William Le Queux (continued 2)

“I—I cannot say,” I faltered.

The movement among the audience showed the sensation my reply had caused, and it was increased by Ella suddenly rising from her place and shrieking hysterically: “That answer is a lie—a foul lie!”

“Silence!” shouted the Coroner, who, above all things, detested a scene in his Court. “If that lady interrupts again, she must be requested to leave.”

“Have you any further question to ask Mr Deedes?” he inquired, turning to the jury; but as no one replied, he intimated that the examination was at an end, and I felt that I had, at last, successfully passed through the ordeal I had dreaded.

Retiring to a seat, my place as a witness was at once taken by Beck; but scarcely had I sunk into a chair near where Ella was sitting when I felt within my hand the object I had taken from among the things found in the dead man’s possession. It had not been missed, and I wondered whether its loss would ever be detected. To keep it was, I felt, extremely dangerous; nevertheless I sat holding it in my palm, listening to the evidence of the well-known member for West Rutlandshire. His story, related in that loud, bombastic tone that had at first so prejudiced me against him, was much to the same effect as mine regarding the discovery of the body, its removal into the house, and the subsequent examination by the doctor, until there commenced the minute cross-examination.

“How long have you known the deceased?” the Coroner inquired, looking up suddenly from his notes.

“A few months. About six, I should think,” he answered.

“Have you any suspicion that he had an enemy?”

“No. He was about the last man in the world who would arouse the hatred of anybody. In fact, he was exceedingly popular.”

“You say you have been a frequent visitor at Mrs Laing’s. Now, from your own observations, have you seen anything that would lead you to the belief that he loved Miss Laing?”

“Nothing whatever,” he replied. “Ella was engaged to Mr Deedes, and although she was on the river a great deal with Ogle, I am confident she never for a moment regarded him as her lover.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“Because of certain facts she has confided in me.”

“What are they?”

He was silent. Evidently he had no intention of being led on in this manner, but, even finding himself cornered, his imperturbable coolness never deserted him, for he calmly replied, with a faint smile,—

“I refuse to answer.”

“Kindly reply to my question, sir, and do not waste the time of the Court,” exclaimed the Coroner, with impatience. “What were these facts?”

Again he was silent, twisting his gloves around his fingers uneasily.

“Come, answer if you please.”

“Well,” he replied, after considerable hesitation, “briefly, she gave me to understand that she loved Deedes, and had refused to listen to the deceased’s declaration of affection.”

“How came she to confide this secret of hers to you?” the Coroner asked eagerly.

Through my memory at that moment there flashed the scene I had witnessed in secret in the garden on that memorable night when I had detected this man with his arm around Ella’s waist, and I looked on in triumph at his embarrassment.

“I am a friend of the family,” he answered, with a calm, irritating smile a moment later. “She has told me many of her secrets.”

I knew from the expression upon his face that he lied. Was it not far more likely that on that night when I had discovered them he was uttering words of affection to her, and she, in return, had confessed that she loved me?

“Are you aware whether Mr Deedes had any knowledge that the deceased was his rival for Miss Laing’s hand?” inquired the Coroner, adding, self-apologetically, “I much regret being compelled to ask these questions, for I am aware how painful it must be to the family.”

“I believe he was utterly ignorant of it,” Beck replied. “He regarded Mr Ogle as his closest friend.”

“A false one, to say the least,” Dr Diplock observed in tones just audible. Beck shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply.

The inquisitive foreman of the jury then commenced a series of clumsy, impertinent questions, many of which the witness cleverly evaded. He resented this man’s cross-examination just as I had done, and during the quarter of an hour’s fencing with the tradesman no noteworthy fact was elicited. The Coroner, seeing this, suddenly put an end to the foreman’s pertinacious efforts to draw from the Member of Parliament further facts regarding home life at “The Nook,” and called Dr Allenby.

The doctor, who had apparently had long experience of inquests, took the oath in a business-like manner, and related the facts within his knowledge clearly and succinctly, describing how I had summoned him, his visit to “The Nook,” and the appearance of the dead man.

“Have you made a post-mortem?” the Coroner asked, without looking up from the notes he was making.

