Inspector protested, “that you will not think I am asking this question through any irrelevant curiosity. I am beginning to form a theory of my own as to these two murders, but it needs building up. The offering of a reward like this, if it emanates from the source which I suspect that it does, gives a solid foundation to my theories. I am here, sir, in the interests of justice only, and I should be exceedingly obliged to you if you would tell me whether the suggestion of this large reward did not come from the Foreign Office?”
The Minister considered for several moments, and then slowly inclined his head.
“Mr. Jacks,” he said, “your question appears to me to be a pertinent one. I see not the slightest reason to conceal from you the fact that your surmise is perfectly accurate.”
A flash of satisfaction illuminated for a moment the detective’s inexpressive features. He rose and took up his hat.
“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” he said. “The information which you have given me is extremely valuable.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” the Home Secretary declared. “You understand, of course, that it is within the province of my department to assist at all times and in any possible way the course of justice. Is there anything more I can do for you?”
Inspector Jacks hesitated.
“If you would not think it a liberty, sir,” he said, “I should be very glad indeed if you would give me a note which would insure me an interview with Sir Edward Bransome.”
“I will give it you with pleasure,” the Secretary answered, “although I imagine that he would be quite willing to see you on your own request.”
He wrote a few lines and passed them over. Inspector Jacks saluted, and turned towards the door.
“You’ll let me know if anything turns up?” the Home Secretary said.
“You shall be informed at once, sir,” the Inspector assured him, a as he left the room.
Sir Edward Bransome was just leaving his house when Inspector Jacks entered the gate. The latter, who knew him by sight, saluted and hesitated for a moment.
“Did you wish to speak to me?” Sir Edward asked, drawing back from the step of his electric brougham.
The Inspector held out his letter. Sir Edward tore it open and glanced through the few lines which it contained. Then he looked keenly for a moment at the man who stood respectfully by his side.
“So you are Inspector Jacks from Scotland Yard,” he remarked.
“At your service, sir,” the detective answered.
“You can get in with me, if you like,” Sir Edward continued, motioning toward the interior of his brougham. “I am due in Downing Street now, but I dare say you could say what you wish to on the way there.”
“Certainly, sir,” Inspector Jacks answered. “It will be very good of you indeed if you can spare me those few minutes.”
The brougham glided away.
“Now, Mr. Jacks,” Sir Edward said, “what can I do for you? If you want to arrest me, I shall claim privilege.”
The Inspector smiled.
“I am in charge, sir,” he said, “of the investigations concerning the murder of Mr. Hamilton Fynes and Mr. Richard Vanderpole. The news of the reward came to us at Scotland Yard this morning. Its unusual amount led me to make some injuries at the Home Office. I found that what I partly expected was true. I found, sir, that your department has shown some interest in the apprehension of these two men.”
Sir Edward inclined his head slowly.
“Well?” he said.
“Sir Edward Bransome,” the Inspector continued, “I have a theory of my own as to these murders, and though it may take me some time to work it out, I feel myself day by day growing nearer the truth. These were not ordinary crimes. Any one can see that. They were not even crimes for the purpose of robbery—not, that is to say, for robbery in the ordinary sense of the word. That is apparent even to those who write for the Press. It has been apparent to us from the first. It is beginning to dawn upon me now what the nature of the motive must be which was responsible for them. I have in my possession a slight, a very slight clue. The beginning of it is there, and the end. It is the way between which is tangled.”
Sir Edward lit a cigarette and leaned back amongst the cushions. With a little gesture he indicated his desire that Inspector Jacks should proceed.
“My object in seeking for a personal interview with you, sir,” Inspector Jacks continued, “is to ask you a somewhat peculiar question. If I find that my investigations lead me in the direction which at present seems probable, it is no ordinary person whom I shall have to arrest when the time comes. The reward which has been offered is a large one, and it is not for me to question the bona fide nature of it. I would not presume, sir, even to ask you whether it was offered by reason of any outside pressure, but there is one question which I must ask. Do you really wish, sir, that the murderer or murderers of these two men shall be brought to justice?”
Sir Edward looked at his companion in steadfast amazement.
“My dear Inspector,” he said, “what is this that you have in your mind? I hold no brief for any man capable of such crimes as these. Representations have been made to us by the American Government that the murder of two of her citizens within the course of twenty-four hours, and the absence of any arrest, is somewhat of a reflection upon our police service. It is for your assistance, and in compliment to our friends across the Atlantic, that the reward was offered.”
Inspector Jacks seemed a little at a loss.
“It is your wish, then, sir,” he said slowly, “that the guilty person or persons be arrested without warning, whoever they may be?”
“By all means,” Sir Edward affirmed. “I cannot conceive, Inspector, what you have in your mind which could have led you for a moment to suspect the contrary.”
The brougham had come to a standstill in front of a house in Downing Street. Inspector Jacks descended slowly. It was hard for him to decide on the spot how far to take into his confidence a person whose attitude was so unsympathetic.
“I am exceedingly obliged to you for your answer to my question, sir,” he said, saluting. “I hope that in a few days we shall have some news for you.”
Sir Edward watched him disappear as he mounted the steps of the Prime Minister’s house.
“I wonder,” he said to himself thoughtfully, “what that fellow can have in his mind!”
Inspector Jacks did not at once return to Scotland Yard. On his way there he turned into St. James’ Square, and stood for several moments looking at the corner house on the far side. Finally, after a hesitation which seldom characterized his movements, he crossed the road and rang the bell. The door was opened almost at once by a Japanese butler.
“Is your master at home?” the Inspector asked.
“His Highness does not see strangers,” the man replied coldly.
“Will you take him my card?” the Inspector asked.
The man bowed, and showed him into an apartment on the ground floor. Then with the card in his hand, he turned reluctantly away.
“His Highness shall be informed that you are here,” he said. “I fear, however, that you waste your time. I go to see.”
Inspector Jacks subsided into a bamboo chair and looked out of the window with a frown upon his forehead. It was certain that he was not proceeding with altogether his usual caution. As a matter of tactics, this visit of his might very well be fatal!