Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Beck’s Prophecy.“Hark!” gasped Ella, turning to me, pale in alarm. “What is that man crying? Listen!”Again the hoarse voice broke the silence, dear, distinct, ominous,—“War against England! Spe-shall!” his cry being followed by the sound of hurrying feet as people rushed from their houses, purchased copies of the paper at exorbitant prices, and eagerly devoured the amazing news.“Surely it must be some absurd story that the papers have got hold of,” Ella exclaimed a few moments later, when, after again watching the excitement below, she returned and stood beside my chair. “The idea of war against us is absolutely absurd. You Foreign Office people would have known if such were actually the case. Evening papers are so often full of exaggerated reports, contradicted next morning, that one ceases to believe in them.”“I have every reason, unfortunately, to believe in the truth of this sudden probability of war,” I answered gloomily, scarce knowing what I said.“You believe it’s true!” she cried. “How do you know? Will Russia actually dare to challenge us?”“Yes,” I replied. “But how were you aware that Russia was our enemy?”She started and held her breath. Her attitude was that of one who had unconsciously betrayed herself.“I—I—merely guessed it,” she answered lamely, with a forced smile a moment later. “I’ve been reading the papers lately.”“The papers have given no hint of any impending complication,” I answered abruptly, removing the cigarette from my lips and looking up at her keenly.“But I read something the other day which stated that Russia and France had combined with the object of attacking England in the near future.”I did not answer. I could only gaze at her, amazed at the calm, circumstantial manner in which she lied. That she had some knowledge of the political situation—of what character or extent I knew not—was certain, for other words she had let drop in unguarded moments had once or twice aroused within me increasing suspicion. When I reflected upon her alarm on hearing the strident cry of the newsman, I was compelled to admit that her fears were not genuine. The questions she put to me regarding the relative strengths of England and Russia, and the probable course of events, were naïve enough, but they were uttered, I knew, with a view to disarm any suspicion I might entertain.At last, wearied of her eternal masquerade, I roused myself, tossed away my dead cigarette, and, declaring that in the circumstances my presence at the Foreign Office was imperative, suddenly said,—“You asked me to come here this evening because you had something particular to say to me, Ella. You have not yet referred to it.”“I wanted to ask you a question,” she exclaimed in a low tone, slowly moving towards me and bending until she placed her arm tenderly around my neck.“Well, what is it?”For a moment she remained silent in hesitation, but at last spoke in that harsh, strained voice that had so frequently puzzled me of late.“I know you have investigated Dudley’s belongings,” she said. “And I wanted to know whether you discovered among them some scraps of paper bearing imitations of your own handwriting.”I regarded her in surprise; her question amazed me. In her eyes I noticed a look of intense earnestness and appeal for sympathy.“Well, what if I have?” I inquired.“If you have, they will, I know, be regarded by you as evidence that Dudley was a forger.”“That is what I believe him to have been,” I said with bitterness.“You judge him wrongly,” she replied quite calmly, her face nevertheless as white as the simple-made dinner gown she wore. “I have already seen those papers, and know their authorship.”“Did not Dudley trace my writing?”“He never did,” she replied. “As his death was encompassed by his enemies, so is dishonour cast upon his memory.”“Then you allege that he was the victim of conspiracy!” I exclaimed, surprised.“No doubt. When I am at last free to speak I shall prove it, and by so doing remove from myself the suspicion now resting upon me.” She spoke earnestly, with an intense ring in her voice that told me she now uttered the truth.“For what reason was it desired to imitate my handwriting?” I asked, pressing her hand tenderly. “Come, tell me, Ella.”“I really don’t know,” she replied. “All I am aware is that your writing was most carefully traced and imitated, and for that purpose two of your letters to me were stolen.”“By whom?”“I have never been able to discover.”At that moment our conversation was interrupted by a voice crying, “Here, Deedes! Have you seen this alarming news?” and turning I saw Beck standing beside the tall, amber-shaded lamp in the drawing-room, a pale pink news-sheet in his hand. Rising quickly I re-entered the room, and walking over to him, followed by Ella, took the newspaper, and devoured the dozen lines of leaded type placed beneath the bold, alarming head-lines.My well-beloved was peering over my shoulder as, in breathless eagerness, I read that, according to Reuter’s correspondent at St Petersburg, theNovoë Vremyahad that afternoon issued a special edition containing the amazing statement that Russia would, in the course of a few hours, formally declare war against England, and that this fact was corroborated by the issue of telegraphic orders to the commanders of military districts as a preliminary to a general mobilisation of the forces. This announcement was similar to that of our secret agent in St Petersburg, with the additional facts that the greatest activity had commenced in the War Office and Admiralty, and that the Tzar had, in consequence, abandoned his visit to Odessa, which he was about to undertake that day.“The outlook is certainly most alarming,” I observed, handing on the paper to Ella.“It’s extraordinary!” cried Beck, intensely excited, as became a patriotic legislator. “We have not had the slightest inkling of any diplomatic deadlock, or any disagreement with Russia. The whole thing is absolutely amazing.”“But what will happen?” asked Ella, eagerly, with white, scared face. “Will England be invaded and battles fought here in the manner prophetic writers have foretold?”“I fear so,” I said despondently. “If war is really declared, a conflict must very soon occur, and the struggle will then be long and deadly.”“But surely the Government will not allow an enemy to land upon English soil,” she exclaimed, still holding the paper in her trembling hands. “What are ambassadors for but to avert such catastrophes as this?”“Ambassadors,” exclaimed Beck, “appear to me to be useless pawns. Surely our Embassy at St Petersburg must have been asleep not to have given the Government warning of the plans of Russia long ago. Preparations for war against a power like England are not made without very careful deliberation.”“But can we be invaded?” I queried.“No doubt,” Beck replied promptly. “The opinions of our greatest strategists are unanimous that, under certain conditions, France and Russia combined could invade our island. It is all very well for people to talk about England’s maritime power; but is it what we believe it to be? I think not.”Having made a deep study of this very question, I was, although a loyal and patriotic Englishman, compelled to agree with him in a certain measure. Once, not so very long ago, it was generally believed, even by our greatest military and naval experts, that should England become engaged with a first-rate foreign Power, she could, single-handed, in a week close every one of her enemy’s ports and have a fleet ready to reduce at its leisure everything he held beyond the seas. Indeed, some authorities went so far as to declare that with almost any two Powers against her, she could do as much; and it was that recognition of this power abroad that gave England, in spite of her military weakness, so commanding a position in Europe. But since the Franco-Russian Alliance the increase in the fleets of the Powers had been so rapid that we had utterly failed to keep pace with them. We built huge, unwieldy battleships, while our enemies constructed the fastest cruisers and torpedo-boat destroyers afloat, thereby sweeping away our hitherto undisputed mastery of the sea.“The great danger that appears to me,” Beck said presently, after we had been discussing the serious outlook at considerable length, “is that we may be blockaded by these two hostile powers, so as to reduce us near starvation, and compel us to surrender.”“But not before we have engaged the enemy at sea and given them a taste of the lion’s paw,” I observed.“Of course. First, we must expect a great naval battle or battles, followed by a dash upon our territory and the landing of the hostile armies. If England received one serious reverse at sea, she could never recover from it. The loss of her maritime power would paralyse her.”“I know,” I said. “That argument is trite enough. But I, nevertheless, believe that England is still, and will be for many centuries to come, Queen of the Sea.”“Oh! yes,” he said, rather contemptuously. “The cheap, clap-trap patriotism of the pot-house and the music-hall is all very well, but we, in the House of Commons, entertain a very different opinion. The belief in England’s greatness held by the lower classes is admirable, and, of course, ought to be carefully fostered, because it leads men to enlist in the Services. But you know, as well as I do, that in the Government Departments our naval strength is regarded as over-estimated in comparison with the power of some other European nations, and our military strength utterly inadequate. If it is really true that Russia is about to declare war against us, I fear the awakening of those confident of our insular security will be a terrible one.”“Terrible no doubt it will be, on account of the fearful loss of life and property such a war must entail, but I anticipate that when the struggle comes every Englishman will bear arms for the defence of his home and loved ones, and that the foreign invader will meet with a reception the warmth of which he never expected.”“Geoffrey is a patriot,” exclaimed Ella, laughing. “So am I. I don’t believe Russia and France will ever dare to land soldiers on our coasts.”“Well spoken,” I exclaimed. “I do not share the fears of these so-called experts.”“I do,” Beck went on excitedly. “If hostilities occur our defences will soon be found weak and utterly unreliable. That’s my opinion.”“Then you declare that England is great no longer,” I observed, with a smile.“No, I don’t go so far as that; but I contend, as I did in my speech in the House a fortnight ago, that those charged with maintaining our defences in a proper state of efficiency have for years been culpably negligent. The power of England to-day is still the same as it has been—on paper. But, in ascertaining it, we always close our eyes wilfully to the true fact that other nations have awakened during the past ten years, and have now actually overtaken us.”“I don’t think that,” I answered. “Until our country is actually invested I shall still believe in its strength.”But Beck, greatly to the amusement of Ella, was firm in his opinions, and, when I argued with him, commenced to quote statistics with a glibness which told how carefully he had studied the speech he recently delivered before the House, a speech which, by the way, had been dismissed in one line by all the newspapers. Ella, standing beside me in her pale cream dress, girdled narrow with a band of mauve silk, looked charming, and supported me in all my views, exhibiting a knowledge of politics and of the Continental outlook that I had not in the least suspected. Indeed, she now and then attacked the arguments of the member for West Rutlandshire with a vehemence that surprised me, for more than once she completely upset his declarations by citing some fact he had overlooked.Even while we discussed these things we knew how wildly-excited must be the seething world of London. The news, although, alas! not fresh to me, had fallen that night upon the metropolis like a thunderbolt. Mrs Laing, who presently entered the room, was shown the paper by Ella, and was utterly unnerved by the startling intelligence. I had noticed that she had never since been the same stately, composed woman as before the discovery of Dudley. The tragic affair at “The Nook” seemed to have upset her, and in her face there were now traces of extreme nervousness and excitability.“Surely the paper has printed an unwarrantable untruth, Mr Beck,” she exclaimed, after reading the statement by the aid of her glasses. “I really can’t believe it.”“I scarcely think we ought to credit it before we receive some confirmation,” the burly legislator replied. “It may, of course, be a mere idle rumour set afloat for Stock Exchange purposes.”At that moment they exchanged swift, mysterious glances that somehow appeared to me significant, yet next instant I found myself convinced that the unusual expression in their eyes had merely been due to a chimera of my own imagination. With a foolish disregard for probability, I seemed somehow to scent mystery in everything, and it now occurred to me that to successfully probe the truth of Ella’s relations with the two men, I must never allow myself to be misled by misconstruing words or actions. I felt almost confident that I had noticed Beck and Mrs Laing exchange looks akin to approbation; nevertheless, on reflection, I convinced myself that I had been quite mistaken, and half an hour later laughed at my suspicions.Presently Beck announced his intention of going down to the House to ascertain the latest official news, and I, bidding Ella and her mother farewell, accompanied him. It was about eleven o’clock when we drove up, but the cab could not get much further than Broad Sanctuary, so dense was the crowd that had gathered at St Stephen’s on the startling news being spread. From the high summit of Big Ben the electric light was streaming westward, showing the excited thousands assembled there that Parliament was already deliberating upon the best course to pursue on the outbreak of hostilities, and as we elbowed our way through the turbulent concourse war was on everyone’s tongue. Men and women of all classes of society, wildly-excited, with pale, scared faces, discussed the probable course of events; many sang patriotic songs, the choruses of which were taken up and shouted lustily, while here and there, as we proceeded, loud invectives against the Tzar and his French allies greeted our ears.At last we reached St Stephen’s Hall, and, passing its zealously-guarded portals, hurried forward to the Lobby. Here the scene was of a most exciting character. Members were standing in small groups, eagerly discussing the serious and unexpected turn affairs had taken, and, in answer to our inquiries, we learnt that a quarter of an hour before an official reply had been given in the House to a question addressed from the Opposition benches, admitting that, according to the latest advices from St Petersburg, there was, no doubt, foundation for the rumour published by theNovoë Vremya, and that it was very probable that in the course of an hour or two war would formally be declared.A tiresome topic was being discussed in the House, but it was being carried on without spirit or enthusiasm, all the members being on tiptoe with expectation regarding the next telegram from the enemy’s camp. The amazing intelligence that had spread like wildfire throughout the metropolis had brought every member in town down to the House, until the Lobby became so thronged that locomotion was difficult. I chatted with many legislators I knew, and found all held similar views—that an attempted invasion of England had been planned by France and Russia. The Cabinet had been hastily summoned, and was at that moment deliberating with the Commander-in-Chief regarding the immediate steps to be taken for the complete mobilisation of the forces.One fact had impressed itself upon me as, accompanied by Beck, I had struggled through the ever-increasing crowd outside, namely, the intense patriotism of the Volunteers. There were dozens who, on hearing the news, had at once put on their uniforms in readiness to bear their part in the defence of their homes, and everywhere as they swayed to and fro in the crowd they were lustily cheered. The sight of a uniform in those wild moments was sufficient to send the multitude half mad with enthusiasm, and in one or two instances volunteers had been raised shoulder-high in order that all should unite in giving them ovations.Within the sombre, smoke-blackened walls of Parliament it was a breathless period of eager waiting. There was no cheering, there was no cheap patriotism, no outburst of enthusiasm. Some of the little knots of white-hatted politicians condemned the Government unmercifully for failing to obtain news of a pending catastrophe which might have been avoided by diplomacy, while others declared that the action of the Opposition in the past was alone responsible for the present disaster. Wherever I went I found an opinion, almost unanimous, that England could not withstand the blow now threatened. In that time of wild theories and wilder apprehensions Beck’s arguments and prophetic utterances were listened to eagerly, until quite a crowd stood around him. Of late he had written one or two articles on the subject of England’s unpreparedness for war, notably one in theNineteenth Century, which had attracted considerable attention, and his opinions were now listened to and afterwards discussed, even among men whose names were household words.As I stood watching and listening, I was compelled to admit that during the short time my friend had been in Parliament he had certainly won good opinions, and even among the most level-headed politicians his views, notwithstanding his blustering manner, were regarded as worthy of serious consideration. I confess to having previously looked upon him rather as a crank upon this subject, but I did so no longer, now that I recognised what weight his arguments carried.