“I made an examination yesterday, in conjunction with Dr Engall. We found no trace of disease, with the exception of a slight lung trouble of recent date.”

“Was it sufficient to cause death?”

“Certainly not; neither was the bruise upon the forehead, which had, no doubt, been caused by the fall upon the gravel. The heart was perfectly normal, and we failed utterly to detect anything that would result fatally. The contents of the stomach have been analysed by Dr Adams, of the Home Office, at the instigation of the police, I believe.”

“Then, as far as you are concerned, you are unable to determine the cause of death?”

“Quite. It is a mystery.”

The next witness was a thin, white-haired, dapper little man, who, in reply to questions, explained that he was analyst to the Home Office, and had, at the request of the police, submitted the contents of the deceased’s stomach to analysis, the position of the hands pointing to a slight suspicion of poison.

“And what have you discovered?” inquired the Coroner, the Court being so silent that the proverbial pin, if it had been dropped at that moment, might have been heard.

“Nothing,” he answered clearly. “There was no sign of anything of a deleterious nature whatsoever. The deceased was certainly not poisoned.”

The assembly of excited townspeople again shifted uneasily, as it was wont to do after every important reply which might elucidate the mystery. It seemed as though a rumour had been circulated that Dudley had been poisoned, and this declaration of the renowned analyst set at rest for ever that wild, unfounded report. People turned to one another, whispering excitedly, and a shadow of disappointment rested upon their inquisitive countenances. They had expected it to be pronounced a case of murder, whereas it would now be proved that death had occurred from some natural but sudden and unknown cause.

“Then you have no opinion to offer as to the cause of death!” the Coroner exclaimed.

“None whatever,” was the reply, and that concluded the analyst’s important testimony.

The foreman of the jury expressed a wish to put a question to Ella, and a few moments later she stood where I had stood, and removing her glove, took the oath with trembling voice.

“Have you any reason to suppose, Miss Laing, that Mr Ogle’s declaration of love to you had aroused the enmity of Mr Deedes?” asked the man, seriously.

“No,” she answered in a tone so low that I could scarcely distinguish the word.

“Mr Deedes was your lover, wasn’t he?”

“I am still engaged to him,” she replied, tears welling in her eyes. “He tells a falsehood when he says that our love is at an end.”

“Then why did you not tell him of Mr Ogle’s declaration?”

“Because they were friends, and I did not wish to arouse animosity between them.”

Slight applause followed this reply, but it was instantly suppressed.

The Coroner, to bring matters to a conclusion, asked, “Now, knowing Mr Ogle as intimately as you did, do you suspect that he might have been murdered?”

She gasped, swayed slowly forward and gripped the corner of the baize-covered table to steady herself.

“Yes,” she answered in a clear but tremulous voice. “I—I believe he was murdered.”

A thrill of excitement and wonder ran through the onlookers. Her handsome face was ashen pale, and her breast, beneath her blouse of cool-looking muslin, rose and fell quickly, showing how intense was her agitation.

“And what causes you to believe this?” asked the Coroner, raising his brows in interrogation.

“I have suspicions,” she answered in a low voice, striving to remain calm, and glancing quickly around the silent assembly.

“You suspect some person of having been guilty of murder?” he asked, interested.

“Not exactly that,” she said quickly. “That Mr Ogle was murdered I feel confident, but who committed the crime I am unaware. It is a mystery. Knowing Mr Ogle so well as I did, he entrusted to me knowledge of certain facts that he strenuously kept secret from others. Yet I cannot conceive who would profit by his death.”

At this point the inspector of police rose and expressed a desire to know, through the Coroner, whether she had quarrelled with Mr Ogle.

“The day prior to his death we had a few words,” she faltered.

“Upon what subject?” asked the Coroner.

She at first refused to reply, but after being pressed, said, “We quarrelled about my engagement to Mr Deedes.”

So she acknowledged with her own lips that the dead man had been my bitter enemy, as I, too late, had discovered.

“He wished you to marry him?” suggested the Coroner. She did not answer, but burst into a fit of hysterical tears, and a few moments later was led out of the Court.

“I think, gentlemen,” the Coroner observed, turning to the jury, “no end can be obtained in pursuing this very painful inquiry further. You have heard the evidence, and while on the one hand the exact cause of death has not been established, on the other we have Miss Laing declaring that the unfortunate gentleman was murdered. The evidence certainly does not point to such a conclusion, and there are two courses that may be pursued; either to adjourn the inquiry, or to return an open verdict and leave the elucidation of the mystery in the hands of the police.”

The jury, after consulting among themselves, retired, but only for five minutes, coming back into court and returning an open verdict of “Found dead.”

Then, as the Coroner thanked the twelve tradesmen for their attendance, I rose and crossed to Beck, afterwards walking with him to “The Nook.”

Chapter Eight.

“I Dare Not!”

“What do you think of Ella’s statement?” Beck asked, as we were crossing Staines Bridge on our way to Mrs Laing’s.

“I can’t understand it,” I replied.

“Neither can I,” he said. “Girls of her excitable temperament are apt to make statements of that character utterly without foundation. No doubt Dudley was her intimate friend, and finding him dead, her romantic mind at once conjured up visions of murder.”

“Yes. There is a good deal in your argument,” I admitted, with a touch of sorrow at the remembrance that Ogle had aspired to her hand.

“I never spoke to you on the subject, for fear of making mischief, but I have many times been amazed at your blindness when Dudley and Ella used to flirt openly before your very eyes,” he observed, glancing at me.

“Ah! you are right,” I cried angrily. “I foolishly trusted him, believing implicitly in his honour and in Ella’s purity.”

“Of the latter you surely have no cause for suspicion,” he exclaimed quickly.

“I am not so certain,” I replied with bitterness. “The more deeply I attempt to probe this mystery, the more sorrow I heap upon myself. I was happy in the belief that she loved no other man except me, yet apparently she is as tactful as an adventuress, and delights in toying with a man’s affections.”

“Every woman is fickle,” my friend remarked sympathetically. “If she is thrown into the society of one man frequently, and passes idle hours alone with him, she either ends in loving him or hating him. There is little purely platonic friendship between men and women nowadays.”

“Yes, alas!” I echoed, as we entered the carriage drive and passed the well-remembered spot where I had discovered the body. “There is very little indeed.”

A quarter of an hour later I stood alone before the window of the bright morning-room which commanded a beautiful view of the brilliant, sunlit Thames, and the row of tall, swaying poplars and drooping, wind-whitened willows on the opposite shore. I was awaiting Ella, who had, her maid told me, gone to her room.

Presently, pale-faced and trembling, she entered, and, closing the door, moved slowly towards me, stretching forth her hand in silence, her tearful eyes downcast. I grasped the slim, white fingers, and found them cold as marble.

“Geoffrey,” she exclaimed, low and huskily. “Geoffrey, forgive me!”

“Forgive! For what reason?” I inquired sternly, looking at her in admiration, yet determined to be firm. This was, I resolved, to be our last interview.

“Because I—I was foolish and weak, and—” She paused, sighing deeply.

“Well?” I said cynically. “What other excuse?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried brokenly. “I know they are mean, paltry excuses. I know I am trying to make you believe it was not my own fault, yet—” and pausing again, she raised her clear blue eyes to mine with passionate glance, “and yet, Geoffrey, I love you in a manner I have loved no other man before.”

“You have a strange way of exhibiting this so-called affection,” I observed coldly. “You actually encouraged the advances of the man in whom I reposed foolish and ill-placed confidence.”

“For a purpose. I never loved him—never,” she protested, trembling.

“You had a reason? A strange one, I should think,” I exclaimed angrily. “Indeed, at this very moment you are mourning the loss of this man.”

“Dudley Ogle was not your enemy, Geoffrey. He was your friend,” she answered, with a tremor in her voice. “Some day I will prove this to you. I cannot now. It is impossible.”

“Why?”

“I dare not!”

“Dare not! What do you fear?” I demanded in surprise, instantly releasing her hand.

“The consequences would be fatal to our love,” she gasped. Then, after a pause, she clutched my arm, and, burying her beautiful face upon my shoulder, sobbed bitterly.

“Our love!” I echoed contemptuously. Notwithstanding the fierceness of my anger, I smoothed her dark gold hair, and presently, when she grew a trifle calmer, endeavoured to discover the meaning of her strange, enigmatical words.