“Hark!” gasped Ella, turning to me, pale in alarm. “What is that man crying? Listen!”

Again the hoarse voice broke the silence, dear, distinct, ominous,—

“War against England! Spe-shall!” his cry being followed by the sound of hurrying feet as people rushed from their houses, purchased copies of the paper at exorbitant prices, and eagerly devoured the amazing news.

“Surely it must be some absurd story that the papers have got hold of,” Ella exclaimed a few moments later, when, after again watching the excitement below, she returned and stood beside my chair. “The idea of war against us is absolutely absurd. You Foreign Office people would have known if such were actually the case. Evening papers are so often full of exaggerated reports, contradicted next morning, that one ceases to believe in them.”

“I have every reason, unfortunately, to believe in the truth of this sudden probability of war,” I answered gloomily, scarce knowing what I said.

“You believe it’s true!” she cried. “How do you know? Will Russia actually dare to challenge us?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But how were you aware that Russia was our enemy?”

She started and held her breath. Her attitude was that of one who had unconsciously betrayed herself.

“I—I—merely guessed it,” she answered lamely, with a forced smile a moment later. “I’ve been reading the papers lately.”

“The papers have given no hint of any impending complication,” I answered abruptly, removing the cigarette from my lips and looking up at her keenly.

“But I read something the other day which stated that Russia and France had combined with the object of attacking England in the near future.”

I did not answer. I could only gaze at her, amazed at the calm, circumstantial manner in which she lied. That she had some knowledge of the political situation—of what character or extent I knew not—was certain, for other words she had let drop in unguarded moments had once or twice aroused within me increasing suspicion. When I reflected upon her alarm on hearing the strident cry of the newsman, I was compelled to admit that her fears were not genuine. The questions she put to me regarding the relative strengths of England and Russia, and the probable course of events, were naïve enough, but they were uttered, I knew, with a view to disarm any suspicion I might entertain.

At last, wearied of her eternal masquerade, I roused myself, tossed away my dead cigarette, and, declaring that in the circumstances my presence at the Foreign Office was imperative, suddenly said,—

“You asked me to come here this evening because you had something particular to say to me, Ella. You have not yet referred to it.”

“I wanted to ask you a question,” she exclaimed in a low tone, slowly moving towards me and bending until she placed her arm tenderly around my neck.

“Well, what is it?”

For a moment she remained silent in hesitation, but at last spoke in that harsh, strained voice that had so frequently puzzled me of late.

“I know you have investigated Dudley’s belongings,” she said. “And I wanted to know whether you discovered among them some scraps of paper bearing imitations of your own handwriting.”

I regarded her in surprise; her question amazed me. In her eyes I noticed a look of intense earnestness and appeal for sympathy.

“Well, what if I have?” I inquired.

“If you have, they will, I know, be regarded by you as evidence that Dudley was a forger.”

“That is what I believe him to have been,” I said with bitterness.

“You judge him wrongly,” she replied quite calmly, her face nevertheless as white as the simple-made dinner gown she wore. “I have already seen those papers, and know their authorship.”

“Did not Dudley trace my writing?”

“He never did,” she replied. “As his death was encompassed by his enemies, so is dishonour cast upon his memory.”

“Then you allege that he was the victim of conspiracy!” I exclaimed, surprised.

“No doubt. When I am at last free to speak I shall prove it, and by so doing remove from myself the suspicion now resting upon me.” She spoke earnestly, with an intense ring in her voice that told me she now uttered the truth.

“For what reason was it desired to imitate my handwriting?” I asked, pressing her hand tenderly. “Come, tell me, Ella.”

“I really don’t know,” she replied. “All I am aware is that your writing was most carefully traced and imitated, and for that purpose two of your letters to me were stolen.”

“By whom?”

“I have never been able to discover.”

At that moment our conversation was interrupted by a voice crying, “Here, Deedes! Have you seen this alarming news?” and turning I saw Beck standing beside the tall, amber-shaded lamp in the drawing-room, a pale pink news-sheet in his hand. Rising quickly I re-entered the room, and walking over to him, followed by Ella, took the newspaper, and devoured the dozen lines of leaded type placed beneath the bold, alarming head-lines.

My well-beloved was peering over my shoulder as, in breathless eagerness, I read that, according to Reuter’s correspondent at St Petersburg, theNovoë Vremyahad that afternoon issued a special edition containing the amazing statement that Russia would, in the course of a few hours, formally declare war against England, and that this fact was corroborated by the issue of telegraphic orders to the commanders of military districts as a preliminary to a general mobilisation of the forces. This announcement was similar to that of our secret agent in St Petersburg, with the additional facts that the greatest activity had commenced in the War Office and Admiralty, and that the Tzar had, in consequence, abandoned his visit to Odessa, which he was about to undertake that day.

“The outlook is certainly most alarming,” I observed, handing on the paper to Ella.

“It’s extraordinary!” cried Beck, intensely excited, as became a patriotic legislator. “We have not had the slightest inkling of any diplomatic deadlock, or any disagreement with Russia. The whole thing is absolutely amazing.”

“But what will happen?” asked Ella, eagerly, with white, scared face. “Will England be invaded and battles fought here in the manner prophetic writers have foretold?”

“I fear so,” I said despondently. “If war is really declared, a conflict must very soon occur, and the struggle will then be long and deadly.”

“But surely the Government will not allow an enemy to land upon English soil,” she exclaimed, still holding the paper in her trembling hands. “What are ambassadors for but to avert such catastrophes as this?”

“Ambassadors,” exclaimed Beck, “appear to me to be useless pawns. Surely our Embassy at St Petersburg must have been asleep not to have given the Government warning of the plans of Russia long ago. Preparations for war against a power like England are not made without very careful deliberation.”

“But can we be invaded?” I queried.

“No doubt,” Beck replied promptly. “The opinions of our greatest strategists are unanimous that, under certain conditions, France and Russia combined could invade our island. It is all very well for people to talk about England’s maritime power; but is it what we believe it to be? I think not.”

Having made a deep study of this very question, I was, although a loyal and patriotic Englishman, compelled to agree with him in a certain measure. Once, not so very long ago, it was generally believed, even by our greatest military and naval experts, that should England become engaged with a first-rate foreign Power, she could, single-handed, in a week close every one of her enemy’s ports and have a fleet ready to reduce at its leisure everything he held beyond the seas. Indeed, some authorities went so far as to declare that with almost any two Powers against her, she could do as much; and it was that recognition of this power abroad that gave England, in spite of her military weakness, so commanding a position in Europe. But since the Franco-Russian Alliance the increase in the fleets of the Powers had been so rapid that we had utterly failed to keep pace with them. We built huge, unwieldy battleships, while our enemies constructed the fastest cruisers and torpedo-boat destroyers afloat, thereby sweeping away our hitherto undisputed mastery of the sea.

“The great danger that appears to me,” Beck said presently, after we had been discussing the serious outlook at considerable length, “is that we may be blockaded by these two hostile powers, so as to reduce us near starvation, and compel us to surrender.”

“But not before we have engaged the enemy at sea and given them a taste of the lion’s paw,” I observed.

“Of course. First, we must expect a great naval battle or battles, followed by a dash upon our territory and the landing of the hostile armies. If England received one serious reverse at sea, she could never recover from it. The loss of her maritime power would paralyse her.”