“You cannot know—you will never know—how dearly I have loved you, Geoffrey,” she cried, in answer to my eager questions. “Neither will you ever know how much I have suffered, how hard I have striven for your sake.”

“For my sake! Yet you admit having allowed Dudley Ogle to utter words that I alone had a right to utter!”

“Yes, I admit all,” she said, with a tragic touch of sorrow in her strained voice. “I deny nothing.”

“And you come to me asking forgiveness, believing that I can again trust you without hearing any explanation of your recent strange conduct with Beck, as well as with Dudley! I think you must regard me, Ella, as a weak, impressionable fool,” I added, with bitter sarcasm.

“No, I do not,” she cried quickly. “I appeal to your generosity towards a woman. I have been compelled to act against my own inclinations, compelled, in order to outwit my enemies, to act a part despicable and revolting. I can now only ask forgiveness,” and, throwing herself suddenly upon her knees before me, she cried, “See! Geoffrey, I crave one grain of pity from you, my old friend, the only man I have loved!”

“No, Ella,” I answered, quickly withdrawing my hand that she was pressing to her hot, fevered lips. “I may pity you, but forgive you never.”

“Never!” she gasped, clasping her breast with her hands as if to stay the wild beating of her heart, and struggling unevenly to her feet. “Why never?”

“Because you have deceived me.”

“Yes, yes!” she wailed. “I admit it, I admit it all, but I swear my actions were imperative. Ah! alas that you cannot know everything, or you would kiss me as fondly as you used to do. You, Geoffrey, would love me with a love even more tender and passionate than before, if only you were aware of what I have suffered for your sake.”

I turned from her in disgust. Her tragic attitude filled me with loathing and contempt, for I knew she was lying.

“Can you never again trust me?” she asked, in a low, hoarse voice. “Will you never forgive?”

“I can have no further confidence in a woman who has practised such artful deception as you have,” I answered, turning again towards her, and noticing the look of unutterable sadness in her tearful eyes.

“Deception!” she cried, starting. “What do you mean? What have I done?”

“You acknowledge having deceived me wilfully with all the deep cunning of an adventuress, yet you refuse me one word of explanation, either in regard to Beck or Dudley?”

“There is nothing to explain, as far as Mr Beck is concerned,” she answered demurely. “He is an old friend, and your suspicions that there was any love between us are absolutely absurd.”

“Why, then, did you confess in your letter that you were unworthy of my love!” I demanded with warmth, walking towards her.

She hung her head. There was a deep silence, broken only by the low ticking of the clock. In a few moments her hand stole in search of mine, and, engrossed in my own sad thoughts, I let it linger there.

“Geoffrey,” she said at length, timidly.

I gazed out upon the sunlit river, watching a boatful of happy holiday folk pass by, and remained stolidly unconscious.

“Geoffrey,” she repeated, “I tried ever so long to refrain from that confession, yet was unable. But I did not allude to Mr Beck. It was my conduct with Dudley that caused me to become a conscience-stricken wretch. I feared from day to day that you might discover our many long excursions and the idle afternoons we spent up the backwaters; he lazy and indolent, I using all my woman’s wiles to fascinate him and bring him to my feet.”

“And you succeeded,” I interrupted huskily.

“Yes, I succeeded,” she went on, speaking slowly, almost mechanically. “I had set my mind upon victory, and I achieved it after weeks and weeks of striving, dreading always that you might discover the truth, and fearing lest my conduct should appear in your eyes too serious for forgiveness. The blow that I dreaded has now fallen,” she cried, with a choking sob. “Dudley is dead, and I, compelled to speak the truth, have publicly acknowledged myself unworthy of your love.”

“Is it not best that I should know the truth?” I asked seriously. “You render your behaviour the more unpardonable by the absurd falsehoods you wish me to believe.”

“I do not wish you to believe any falsehoods,” she cried resentfully, her bright eyes flashing as she glanced at me. “What I have now told you is the truth. I swear it before Heaven!”

“You deliberately flirted with Dudley, with an object in view. Oh, no!” I laughed with contempt, “that is too lame a tale.”

“It is the truth,” she said, looking me straight in the face, her nervous hands toying with her rings. “Even though you may believe ill of me, I have lost neither honour nor self-respect. I acted under compulsion, to achieve one object.”

“And I hope you have gained the mysterious end you had in view,” I said, with bitter sarcasm.

“Yes, I have,” she replied, with an intenseness in her voice that surprised me. “I have gained my object even at risk of being discarded by you, Geoffrey, and being branded as a base adventuress.”

“Even at the cost of the life of the man you deceived?” I hazarded.

She started at my words. Her pale lips trembled, and in her eyes was a strange look, as if haunted by some spectral fear. The effect of this remark was extraordinary, and I at once added,—

“Remember, you suspect that Dudley’s death was not due to natural causes.”

“Suspect?” she cried. “I know he was foully murdered.”

“By whom?” I inquired, with breathless eagerness.

“I have yet to discover that,” she answered, in a low voice. “But I will make the elucidation of the mystery the one object of my life. It is I alone who will avenge his murder.”

“Your very words betray your love for him,” I exclaimed, disgusted.

“I tell you it is not because I loved him,” she protested, with indignation.

“Then why do you seek revenge?” I demanded ruthlessly.

“For reasons known to myself—reasons I refuse for the present to disclose,” she replied, regarding me with unwavering glance.

“And you expect me to again repose confidence in you, notwithstanding your steady refusal to explain anything?” I observed, with a laugh.

“All I have told you now, Geoffrey, is the truth,” she replied, looking earnestly into my eyes. “Once I deceived you, but I will never do so in future. I promise some day before long to explain all the facts to you; when I do so they will astound you. For the success of my plans I am compelled at present to preserve my secret, even from you.”

“What are your plans?”

“Be patient, and you shall see.”

“You intend to avenge Dudley’s death?”

“I do; and something further,” she said. “Only by the most careful investigation and the strictest secrecy can my plans be successfully carried out. Trust in me, Geoffrey. Tell me that you will reconsider your decision not to forgive me,” she whispered, leaning upon my shoulder with one arm entwined affectionately about my neck, as was her habit. “And I will yet prove to you that I am an honest woman who has acted only in your interests.”

“In my interests? How?” I asked, amazed.

“You shall know all later, when I have ascertained the truth.”

“Tell me one thing, Ella,” I exclaimed, after a pause. “Have you any idea whether Dudley had any occupation?”

“Occupation? I always understood he had enough money to be independent.”

Then taking from my vest pocket the object I had picked up from among the contents of the dead man’s pockets displayed on the table in the Coroners’s Court, I held it up to her, saying seriously,—

“Now, tell me truthfully, Ella, have you ever seen this in Dudley’s possession?”

She glanced at it for an instant, holding her breath, as across her blanched countenance there passed an expression of bewildered amazement.

The object I held beneath her gaze was insignificant in itself, merely a small brass seal, but it bore the Warnham arms in exact imitation of the cut amethyst worn by the Earl. It was the seal which had been used to manufacture the duplicate of the envelope containing England’s secret alliance with Germany.

The suddenness with which I had produced it startled and nonplussed her. As I transfixed her blue eyes with my keen, suspicious gaze, her white lips moved, but no sound fell from them. Embarrassment held her dumb.

Chapter Nine.

The Bond of Secrecy.

I held the small brass stamp towards her, inviting her to examine it, but she shrank back with an expression of terror and repulsion, refusing to touch it.

“Have you ever seen Dudley with this in his hand?” I asked, repeating my question seriously, determined upon learning the truth.

“Where did you find it?” she inquired, a look of bewilderment upon her haggard face.

“You have not answered my question, Ella,” I said sternly.

“Your question? Ah!” she cried, as if in sudden remembrance of my words. “I—I have never seen Dudley with it. I—I swear I haven’t.”

“Is that the absolute truth?” I asked in doubt.

“The truth!” she echoed. “Did I not, a moment ago, promise you I would never again deceive you by word or action? Can you never have confidence in me?” she asked, in a tone of mingled regret and reproach.