“I know,” I said. “That argument is trite enough. But I, nevertheless, believe that England is still, and will be for many centuries to come, Queen of the Sea.”

“Oh! yes,” he said, rather contemptuously. “The cheap, clap-trap patriotism of the pot-house and the music-hall is all very well, but we, in the House of Commons, entertain a very different opinion. The belief in England’s greatness held by the lower classes is admirable, and, of course, ought to be carefully fostered, because it leads men to enlist in the Services. But you know, as well as I do, that in the Government Departments our naval strength is regarded as over-estimated in comparison with the power of some other European nations, and our military strength utterly inadequate. If it is really true that Russia is about to declare war against us, I fear the awakening of those confident of our insular security will be a terrible one.”

“Terrible no doubt it will be, on account of the fearful loss of life and property such a war must entail, but I anticipate that when the struggle comes every Englishman will bear arms for the defence of his home and loved ones, and that the foreign invader will meet with a reception the warmth of which he never expected.”

“Geoffrey is a patriot,” exclaimed Ella, laughing. “So am I. I don’t believe Russia and France will ever dare to land soldiers on our coasts.”

“Well spoken,” I exclaimed. “I do not share the fears of these so-called experts.”

“I do,” Beck went on excitedly. “If hostilities occur our defences will soon be found weak and utterly unreliable. That’s my opinion.”

“Then you declare that England is great no longer,” I observed, with a smile.

“No, I don’t go so far as that; but I contend, as I did in my speech in the House a fortnight ago, that those charged with maintaining our defences in a proper state of efficiency have for years been culpably negligent. The power of England to-day is still the same as it has been—on paper. But, in ascertaining it, we always close our eyes wilfully to the true fact that other nations have awakened during the past ten years, and have now actually overtaken us.”

“I don’t think that,” I answered. “Until our country is actually invested I shall still believe in its strength.”

But Beck, greatly to the amusement of Ella, was firm in his opinions, and, when I argued with him, commenced to quote statistics with a glibness which told how carefully he had studied the speech he recently delivered before the House, a speech which, by the way, had been dismissed in one line by all the newspapers. Ella, standing beside me in her pale cream dress, girdled narrow with a band of mauve silk, looked charming, and supported me in all my views, exhibiting a knowledge of politics and of the Continental outlook that I had not in the least suspected. Indeed, she now and then attacked the arguments of the member for West Rutlandshire with a vehemence that surprised me, for more than once she completely upset his declarations by citing some fact he had overlooked.

Even while we discussed these things we knew how wildly-excited must be the seething world of London. The news, although, alas! not fresh to me, had fallen that night upon the metropolis like a thunderbolt. Mrs Laing, who presently entered the room, was shown the paper by Ella, and was utterly unnerved by the startling intelligence. I had noticed that she had never since been the same stately, composed woman as before the discovery of Dudley. The tragic affair at “The Nook” seemed to have upset her, and in her face there were now traces of extreme nervousness and excitability.

“Surely the paper has printed an unwarrantable untruth, Mr Beck,” she exclaimed, after reading the statement by the aid of her glasses. “I really can’t believe it.”

“I scarcely think we ought to credit it before we receive some confirmation,” the burly legislator replied. “It may, of course, be a mere idle rumour set afloat for Stock Exchange purposes.”

At that moment they exchanged swift, mysterious glances that somehow appeared to me significant, yet next instant I found myself convinced that the unusual expression in their eyes had merely been due to a chimera of my own imagination. With a foolish disregard for probability, I seemed somehow to scent mystery in everything, and it now occurred to me that to successfully probe the truth of Ella’s relations with the two men, I must never allow myself to be misled by misconstruing words or actions. I felt almost confident that I had noticed Beck and Mrs Laing exchange looks akin to approbation; nevertheless, on reflection, I convinced myself that I had been quite mistaken, and half an hour later laughed at my suspicions.

Presently Beck announced his intention of going down to the House to ascertain the latest official news, and I, bidding Ella and her mother farewell, accompanied him. It was about eleven o’clock when we drove up, but the cab could not get much further than Broad Sanctuary, so dense was the crowd that had gathered at St Stephen’s on the startling news being spread. From the high summit of Big Ben the electric light was streaming westward, showing the excited thousands assembled there that Parliament was already deliberating upon the best course to pursue on the outbreak of hostilities, and as we elbowed our way through the turbulent concourse war was on everyone’s tongue. Men and women of all classes of society, wildly-excited, with pale, scared faces, discussed the probable course of events; many sang patriotic songs, the choruses of which were taken up and shouted lustily, while here and there, as we proceeded, loud invectives against the Tzar and his French allies greeted our ears.

At last we reached St Stephen’s Hall, and, passing its zealously-guarded portals, hurried forward to the Lobby. Here the scene was of a most exciting character. Members were standing in small groups, eagerly discussing the serious and unexpected turn affairs had taken, and, in answer to our inquiries, we learnt that a quarter of an hour before an official reply had been given in the House to a question addressed from the Opposition benches, admitting that, according to the latest advices from St Petersburg, there was, no doubt, foundation for the rumour published by theNovoë Vremya, and that it was very probable that in the course of an hour or two war would formally be declared.

A tiresome topic was being discussed in the House, but it was being carried on without spirit or enthusiasm, all the members being on tiptoe with expectation regarding the next telegram from the enemy’s camp. The amazing intelligence that had spread like wildfire throughout the metropolis had brought every member in town down to the House, until the Lobby became so thronged that locomotion was difficult. I chatted with many legislators I knew, and found all held similar views—that an attempted invasion of England had been planned by France and Russia. The Cabinet had been hastily summoned, and was at that moment deliberating with the Commander-in-Chief regarding the immediate steps to be taken for the complete mobilisation of the forces.

One fact had impressed itself upon me as, accompanied by Beck, I had struggled through the ever-increasing crowd outside, namely, the intense patriotism of the Volunteers. There were dozens who, on hearing the news, had at once put on their uniforms in readiness to bear their part in the defence of their homes, and everywhere as they swayed to and fro in the crowd they were lustily cheered. The sight of a uniform in those wild moments was sufficient to send the multitude half mad with enthusiasm, and in one or two instances volunteers had been raised shoulder-high in order that all should unite in giving them ovations.

Within the sombre, smoke-blackened walls of Parliament it was a breathless period of eager waiting. There was no cheering, there was no cheap patriotism, no outburst of enthusiasm. Some of the little knots of white-hatted politicians condemned the Government unmercifully for failing to obtain news of a pending catastrophe which might have been avoided by diplomacy, while others declared that the action of the Opposition in the past was alone responsible for the present disaster. Wherever I went I found an opinion, almost unanimous, that England could not withstand the blow now threatened. In that time of wild theories and wilder apprehensions Beck’s arguments and prophetic utterances were listened to eagerly, until quite a crowd stood around him. Of late he had written one or two articles on the subject of England’s unpreparedness for war, notably one in theNineteenth Century, which had attracted considerable attention, and his opinions were now listened to and afterwards discussed, even among men whose names were household words.

As I stood watching and listening, I was compelled to admit that during the short time my friend had been in Parliament he had certainly won good opinions, and even among the most level-headed politicians his views, notwithstanding his blustering manner, were regarded as worthy of serious consideration. I confess to having previously looked upon him rather as a crank upon this subject, but I did so no longer, now that I recognised what weight his arguments carried.

Chapter Twelve.An Important Dispatch.Half an hour later I stood at the door of the small post-office in the Lobby, after discussing the situation with that most cheery and courteous of officials, Mr Pike, the postmaster, who had left me for a moment to give some instructions to his subordinates. My mind was filled by gloomy thoughts, as I reflected that all this national terror and excitement had been produced by the dastardly and almost miraculous ingenuity of some unknown person.But was he unknown? Was it not more than probable that the person to whom all this was due was Dudley Ogle, the man who lay lifeless without a single sorrowing friend to follow his body to the grave? Sometimes I felt entirely convinced of this: at others I doubted it. If Ella spoke the truth, as it now appeared, then it was plain that Dudley had been the victim of a terribly cruel and crafty conspiracy that culminated in his death. Might not this be so, I argued within myself. Yet the words and actions of Ella were all so remarkable, so veiled by an impenetrable mystery, that any endeavour to elucidate her reasons only puzzled me the more, driving me almost to the verge of madness.Truth to tell, I loved her with a fond, passionate love, and had, only after months of trepidation and uncertainty, succeeded in obtaining her declaration that she reciprocated my affection, and her promise to be my wife. Yet within a month of my new-born life in happiness supreme, all these untoward events had, alas! occurred, stifling my joy, replacing confidence by doubt, and driving me to despair.While I stood there alone, Lord Warnham hastily approached the post-office window with a telegram, and, seeing me, exclaimed,—“Ah! I want you, Deedes. An hour ago I sent telegrams everywhere for you. Come with me to my room.”He handed in his telegram, and together we went along the corridors to his own private room, where, in an armchair, with some papers in his hand, sat the Marquis of Maybury, Prime Minister of England. We had met before many times when the burly, elderly peer had been a guest at Warnham Hall, and on many occasions I had acted as his secretary when he had been alone.“Well, Deedes,” he exclaimed gravely, looking up suddenly from the papers, “Lord Warnham has explained to me the mysterious theft of the secret convention, and I am anxious to see you regarding it.”The Foreign Minister seated himself at his table in silence, with folded arms, as the world-renowned statesman proceeded to question me closely regarding the events of that memorable day when the document had been so ingeniously stolen.“Have you not the slightest clue to the culprit, even now?” Lord Maybury asked at last, stroking his full grey beard. “Remember that England’s honour and her future depends absolutely upon the issue of this serious complication. If you can furnish us with any information, it is just possible that diplomacy may do something, even at the eleventh hour. You see we have lost the original of the convention, and this, if produced in Petersburg, is sufficient evidence against us to upset all our protestations.”“I have told Lord Warnham all I know,” I answered calmly. “To him I have explained my suspicions.”“That this friend of yours called Ogle, who died mysteriously on that very same day, was the actual spy,” he observed. “Some of the facts certainly point to such a conclusion; but, now tell me, did Ogle enter your room at the Foreign Office on that day?”“Certainly not,” I replied. “No one is allowed in my room except the clerks.”“Could he have seen the envelope sticking out of your pocket?”“No,” I answered. “I am confident he could not, because, on placing it in my pocket, a deep one, I took precaution to notice whether it were visible.”“Then, if such is the case, I maintain that Ogle could not possibly have known what designation you had written upon the envelope,” the Premier observed; adding, “Did you meet anyone you knew during your walk to the Ship, or while you were in Ogle’s company?”“No one whatever,” I said.“I know the Ship. At which table did you sit?”“At the first table on the left, in the inner room beyond the bar. I sat in the corner, with my back to a high partition. Therefore, the envelope could not possibly have been extracted from my pocket without my knowledge.”“Then I should like to hear your theory of the affair,” said the Prime Minister, his dark, penetrating eyes fixed upon me.“It is so remarkable,” I answered, “that I am utterly unable to form any idea how the theft was accomplished.”“You believe, however, that Ogle was a spy?”“At present, yes,” I said. “And further, I have grave suspicions that he was murdered.”“Ah, that was alleged at the inquest,” his Lordship observed. “At present the police are sparing no effort to determine the cause of his death, and to find out who manufactured the duplicate of Lord Warnham’s seal.”“The seal I picked up from among the contents of Ogle’s pockets was not the identical one used to secure the dummy envelope,” I said quickly.“I am fully aware of all the facts,” he answered rather coldly. “My desire is to find out something fresh. Even the police seem utterly baffled. Who is this young woman, Ella Laing, who at the inquest alleged murder?”“The daughter of Mrs Laing, of Pont Street.”“Do you know her intimately?”“She is engaged to be married to me,” I replied.“It is apparent that she was very friendly with this Ogle. Surely you can induce her to tell you something about him.”“She knows but little more than what I already know. He lived with me at Shepperton, and had few secrets from me.”“Did you ever suspect him to be a spy?”“Not for one moment. He had plenty of money of his own, and was in no sense an adventurer.”“Well,” exclaimed the Premier, turning to his colleague at last. “It is extraordinary—most extraordinary.”Lord Warnham nodded acquiescence, and said, “Yes, there is a deep and extraordinary mystery somewhere: a mystery we must, for the sake of our own honour, penetrate and elucidate.”“I entirely agree,” answered the other. “We have been victimised by clever spies.”“And all owing to Deedes’s culpable negligence,” added Lord Warnham, testily, glancing at me.“No, I am inclined to differ,” exclaimed the Premier. He had never acted very generously towards me, and I was surprised that he should at this moment take up the cudgels on my behalf. “To me it appears, as far as the facts go, that Deedes has been victimised in the same manner as ourselves.”“But if he had exercised due caution this terrible catastrophe could never have occurred,” the Foreign Minister cried impatiently, tapping the table with his pen in emphasis of his words.“A little more than mere caution, or even shrewdness, is required to defeat the efforts of the Tzar’s spies,” the Premier said quietly. “In my opinion, Deedes, although in a measure under suspicion, cannot be actually condemned. Remember, among Ogle’s correspondence he discovered evidence of an undoubted attempt to forge his handwriting.”“We have no corroboration that he really did find that actually among the dead man’s possessions,” exclaimed Lord Warnham quickly. “I have myself seen the detective who accompanied him to Shepperton, and he tells me that no sheets of paper of that character were discovered. He—”“I found them while he was engaged in an adjoining room,” I interrupted. “I did not mention it to him, preferring to bring the evidence straight to you.”“It is just possible that Deedes’s version is correct,” observed the Premier. “Personally, I must say, Warnham, that I cannot see any ground for the dismissal of a hitherto trustworthy servant of Her Majesty upon this extraordinary evidence. I have always found Deedes upright, loyal and patriotic, and coming as he does of a well-known family of diplomats, I really do not suspect him of having played his country false.”“I am obliged for your Lordship’s words,” I exclaimed fervently. “I assure you that your merciful view is entirely correct. I am innocent, and at this moment am utterly at a loss to account for any of the amazing events of the past few days.”Lord Warnham was silent in thought for a few moments, then, turning his sphinx-like face to me, he said, in a tone rather more conciliatory than before, “Very well. As it is Lord Maybury’s wish, I will reinstate you in the Service; but remember, I have no confidence in you.”“Then you still suspect me of being a spy?” I cried reproachfully. “I am to remain under suspicion!”“Exactly,” he answered dryly. “Until the truth is ascertained I, at least, shall believe you had something to do with the theft of that secret convention. Even the telegram sent from the Strand Post-Office to St Petersburg is in your handwriting—”“Forged!” I interposed. “Have you not already seen the careful attempts made to copy the formation of my letters and figures?”“The greatest calligraphic expert of the day has pronounced the telegram to be undoubtedly in your own hand, while the counter-clerk who took in the message and received payment for it, has seen you surreptitiously, and recognised you by the shape of the silk hat you habitually wear.”Here was an astounding case of mistaken identity. I had never entered the post-office near Exeter Hall for six months at least.“I should like to meet that clerk face to face,” I burst forth. “He tells a distinct falsehood when he says he recognises me. I did not go into the Strand at all on that day.” Then a thought suddenly occurred to me when I reflected upon the shape of my hat, and I added, “I admit that my hat is of a rather unusual shape,” taking it up and exhibiting it to them. “But when I bought this in Piccadilly two months ago Ogle was with me, and he purchased one exactly similar.”“Again the evidence is against the dead man,” the Premier said, turning to Lord Warnham. “Where is his hat?” he inquired of me sharply.“At Shepperton. I can produce it if required. Its shape is exactly like mine.”“You had better speak to Frayling upon that point,” observed Lord Warnham. “It may prove important. At any rate, Deedes, perhaps, after all, I have been just a trifle unjust in condemning you, therefore consider yourself reinstated in the same position as before, although I must admit that my previous confidence in your integrity is, to say the least, seriously—very seriously—impaired.”“I hope it will not remain so long,” I said. “If there is anything I can do to restore your belief in my honesty, I will do it at whatever cost.”“There is but one thing,” he exclaimed. “Discover the identity of the spy.”“I will regard that the one endeavour of my life,” I declared earnestly. “If the mystery is to be fathomed I will accomplish it.”“While we’ve been talking,” the Premier interposed, “a thought has occurred to me, and for mentioning it I hope you, Deedes, will pardon me. It has struck me that if, as seems even more than likely, this man Ogle was actually a spy who had carefully cultivated your acquaintance with an ulterior motive, is it not within the range of possibility that the lady, who was also your most intimate friend, as well as his, either knew the true facts, or had a hand in the affair?”“I can trust Ella,” I said, glancing at him resentfully. “She is no spy.”The elderly statesman stroked his beard thoughtfully and smiled, saying, “Ah, I expected as much. I myself was young once. When a man loves a woman he is very loth to think her capable of deceit. Yet in this instance we must not overlook the fact that more than one female spy has been brought under our notice.”“I am aware of that,” I replied, angry that he should have made such a suggestion against my well-beloved, yet remembering her strange utterances when she heard the news of impending war shouted in the street. “But I have the most implicit faith in the woman who is to be my wife.”“Has she explained, then, the character of the secret existing between herself and Ogle?” asked Lord Warnham, raising his grey, shaggy brows. “From the evidence at the inquest it was plain, you will remember, that there was some mysterious understanding between them. Has she given you her reasons for declaring that Ogle has been murdered?”For a moment I was silent; afterwards I was compelled to make a negative reply.“That doesn’t appear like perfect confidence, does it?” the Foreign Minister observed, with a short, hard laugh. “Depend upon it, Deedes, she fears to tell you the truth.”“No, she fears some other person,” I admitted. “Who it is I know not.”“Find out, and we shall then discover the spy,” the Premier said, adding, with a touch of sympathy, after a moment’s pause, “Remember, I allege nothing against you, Deedes. Do your duty, and regardless of all consequences discover the means by which we have been tricked. Induce the woman you love to speak; nay, if she loves you, force her to do so, for a woman who truly loves a man will do anything to benefit him, otherwise she is unworthy to become his wife. Some day ere long you yourself will become a diplomat, as other members of your family have been. Now is the time to practise tact, the first requisite of successful diplomacy. Be tactful, be resourceful, be cunning, and look far into the future, and you will succeed both in clearing yourself and in explaining this, the most remarkable mystery that has occurred during the long years of my administration.”I thanked him briefly for his advice, declaring that it should be my firm endeavour to follow it, and also thanked Lord Warnham for my re-instatement, but my words were interrupted by a loud double knock at the door, and in response to an injunction to enter, there appeared, hot and breathless, Frank Lawley, one of the Foreign Office messengers. He wore, half-concealed by his overcoat, his small enamelled greyhound suspended around his neck by a thin chain, his badge of office, and in his hand carried one of the familiar travelling dispatch-boxes.“Good evening, your Lordships,” he exclaimed, greeting us.“Where are you from, Lawley?” inquired Lord Warnham, eagerly.“From Paris, your Lordship. My dispatch, under flying seal, is, I believe, most important. The Marquis of Worthorpe feared to trust it on the wire.”In an instant both Premier and Minister sprang to their feet. While Lord Maybury broke the seals Lord Warnham whipped out his keys, opened the outer case, and then the inner red leather box, from which he drew forth a single envelope.This he tore open, and holding beneath the softly-shaded electric lamp the sheet of note-paper that bore the heading of our Embassy in Paris, both of Her Majesty’s Ministers eagerly devoured its contents.When they had done so they held their breath, raised their heads, and without speaking, looked at each other in abject dismay. The contents of the dispatch held them spellbound.The window of the room was open, and the dull, distant roaring of the great, turbulent multitude broke upon our ears. The excitement outside had risen to fever heat.

Half an hour later I stood at the door of the small post-office in the Lobby, after discussing the situation with that most cheery and courteous of officials, Mr Pike, the postmaster, who had left me for a moment to give some instructions to his subordinates. My mind was filled by gloomy thoughts, as I reflected that all this national terror and excitement had been produced by the dastardly and almost miraculous ingenuity of some unknown person.

But was he unknown? Was it not more than probable that the person to whom all this was due was Dudley Ogle, the man who lay lifeless without a single sorrowing friend to follow his body to the grave? Sometimes I felt entirely convinced of this: at others I doubted it. If Ella spoke the truth, as it now appeared, then it was plain that Dudley had been the victim of a terribly cruel and crafty conspiracy that culminated in his death. Might not this be so, I argued within myself. Yet the words and actions of Ella were all so remarkable, so veiled by an impenetrable mystery, that any endeavour to elucidate her reasons only puzzled me the more, driving me almost to the verge of madness.

Truth to tell, I loved her with a fond, passionate love, and had, only after months of trepidation and uncertainty, succeeded in obtaining her declaration that she reciprocated my affection, and her promise to be my wife. Yet within a month of my new-born life in happiness supreme, all these untoward events had, alas! occurred, stifling my joy, replacing confidence by doubt, and driving me to despair.

While I stood there alone, Lord Warnham hastily approached the post-office window with a telegram, and, seeing me, exclaimed,—

“Ah! I want you, Deedes. An hour ago I sent telegrams everywhere for you. Come with me to my room.”

He handed in his telegram, and together we went along the corridors to his own private room, where, in an armchair, with some papers in his hand, sat the Marquis of Maybury, Prime Minister of England. We had met before many times when the burly, elderly peer had been a guest at Warnham Hall, and on many occasions I had acted as his secretary when he had been alone.

“Well, Deedes,” he exclaimed gravely, looking up suddenly from the papers, “Lord Warnham has explained to me the mysterious theft of the secret convention, and I am anxious to see you regarding it.”

The Foreign Minister seated himself at his table in silence, with folded arms, as the world-renowned statesman proceeded to question me closely regarding the events of that memorable day when the document had been so ingeniously stolen.

“Have you not the slightest clue to the culprit, even now?” Lord Maybury asked at last, stroking his full grey beard. “Remember that England’s honour and her future depends absolutely upon the issue of this serious complication. If you can furnish us with any information, it is just possible that diplomacy may do something, even at the eleventh hour. You see we have lost the original of the convention, and this, if produced in Petersburg, is sufficient evidence against us to upset all our protestations.”

“I have told Lord Warnham all I know,” I answered calmly. “To him I have explained my suspicions.”

“That this friend of yours called Ogle, who died mysteriously on that very same day, was the actual spy,” he observed. “Some of the facts certainly point to such a conclusion; but, now tell me, did Ogle enter your room at the Foreign Office on that day?”

“Certainly not,” I replied. “No one is allowed in my room except the clerks.”

“Could he have seen the envelope sticking out of your pocket?”

“No,” I answered. “I am confident he could not, because, on placing it in my pocket, a deep one, I took precaution to notice whether it were visible.”

“Then, if such is the case, I maintain that Ogle could not possibly have known what designation you had written upon the envelope,” the Premier observed; adding, “Did you meet anyone you knew during your walk to the Ship, or while you were in Ogle’s company?”

“No one whatever,” I said.

“I know the Ship. At which table did you sit?”

“At the first table on the left, in the inner room beyond the bar. I sat in the corner, with my back to a high partition. Therefore, the envelope could not possibly have been extracted from my pocket without my knowledge.”

“Then I should like to hear your theory of the affair,” said the Prime Minister, his dark, penetrating eyes fixed upon me.

“It is so remarkable,” I answered, “that I am utterly unable to form any idea how the theft was accomplished.”

“You believe, however, that Ogle was a spy?”

“At present, yes,” I said. “And further, I have grave suspicions that he was murdered.”

“Ah, that was alleged at the inquest,” his Lordship observed. “At present the police are sparing no effort to determine the cause of his death, and to find out who manufactured the duplicate of Lord Warnham’s seal.”

“The seal I picked up from among the contents of Ogle’s pockets was not the identical one used to secure the dummy envelope,” I said quickly.

“I am fully aware of all the facts,” he answered rather coldly. “My desire is to find out something fresh. Even the police seem utterly baffled. Who is this young woman, Ella Laing, who at the inquest alleged murder?”

“The daughter of Mrs Laing, of Pont Street.”

“Do you know her intimately?”

“She is engaged to be married to me,” I replied.

“It is apparent that she was very friendly with this Ogle. Surely you can induce her to tell you something about him.”

“She knows but little more than what I already know. He lived with me at Shepperton, and had few secrets from me.”

“Did you ever suspect him to be a spy?”

“Not for one moment. He had plenty of money of his own, and was in no sense an adventurer.”

“Well,” exclaimed the Premier, turning to his colleague at last. “It is extraordinary—most extraordinary.”

Lord Warnham nodded acquiescence, and said, “Yes, there is a deep and extraordinary mystery somewhere: a mystery we must, for the sake of our own honour, penetrate and elucidate.”

“I entirely agree,” answered the other. “We have been victimised by clever spies.”

“And all owing to Deedes’s culpable negligence,” added Lord Warnham, testily, glancing at me.

“No, I am inclined to differ,” exclaimed the Premier. He had never acted very generously towards me, and I was surprised that he should at this moment take up the cudgels on my behalf. “To me it appears, as far as the facts go, that Deedes has been victimised in the same manner as ourselves.”

“But if he had exercised due caution this terrible catastrophe could never have occurred,” the Foreign Minister cried impatiently, tapping the table with his pen in emphasis of his words.

“A little more than mere caution, or even shrewdness, is required to defeat the efforts of the Tzar’s spies,” the Premier said quietly. “In my opinion, Deedes, although in a measure under suspicion, cannot be actually condemned. Remember, among Ogle’s correspondence he discovered evidence of an undoubted attempt to forge his handwriting.”

“We have no corroboration that he really did find that actually among the dead man’s possessions,” exclaimed Lord Warnham quickly. “I have myself seen the detective who accompanied him to Shepperton, and he tells me that no sheets of paper of that character were discovered. He—”

“I found them while he was engaged in an adjoining room,” I interrupted. “I did not mention it to him, preferring to bring the evidence straight to you.”

“It is just possible that Deedes’s version is correct,” observed the Premier. “Personally, I must say, Warnham, that I cannot see any ground for the dismissal of a hitherto trustworthy servant of Her Majesty upon this extraordinary evidence. I have always found Deedes upright, loyal and patriotic, and coming as he does of a well-known family of diplomats, I really do not suspect him of having played his country false.”

“I am obliged for your Lordship’s words,” I exclaimed fervently. “I assure you that your merciful view is entirely correct. I am innocent, and at this moment am utterly at a loss to account for any of the amazing events of the past few days.”

Lord Warnham was silent in thought for a few moments, then, turning his sphinx-like face to me, he said, in a tone rather more conciliatory than before, “Very well. As it is Lord Maybury’s wish, I will reinstate you in the Service; but remember, I have no confidence in you.”

“Then you still suspect me of being a spy?” I cried reproachfully. “I am to remain under suspicion!”

“Exactly,” he answered dryly. “Until the truth is ascertained I, at least, shall believe you had something to do with the theft of that secret convention. Even the telegram sent from the Strand Post-Office to St Petersburg is in your handwriting—”

“Forged!” I interposed. “Have you not already seen the careful attempts made to copy the formation of my letters and figures?”

“The greatest calligraphic expert of the day has pronounced the telegram to be undoubtedly in your own hand, while the counter-clerk who took in the message and received payment for it, has seen you surreptitiously, and recognised you by the shape of the silk hat you habitually wear.”

Here was an astounding case of mistaken identity. I had never entered the post-office near Exeter Hall for six months at least.

“I should like to meet that clerk face to face,” I burst forth. “He tells a distinct falsehood when he says he recognises me. I did not go into the Strand at all on that day.” Then a thought suddenly occurred to me when I reflected upon the shape of my hat, and I added, “I admit that my hat is of a rather unusual shape,” taking it up and exhibiting it to them. “But when I bought this in Piccadilly two months ago Ogle was with me, and he purchased one exactly similar.”

“Again the evidence is against the dead man,” the Premier said, turning to Lord Warnham. “Where is his hat?” he inquired of me sharply.

“At Shepperton. I can produce it if required. Its shape is exactly like mine.”

“You had better speak to Frayling upon that point,” observed Lord Warnham. “It may prove important. At any rate, Deedes, perhaps, after all, I have been just a trifle unjust in condemning you, therefore consider yourself reinstated in the same position as before, although I must admit that my previous confidence in your integrity is, to say the least, seriously—very seriously—impaired.”

“I hope it will not remain so long,” I said. “If there is anything I can do to restore your belief in my honesty, I will do it at whatever cost.”

“There is but one thing,” he exclaimed. “Discover the identity of the spy.”

“I will regard that the one endeavour of my life,” I declared earnestly. “If the mystery is to be fathomed I will accomplish it.”

“While we’ve been talking,” the Premier interposed, “a thought has occurred to me, and for mentioning it I hope you, Deedes, will pardon me. It has struck me that if, as seems even more than likely, this man Ogle was actually a spy who had carefully cultivated your acquaintance with an ulterior motive, is it not within the range of possibility that the lady, who was also your most intimate friend, as well as his, either knew the true facts, or had a hand in the affair?”

“I can trust Ella,” I said, glancing at him resentfully. “She is no spy.”

The elderly statesman stroked his beard thoughtfully and smiled, saying, “Ah, I expected as much. I myself was young once. When a man loves a woman he is very loth to think her capable of deceit. Yet in this instance we must not overlook the fact that more than one female spy has been brought under our notice.”

“I am aware of that,” I replied, angry that he should have made such a suggestion against my well-beloved, yet remembering her strange utterances when she heard the news of impending war shouted in the street. “But I have the most implicit faith in the woman who is to be my wife.”

“Has she explained, then, the character of the secret existing between herself and Ogle?” asked Lord Warnham, raising his grey, shaggy brows. “From the evidence at the inquest it was plain, you will remember, that there was some mysterious understanding between them. Has she given you her reasons for declaring that Ogle has been murdered?”

For a moment I was silent; afterwards I was compelled to make a negative reply.

“That doesn’t appear like perfect confidence, does it?” the Foreign Minister observed, with a short, hard laugh. “Depend upon it, Deedes, she fears to tell you the truth.”

“No, she fears some other person,” I admitted. “Who it is I know not.”

“Find out, and we shall then discover the spy,” the Premier said, adding, with a touch of sympathy, after a moment’s pause, “Remember, I allege nothing against you, Deedes. Do your duty, and regardless of all consequences discover the means by which we have been tricked. Induce the woman you love to speak; nay, if she loves you, force her to do so, for a woman who truly loves a man will do anything to benefit him, otherwise she is unworthy to become his wife. Some day ere long you yourself will become a diplomat, as other members of your family have been. Now is the time to practise tact, the first requisite of successful diplomacy. Be tactful, be resourceful, be cunning, and look far into the future, and you will succeed both in clearing yourself and in explaining this, the most remarkable mystery that has occurred during the long years of my administration.”

I thanked him briefly for his advice, declaring that it should be my firm endeavour to follow it, and also thanked Lord Warnham for my re-instatement, but my words were interrupted by a loud double knock at the door, and in response to an injunction to enter, there appeared, hot and breathless, Frank Lawley, one of the Foreign Office messengers. He wore, half-concealed by his overcoat, his small enamelled greyhound suspended around his neck by a thin chain, his badge of office, and in his hand carried one of the familiar travelling dispatch-boxes.

“Good evening, your Lordships,” he exclaimed, greeting us.

“Where are you from, Lawley?” inquired Lord Warnham, eagerly.

“From Paris, your Lordship. My dispatch, under flying seal, is, I believe, most important. The Marquis of Worthorpe feared to trust it on the wire.”

In an instant both Premier and Minister sprang to their feet. While Lord Maybury broke the seals Lord Warnham whipped out his keys, opened the outer case, and then the inner red leather box, from which he drew forth a single envelope.

This he tore open, and holding beneath the softly-shaded electric lamp the sheet of note-paper that bore the heading of our Embassy in Paris, both of Her Majesty’s Ministers eagerly devoured its contents.

When they had done so they held their breath, raised their heads, and without speaking, looked at each other in abject dismay. The contents of the dispatch held them spellbound.

The window of the room was open, and the dull, distant roaring of the great, turbulent multitude broke upon our ears. The excitement outside had risen to fever heat.

Chapter Thirteen.A Statement to the Press.“This is indeed extraordinary!” exclaimed Lord Maybury, the Premier, at last.“An amazing development—most amazing!” the Foreign Minister cried, unusually excited.“What is the best course?” asked the head of the Government.“There is but one,” his colleague answered. “I shall wire to St Petersburg at once and await confirmation.”“The situation is becoming absolutely bewildering,” observed the Premier. “It may be best, I think, to convene another meeting of the Cabinet.”Lord Warnham, with that involuntary caution that he had developed during long years of office as Minister of Foreign Affairs, at once dismissed Frank Lawley, but allowed me to remain. As his confidential secretary I had been present on many occasions when delicate matters of diplomacy had been adjusted and plans arranged which, if divulged, would have caused an upheaval throughout Europe.“No, I don’t think another Council is necessary, at least not to-night,” answered Lord Warnham, when the cosmopolitan messenger had closed the door behind him.“But the whole thing is at present a mystery,” said the Prime Minister, standing astride with his broad back to the empty grate.“Exactly. We must have news from the Embassy in St Petersburg before long. Until then, I think we should be patient.”“But hark!” exclaimed the Premier, quite calmly, and as we all three listened we could hear the dull roar of the crowd becoming louder. The popular excitement outside was intense, and the eager multitude increased each moment. “They are clamouring for news. It is, I think, time that another statement should be made in the House.”“As you wish,” Lord Warnham answered, with ill grace. It was part of his creed to tell the public absolutely nothing. The Premier was for publicity—he for secrecy always.“But whatever statement is made regarding the receipt of intelligence it cannot compromise our position at St Petersburg,” the Marquis argued.“Very well. Let the statement be made. But, personally, I cannot see what we can say at present.”“Say something. It will reassure the public that we are endeavouring to readjust diplomatic negotiations. Already we are being hounded down on all sides by wild-haired agitators as having been asleep. Let us show our opponents that we are now fully alive to England’s peril.”“Ah, Maybury,” laughed the Foreign Minister, “it is always my opinion that the less the public know the easier it is for us to carry on the business of the country. The irresponsible journals are really the cause of nine-tenths of our diplomatic ruptures.”“But the Press assist us in many ways, and if you are averse to a statement in the House why not make one toThe Times, or to a news agency? Perhaps the latter course would be best, for it will re-establish public confidence.”“But that will not be official,” Lord Warnham demurred.“Nevertheless, we can make the official statement later, when we have received confirmation of this extraordinary dispatch.”“Is the dispatch from Paris very remarkable?” I asked, unable to any longer bear their tantalising conversation, so anxious was I to ascertain the latest development of this conspiracy against our country.“Read it for yourself,” Lord Warnham answered, glancing at the Premier to ascertain whether this course received his approbation, and finding that it did, he handed me the dispatch, which I found a moment later read as follows:—“From Marquis of Worthorpe, Paris, to Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.—My Lord,—In further continuation of my dispatch of this morning, I have the honour to report to your Lordship that the war preparations actively commenced here on receipt of a telegram from St Petersburg (copy of which was enclosed in my last dispatch) have, owing to a later telegram from Russia, been entirely stopped. The orders for mobilisation have everywhere been countermanded. According to a statement just made to me by our secret agent in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the French Government have to-day received word that the Tzar’s declaration of war will not, for some unexplained reason, be published. I send this by special messenger in the hope that it will reach your Lordship this evening.—Worthorpe.”“This is remarkable!” I cried. “It appears as if Russia has already repented.” But the Premier and his colleague, at that moment in consultation regarding the steps to be taken should this astounding and reassuring news prove correct, did not notice my remark. Presently, however, the Prime Minister, turning to me, asked,—“Are any of the reporters your personal friends, Deedes?”“Yes, I know several.”“To whom shall we make our statement?” he inquired. “We want it spread throughout the country.”“In that case I should suggest Mr Johns, of the agency that supplies the club tapes and newspapers.”“Then send for him.”At once I went to the door and dispatched the messenger waiting outside to find that well-known figure of the Reporters’ Gallery, who makes it his boast that for years without a break he had sat through every sitting of the House of Commons, and whose friends have a legend that he can enjoy a sleep in his “box” over the Speaker’s chair and awake at the very moment any question of public interest arises. Ten minutes had elapsed when the chosen representative of the Press entered, hot and breathless, bowing to their Lordships. He was spare, dark-haired, with sharp, aquiline features, a breadth of forehead that denoted considerable learning, a pointed, dark-brown beard, and a pair of sharp, penetrating eyes. He spoke with a broad Scotch accent, his sallow face betraying signs of considerable excitement.“I desire, Mr Johns, to make a statement to the Press, and have sent for you with that object,” exclaimed the Minister for Foreign Affairs, glancing up at him.“With pleasure, my Lord,” exclaimed the reporter, taking from his pocket a pencil and a few loose sheets of “copy paper.” “I’m quite ready.”Then, as Lord Warnham dictated his message to the public, the representative of the news agency took it down in a series of rapid hieroglyphics. The words the Minister uttered were as follows:—“In order to allay undue public alarm, I wish it to be known that, according to advices I have received, the statement in theNovoë Vremyato-day, at first believed to be correct, is without foundation.”“Then war is not declared?” interrupted the reporter, excitedly.“No. The alarming report reproduced by the English Press from the St Petersburg journal is apparently totally incorrect.”“And I presume I may say that there is no rupture of diplomatic negotiations with St Petersburg?”Lord Warnham, smiling that sphinx-like smile which might be construed into anything the interlocutor chose, turned to the Prime Minister for his opinion upon the point.“Of course,” exclaimed the Marquis. “We have received no intimation of any diplomatic difficulty. Further, you may reassure the public that the Government will do everything in its power to avert any catastrophe; but as no catastrophe has occurred, all this excitement is quite uncalled for.”“May I use your own words, your Lordship?” inquired the reporter, quickly. “I want to reproduce this in the form of an interview.”“You can act as you please about that,” the Premier said, smiling as he added, “I suppose we shall see it in every newspaper in England to-morrow, headed, ‘The War Against England: Interview with the Prime Minister’—eh?”“Not to-morrow, your Lordship—to-night,” laughed the reporter, fidgeting in his eagerness to get away with the finest bit of “copy” that ever his pencil wrote.The Premier turned to speak with Lord Warnham, but my friend Johns was not to be delayed, even by the discussion of the nation’s peril. If the Archangel had suddenly appeared he would have calmly “taken a note” of how such an occurrence affected the onlookers.“Is there anything more I can say, your Lordship?” he asked, impatiently interrupting their conversation.“No, I think not at present,” Lord Warnham answered. “If you have any further statement to make, I shall hold myself in readiness,” he said, the journalistic spirit of greed being aroused to have the whole of this exclusive information to himself.“We will send for you if we have anything further to communicate,” Lord Warnham answered, and wishing him good evening, intimated that at least for the present the interview was at an end.After he had left, it was desired, upon the suggestion of the Premier, to slightly amend one of the sentences used by Lord Warnham, and with that object I rushed after the excited interviewer. After a little search I found him in the small room behind the Press Gallery, dictating in breathless haste to the clerk, who sat resting his head on one hand while with the other he worked the telegraph-key. As I approached, I heard him exclaim in broad Scotch,—“Now, then, Ford, look sharp, my lad, look sharp! Send this along, ‘Our representative has just interviewed the Marquis of Maybury and the Earl of Warnham on the situation. The exclusive information imparted is of the greatest possible importance, as it shows’—”Here I interrupted him, and having requested him to reconstruct the sentence, as desired by Lord Warnham, left him, and returned to where the two Ministers were still in earnest consultation.Having busied myself with some correspondence lying upon the Foreign Minister’s table, while the pair discussed a critical point as to the instructions to be sent to Lord Worthorpe in Paris, there presently came another loud knock at the door. One of the clerks, who had rushed over from the Foreign Office, entered, bearing a telegraphic dispatch.“Where from?” inquired Lord Warnham, noticing the paper in his hand as he came in.“From St Petersburg, your Lordship,” he answered, handing him the telegram.The Premier and Foreign Secretary read it through together in silence, expressions of satisfaction passing at once across both their countenances.“Then we need have no further apprehension,” exclaimed the Premier at last, looking up at his colleague.“Apparently not,” observed Lord Warnham. “This is certainly sufficient confirmation of Worthorpe’s dispatch,” and he tossed it across to the table whereat I sat, at the same time dismissing the clerk who had brought it.Taking up the telegram, I saw at a glance it was from our secret agent in the Russian Foreign Office, and that it had been re-transmitted from Hamburg. Although he had stated that all cipher messages were refused, this was in our private code, and its transcription, written beneath, was as follows:—“Remarkable development of situation has occurred. Ministers held a Council this afternoon, and after conferring with the Tzar, the latter decided to withdraw his proclamation of war, which was to be issued to-night. The reason for this sudden decision to preserve peace is a mystery, but the Tzar left half-an-hour ago on his journey south, two of the Ministers have left for their country seats, and telegraphic orders have been issued countermanding the military preparations, therefore it is certain that all idea of war is entirely abandoned. Immediately at the conclusion of the Council, a telegram was sent to the Russian Minister in Paris, informing him of the decision not to commence hostilities against England. TheNovoë Vremya,in order to allay public feeling, is to be prosecuted for publishing false news.”When I had read this astounding dispatch, congratulating myself that, after all, our country need not fear a foreign foe, I sat listening to the discussion between the two great statesmen. The Premier advocated an immediate statement in the House in order to reassure the public, but Lord Warnham, with that love of secrecy apparent in all his actions, personal or political, was strenuously opposed to such a course.“Let us wait until to-morrow,” he said. “To-night the papers will publish special editions containing the interview we have just given the Press representative, and this certainly ought to calm the crowd outside.” He spoke with a sneer of contempt of the multitude of excited citizens in fear of their lives and property.“But they are patriots, many of them, Warnham,” the Premier protested. “Who have placed us in power but that public?”“Oh, of course,” the other snapped impatiently. “You go in for popularity with the masses. I don’t. I’ve never been popular, not even in my own Department. But I can’t help it. I do my duty, and perhaps it is my very unpopularity that has secured me a reputation as head of Foreign Affairs.”“It may be, Warnham. It may be,” said the Premier, slowly. “But you are more popular than you imagine.”“In the Press, yes. These modern journals will lick the boots of anybody in power. It is not as it used to be in the old days, when you and I received a sound rating nearly every morning inThe Times.”“I do not allude to the Press, but contend that you are popular with the public. You would increase that popularity by allowing a statement to be made to-night.”“Let them wait until the morning,” he growled. “I haven’t the slightest wish to be regarded as the people’s saviour. An immediate statement will appear too much like a bid for cheap notoriety.”“Is it not your duty to the people to allay their apprehensions of a coming war?”“It is my duty to Her Majesty alone,” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering that he had forgotten to dispatch the reassuring news to Osborne, and turning, he thereupon dictated to me a telegram, which I quickly reduced to cipher.“Then you decline to allow any explanation to be given?” said the Premier, in a tone of reproach, stroking his full beard thoughtfully. “You would go home comfortably to bed and allow these thousands of half-scared citizens to remain in fear and doubt throughout the night.”“Why not?” he laughed. “I tell you I am unpopular, therefore a little secrecy more or less does not matter. If a Foreign Minister allowed the Press and public to know all his doings, how could diplomacy be conducted? The first element of success in dealing with foreign affairs is to preserve silence, and not allow one’s self to be drawn.”“But in this instance silence is quite unnecessary,” exclaimed the Prime Minister, growing impatient at the dogged persistence of his eccentric colleague, whose delight was to be designated as harsh, unrelenting and ascetic. In private life Lord Warnham lived almost alone in his great, gloomy mansion, scarcely seen by any other person save his valet, the telegraph clerk and myself. Some said that a strange romance in his youth had soured him, causing him to become misanthropic and eccentric; but it was always my opinion that the blow which fell upon him years ago; the early death of his young and beautiful wife, whom he loved intensely, was responsible for his slavish devotion to duty, his eccentricity, and the cool cynicism with which he regarded everybody, from his Sovereign to his secretary. As a Foreign Minister, every Government in Europe admired, yet feared him. He was, without doubt, the most shrewd and clever statesman the present century had known.“I shall preserve silence until to-morrow,” he said, decisively, at last.“If Her Majesty were consulted, she would, I feel sure, advocate an immediate declaration of the exact position of affairs,” Lord Maybury said. “She has the welfare of her people at heart. Remember, both you and I are her servants.”“Of course, of course,” he said, commencing to pace the room slowly. “Well,” he added, after a pause, “suppose we made a statement in the Commons to-night, and to-morrow we find the outlook still threatening and gloomy—what then?”“Listen!” cried the Prime Minister, at last losing patience, and throwing open the window wide. “Listen! The people of London are clamouring for news. Give it to them, and let them depart.”“They’ll be able to read it in the papers presently. Let them pay their pennies for it,” he sneered.“But that is not official,” the Premier argued, and before his colleague had time to reply, the messenger stationed outside the door entered, bearing a telegram, which he took to Lord Warnham.“The representative of Reuter’s Agency has brought this telegram, just received from St Petersburg, and desires to know whether you have any confirmation of the abandonment of the proposed hostilities against us,” the man said.“Oh, tell him I have nothing to communicate,” cried his Lordship, hastily. “And, look here, don’t bother me again with any inquiries from the Press.”“Very well, your Lordship,” the messenger answered, and at once withdrew.“Why not make an official declaration?” the Marquis urged. “It would avoid a great deal of unnecessary worry and anxiety.”For a long time the Foreign Minister held out, until at length he became convinced by Lord Maybury’s forcible arguments in favour of publicity, and gave his sanction to a statement being made in the House of Commons. Presently we all three proceeded there, and at once the news spread like wildfire, within Parliament and without, that the latest news from St Petersburg was to be officially announced. From the glass swing door of the Press gallery I watched the House rapidly fill to overflowing, even to its galleries, and when all had assembled the excitement for about ten minutes was intense. It was a memorable scene, more impressive, perhaps, than any of the many that have taken place within those sombre-panelled walls.Presently, prefaced by the Speaker’s loud “Order-r-r! Order!” a slim, grey-haired figure rose from the Government bench and explained that the news contained in theNovoë Vremyawas entirely false, and assured the House that war had not been, and would not be, declared against England.The final sentences of this welcome announcement were lost in a terrific outburst of applause. So excited were some of the younger members that they tossed their hats high in the air like schoolboys, and the vociferous cheering of the Foreign Secretary was continued, loud and long, notwithstanding the Speaker’s dignified and formal efforts to suppress it. The scene was the most enthusiastic and stirring that I had ever witnessed, but even this was eclipsed by the terrific enthusiasm I found prevailing among the multitude when, a quarter of an hour later, I fought my way though the throng to gaze outside.The great concourse of citizens, wildly-excited, were almost mad with delight. Publicly, from the steps of St Stephen’s Hall, the official statement had been shouted, and the multitude sent up such an outburst of applause that it echoed far and wide from the dark walls of Parliament and Abbey, church and hospital. The more enthusiastic ones yelled themselves hoarse with joyful shouts, while others started to sing “God save the Queen” until, taken up by all, the National Anthem echoed through the streets again and again. Then cheer upon cheer was given for “Warnham” and for “Good old Maybury,” the women joining in honouring England’s greatest statesman. It was popularly believed that by the efforts of these two men war had been averted, and it was not therefore surprising when they both left together and entered a carriage to drive to Downing Street, that the crowd unharnessed the horses, and fifty stalwart patriots dragged the carriage in triumph to its destination, while such an ovation was accorded them on every side, that even the excitement of the declaration of the poll at their election was paltry in comparison.I sat with them on the carriage, and as we were dragged onward through the dense, surging crowd, the Marquis turned to the Foreign Minister and exclaimed, with a smile,—“Surely you can never regard yourself as unpopular after this?”“Ah!” exclaimed the other, sadly, with a heavy sigh. “It is you they are cheering, not myself. The people call you ‘good old Maybury,’ but they have never called me ‘good old Warnham,’ and will never do so. I am still unpopular, and shall be always.”

“This is indeed extraordinary!” exclaimed Lord Maybury, the Premier, at last.

“An amazing development—most amazing!” the Foreign Minister cried, unusually excited.

“What is the best course?” asked the head of the Government.

“There is but one,” his colleague answered. “I shall wire to St Petersburg at once and await confirmation.”

“The situation is becoming absolutely bewildering,” observed the Premier. “It may be best, I think, to convene another meeting of the Cabinet.”

Lord Warnham, with that involuntary caution that he had developed during long years of office as Minister of Foreign Affairs, at once dismissed Frank Lawley, but allowed me to remain. As his confidential secretary I had been present on many occasions when delicate matters of diplomacy had been adjusted and plans arranged which, if divulged, would have caused an upheaval throughout Europe.

“No, I don’t think another Council is necessary, at least not to-night,” answered Lord Warnham, when the cosmopolitan messenger had closed the door behind him.

“But the whole thing is at present a mystery,” said the Prime Minister, standing astride with his broad back to the empty grate.

“Exactly. We must have news from the Embassy in St Petersburg before long. Until then, I think we should be patient.”

“But hark!” exclaimed the Premier, quite calmly, and as we all three listened we could hear the dull roar of the crowd becoming louder. The popular excitement outside was intense, and the eager multitude increased each moment. “They are clamouring for news. It is, I think, time that another statement should be made in the House.”

“As you wish,” Lord Warnham answered, with ill grace. It was part of his creed to tell the public absolutely nothing. The Premier was for publicity—he for secrecy always.

“But whatever statement is made regarding the receipt of intelligence it cannot compromise our position at St Petersburg,” the Marquis argued.

“Very well. Let the statement be made. But, personally, I cannot see what we can say at present.”

“Say something. It will reassure the public that we are endeavouring to readjust diplomatic negotiations. Already we are being hounded down on all sides by wild-haired agitators as having been asleep. Let us show our opponents that we are now fully alive to England’s peril.”

“Ah, Maybury,” laughed the Foreign Minister, “it is always my opinion that the less the public know the easier it is for us to carry on the business of the country. The irresponsible journals are really the cause of nine-tenths of our diplomatic ruptures.”

“But the Press assist us in many ways, and if you are averse to a statement in the House why not make one toThe Times, or to a news agency? Perhaps the latter course would be best, for it will re-establish public confidence.”

“But that will not be official,” Lord Warnham demurred.

“Nevertheless, we can make the official statement later, when we have received confirmation of this extraordinary dispatch.”

“Is the dispatch from Paris very remarkable?” I asked, unable to any longer bear their tantalising conversation, so anxious was I to ascertain the latest development of this conspiracy against our country.

“Read it for yourself,” Lord Warnham answered, glancing at the Premier to ascertain whether this course received his approbation, and finding that it did, he handed me the dispatch, which I found a moment later read as follows:—

“From Marquis of Worthorpe, Paris, to Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.—My Lord,—In further continuation of my dispatch of this morning, I have the honour to report to your Lordship that the war preparations actively commenced here on receipt of a telegram from St Petersburg (copy of which was enclosed in my last dispatch) have, owing to a later telegram from Russia, been entirely stopped. The orders for mobilisation have everywhere been countermanded. According to a statement just made to me by our secret agent in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the French Government have to-day received word that the Tzar’s declaration of war will not, for some unexplained reason, be published. I send this by special messenger in the hope that it will reach your Lordship this evening.—Worthorpe.”

“This is remarkable!” I cried. “It appears as if Russia has already repented.” But the Premier and his colleague, at that moment in consultation regarding the steps to be taken should this astounding and reassuring news prove correct, did not notice my remark. Presently, however, the Prime Minister, turning to me, asked,—

“Are any of the reporters your personal friends, Deedes?”

“Yes, I know several.”

“To whom shall we make our statement?” he inquired. “We want it spread throughout the country.”

“In that case I should suggest Mr Johns, of the agency that supplies the club tapes and newspapers.”

“Then send for him.”

At once I went to the door and dispatched the messenger waiting outside to find that well-known figure of the Reporters’ Gallery, who makes it his boast that for years without a break he had sat through every sitting of the House of Commons, and whose friends have a legend that he can enjoy a sleep in his “box” over the Speaker’s chair and awake at the very moment any question of public interest arises. Ten minutes had elapsed when the chosen representative of the Press entered, hot and breathless, bowing to their Lordships. He was spare, dark-haired, with sharp, aquiline features, a breadth of forehead that denoted considerable learning, a pointed, dark-brown beard, and a pair of sharp, penetrating eyes. He spoke with a broad Scotch accent, his sallow face betraying signs of considerable excitement.

“I desire, Mr Johns, to make a statement to the Press, and have sent for you with that object,” exclaimed the Minister for Foreign Affairs, glancing up at him.

“With pleasure, my Lord,” exclaimed the reporter, taking from his pocket a pencil and a few loose sheets of “copy paper.” “I’m quite ready.”

Then, as Lord Warnham dictated his message to the public, the representative of the news agency took it down in a series of rapid hieroglyphics. The words the Minister uttered were as follows:—

“In order to allay undue public alarm, I wish it to be known that, according to advices I have received, the statement in theNovoë Vremyato-day, at first believed to be correct, is without foundation.”

“Then war is not declared?” interrupted the reporter, excitedly.

“No. The alarming report reproduced by the English Press from the St Petersburg journal is apparently totally incorrect.”

“And I presume I may say that there is no rupture of diplomatic negotiations with St Petersburg?”

Lord Warnham, smiling that sphinx-like smile which might be construed into anything the interlocutor chose, turned to the Prime Minister for his opinion upon the point.

“Of course,” exclaimed the Marquis. “We have received no intimation of any diplomatic difficulty. Further, you may reassure the public that the Government will do everything in its power to avert any catastrophe; but as no catastrophe has occurred, all this excitement is quite uncalled for.”

“May I use your own words, your Lordship?” inquired the reporter, quickly. “I want to reproduce this in the form of an interview.”

“You can act as you please about that,” the Premier said, smiling as he added, “I suppose we shall see it in every newspaper in England to-morrow, headed, ‘The War Against England: Interview with the Prime Minister’—eh?”

“Not to-morrow, your Lordship—to-night,” laughed the reporter, fidgeting in his eagerness to get away with the finest bit of “copy” that ever his pencil wrote.

The Premier turned to speak with Lord Warnham, but my friend Johns was not to be delayed, even by the discussion of the nation’s peril. If the Archangel had suddenly appeared he would have calmly “taken a note” of how such an occurrence affected the onlookers.

“Is there anything more I can say, your Lordship?” he asked, impatiently interrupting their conversation.

“No, I think not at present,” Lord Warnham answered. “If you have any further statement to make, I shall hold myself in readiness,” he said, the journalistic spirit of greed being aroused to have the whole of this exclusive information to himself.

“We will send for you if we have anything further to communicate,” Lord Warnham answered, and wishing him good evening, intimated that at least for the present the interview was at an end.

After he had left, it was desired, upon the suggestion of the Premier, to slightly amend one of the sentences used by Lord Warnham, and with that object I rushed after the excited interviewer. After a little search I found him in the small room behind the Press Gallery, dictating in breathless haste to the clerk, who sat resting his head on one hand while with the other he worked the telegraph-key. As I approached, I heard him exclaim in broad Scotch,—“Now, then, Ford, look sharp, my lad, look sharp! Send this along, ‘Our representative has just interviewed the Marquis of Maybury and the Earl of Warnham on the situation. The exclusive information imparted is of the greatest possible importance, as it shows’—”

Here I interrupted him, and having requested him to reconstruct the sentence, as desired by Lord Warnham, left him, and returned to where the two Ministers were still in earnest consultation.

Having busied myself with some correspondence lying upon the Foreign Minister’s table, while the pair discussed a critical point as to the instructions to be sent to Lord Worthorpe in Paris, there presently came another loud knock at the door. One of the clerks, who had rushed over from the Foreign Office, entered, bearing a telegraphic dispatch.

“Where from?” inquired Lord Warnham, noticing the paper in his hand as he came in.

“From St Petersburg, your Lordship,” he answered, handing him the telegram.

The Premier and Foreign Secretary read it through together in silence, expressions of satisfaction passing at once across both their countenances.

“Then we need have no further apprehension,” exclaimed the Premier at last, looking up at his colleague.

“Apparently not,” observed Lord Warnham. “This is certainly sufficient confirmation of Worthorpe’s dispatch,” and he tossed it across to the table whereat I sat, at the same time dismissing the clerk who had brought it.

Taking up the telegram, I saw at a glance it was from our secret agent in the Russian Foreign Office, and that it had been re-transmitted from Hamburg. Although he had stated that all cipher messages were refused, this was in our private code, and its transcription, written beneath, was as follows:—

“Remarkable development of situation has occurred. Ministers held a Council this afternoon, and after conferring with the Tzar, the latter decided to withdraw his proclamation of war, which was to be issued to-night. The reason for this sudden decision to preserve peace is a mystery, but the Tzar left half-an-hour ago on his journey south, two of the Ministers have left for their country seats, and telegraphic orders have been issued countermanding the military preparations, therefore it is certain that all idea of war is entirely abandoned. Immediately at the conclusion of the Council, a telegram was sent to the Russian Minister in Paris, informing him of the decision not to commence hostilities against England. TheNovoë Vremya,in order to allay public feeling, is to be prosecuted for publishing false news.”

When I had read this astounding dispatch, congratulating myself that, after all, our country need not fear a foreign foe, I sat listening to the discussion between the two great statesmen. The Premier advocated an immediate statement in the House in order to reassure the public, but Lord Warnham, with that love of secrecy apparent in all his actions, personal or political, was strenuously opposed to such a course.

“Let us wait until to-morrow,” he said. “To-night the papers will publish special editions containing the interview we have just given the Press representative, and this certainly ought to calm the crowd outside.” He spoke with a sneer of contempt of the multitude of excited citizens in fear of their lives and property.

“But they are patriots, many of them, Warnham,” the Premier protested. “Who have placed us in power but that public?”

“Oh, of course,” the other snapped impatiently. “You go in for popularity with the masses. I don’t. I’ve never been popular, not even in my own Department. But I can’t help it. I do my duty, and perhaps it is my very unpopularity that has secured me a reputation as head of Foreign Affairs.”

“It may be, Warnham. It may be,” said the Premier, slowly. “But you are more popular than you imagine.”

“In the Press, yes. These modern journals will lick the boots of anybody in power. It is not as it used to be in the old days, when you and I received a sound rating nearly every morning inThe Times.”

“I do not allude to the Press, but contend that you are popular with the public. You would increase that popularity by allowing a statement to be made to-night.”

“Let them wait until the morning,” he growled. “I haven’t the slightest wish to be regarded as the people’s saviour. An immediate statement will appear too much like a bid for cheap notoriety.”

“Is it not your duty to the people to allay their apprehensions of a coming war?”

“It is my duty to Her Majesty alone,” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering that he had forgotten to dispatch the reassuring news to Osborne, and turning, he thereupon dictated to me a telegram, which I quickly reduced to cipher.

“Then you decline to allow any explanation to be given?” said the Premier, in a tone of reproach, stroking his full beard thoughtfully. “You would go home comfortably to bed and allow these thousands of half-scared citizens to remain in fear and doubt throughout the night.”

“Why not?” he laughed. “I tell you I am unpopular, therefore a little secrecy more or less does not matter. If a Foreign Minister allowed the Press and public to know all his doings, how could diplomacy be conducted? The first element of success in dealing with foreign affairs is to preserve silence, and not allow one’s self to be drawn.”

“But in this instance silence is quite unnecessary,” exclaimed the Prime Minister, growing impatient at the dogged persistence of his eccentric colleague, whose delight was to be designated as harsh, unrelenting and ascetic. In private life Lord Warnham lived almost alone in his great, gloomy mansion, scarcely seen by any other person save his valet, the telegraph clerk and myself. Some said that a strange romance in his youth had soured him, causing him to become misanthropic and eccentric; but it was always my opinion that the blow which fell upon him years ago; the early death of his young and beautiful wife, whom he loved intensely, was responsible for his slavish devotion to duty, his eccentricity, and the cool cynicism with which he regarded everybody, from his Sovereign to his secretary. As a Foreign Minister, every Government in Europe admired, yet feared him. He was, without doubt, the most shrewd and clever statesman the present century had known.

“I shall preserve silence until to-morrow,” he said, decisively, at last.

“If Her Majesty were consulted, she would, I feel sure, advocate an immediate declaration of the exact position of affairs,” Lord Maybury said. “She has the welfare of her people at heart. Remember, both you and I are her servants.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, commencing to pace the room slowly. “Well,” he added, after a pause, “suppose we made a statement in the Commons to-night, and to-morrow we find the outlook still threatening and gloomy—what then?”

“Listen!” cried the Prime Minister, at last losing patience, and throwing open the window wide. “Listen! The people of London are clamouring for news. Give it to them, and let them depart.”

“They’ll be able to read it in the papers presently. Let them pay their pennies for it,” he sneered.

“But that is not official,” the Premier argued, and before his colleague had time to reply, the messenger stationed outside the door entered, bearing a telegram, which he took to Lord Warnham.

“The representative of Reuter’s Agency has brought this telegram, just received from St Petersburg, and desires to know whether you have any confirmation of the abandonment of the proposed hostilities against us,” the man said.

“Oh, tell him I have nothing to communicate,” cried his Lordship, hastily. “And, look here, don’t bother me again with any inquiries from the Press.”

“Very well, your Lordship,” the messenger answered, and at once withdrew.

“Why not make an official declaration?” the Marquis urged. “It would avoid a great deal of unnecessary worry and anxiety.”

For a long time the Foreign Minister held out, until at length he became convinced by Lord Maybury’s forcible arguments in favour of publicity, and gave his sanction to a statement being made in the House of Commons. Presently we all three proceeded there, and at once the news spread like wildfire, within Parliament and without, that the latest news from St Petersburg was to be officially announced. From the glass swing door of the Press gallery I watched the House rapidly fill to overflowing, even to its galleries, and when all had assembled the excitement for about ten minutes was intense. It was a memorable scene, more impressive, perhaps, than any of the many that have taken place within those sombre-panelled walls.

Presently, prefaced by the Speaker’s loud “Order-r-r! Order!” a slim, grey-haired figure rose from the Government bench and explained that the news contained in theNovoë Vremyawas entirely false, and assured the House that war had not been, and would not be, declared against England.

The final sentences of this welcome announcement were lost in a terrific outburst of applause. So excited were some of the younger members that they tossed their hats high in the air like schoolboys, and the vociferous cheering of the Foreign Secretary was continued, loud and long, notwithstanding the Speaker’s dignified and formal efforts to suppress it. The scene was the most enthusiastic and stirring that I had ever witnessed, but even this was eclipsed by the terrific enthusiasm I found prevailing among the multitude when, a quarter of an hour later, I fought my way though the throng to gaze outside.

The great concourse of citizens, wildly-excited, were almost mad with delight. Publicly, from the steps of St Stephen’s Hall, the official statement had been shouted, and the multitude sent up such an outburst of applause that it echoed far and wide from the dark walls of Parliament and Abbey, church and hospital. The more enthusiastic ones yelled themselves hoarse with joyful shouts, while others started to sing “God save the Queen” until, taken up by all, the National Anthem echoed through the streets again and again. Then cheer upon cheer was given for “Warnham” and for “Good old Maybury,” the women joining in honouring England’s greatest statesman. It was popularly believed that by the efforts of these two men war had been averted, and it was not therefore surprising when they both left together and entered a carriage to drive to Downing Street, that the crowd unharnessed the horses, and fifty stalwart patriots dragged the carriage in triumph to its destination, while such an ovation was accorded them on every side, that even the excitement of the declaration of the poll at their election was paltry in comparison.

I sat with them on the carriage, and as we were dragged onward through the dense, surging crowd, the Marquis turned to the Foreign Minister and exclaimed, with a smile,—

“Surely you can never regard yourself as unpopular after this?”

“Ah!” exclaimed the other, sadly, with a heavy sigh. “It is you they are cheering, not myself. The people call you ‘good old Maybury,’ but they have never called me ‘good old Warnham,’ and will never do so. I am still unpopular, and shall be always.”

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