“But this was found in Dudley’s possession,” I said, holding it nearer my gaze, and detecting in the bright sunlight streaming through the window small portions of black wax still adhering to the cleverly-cut coat of arms. Black wax, I remembered, had been used to secure the dummy envelope.

“And even if that were so, is it such a very remarkable fact that a man should carry a seal?” she asked suddenly, raising her brows and assuming a well-feigned air of surprise. At that instant it occurred to me that she was an adept in preserving a mystery; she could practice deception with a verisimilitude little short of marvellous.

“But this,” I observed, “is no ordinary seal.”

“It looks ordinary enough,” she answered, smiling. “It’s only brass.”

“But its discovery forms a clue to a most serious and startling crime,” I said.

“A crime!” she gasped. “What do you mean? Dudley’s murder?”

I did not fail to notice that she used the word “murder” as if she had absolute proof that death had not been due to natural causes. Yet the effect of my announcement had been to fill her with sudden apprehension. She strove to appear amazed, but I thought I could detect in her attitude and bearing a fear that I had knowledge of her secret.

“It is most probably connected with that tragic event,” I answered meaningly, looking her straight in the face. “The police will no doubt pursue their investigations and clear up the matter.”

“The police!” she whispered hoarsely, just as Mrs Laing had done when the officers had entered her house. “Do you think they will discover the cause of poor Dudley’s death?”

“I cannot say,” I answered calmly. “They will, however, discover the reason he had this seal in his possession.”

“I tell you it was not his—I mean I never saw him with it,” she protested.

“But he may have had it in his pocket and not shown it to you. Indeed, there were reasons that he should not do so because it was used for a nefarious purpose.”

“For what?” she asked, suddenly evincing an interest in the stamp, taking it from my hand and examining it closely.

It was on my tongue to relate to her the whole circumstances, but suddenly remembering that for the present the secret of England’s peril must be preserved if the identity of the spy were to be discovered, I refrained, and answered,—

“The man who used that seal committed one of the worst crimes of which a man can be guilty.”

“What was it; tell me?” she asked quickly. “Surely Dudley never committed any offence!”

“I am not certain,” I answered gloomily. “An enemy who would pose as a friend, as he has done, might be capable of any deceit.”

“Have I not already told you that he was not your enemy, Geoffrey?” she observed calmly.

“Ah, Ella,” I cried in disgust, “all these falsehoods only render your conduct the more despicable. You will deny next that you went down to Warnham to meet him surreptitiously.”

“To Warnham?” she cried, white to the lips.

“Yes. Do you deny it?”

“No. I—it is quite true that I met him there,” she faltered.

“You spent the day with my rival, unknown to me,” I went on bitterly. “Yet you declare that you never loved him?”

Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, her haggard eyes were fixed; she stood silent, unable to make reply.

“It is useless to further prolong this painful interview,” I exclaimed at last, turning from her.

“I swear I never loved him,” she cried suddenly. “Some day, when you know the truth, you will bitterly regret how you have misjudged me, how, while striving to serve you, I have fallen under suspicion.”

“But your visit to Warnham!” I said. “Is that an act such as can be overlooked without explanation?”

“I only ask you to place trust in me, and I will prove ere long that I acted under compulsion.”

“You want me to believe that he held you irrevocably in his power, I suppose?” I said with biting sarcasm.

She nodded, and held her head in downcast, dejected attitude.

“It is easy enough to allege all this, now that he is dead,” I observed doubtingly.

“I have told you the truth. I feared him, and was compelled to obey,” she exclaimed hoarsely.

“What was the object of your visit? Surely you can explain that?”

“No. I cannot.”

“You absolutely refuse?”

“Absolutely,” she answered, in a low, strained voice, looking straight at me with an expression of determination.

“Then we must part,” I said, slowly but firmly disengaging myself from her embrace.

“No, no,” she wailed, sobbing bitterly and clinging more closely to me. “Do not be so cruel, Geoffrey. You would never utter these words could you know all.”

“But you will not tell me,” I cried.

“At present I dare not. Wait; be patient, and you shall know everything.”

“How long must I remain in doubt and ignorance?” I asked.

“I know not. To-morrow the bond of secrecy may be removed from my lips, or it may be many months ere I can fearlessly speak and explain,” she answered in a strange voice, almost as if speaking to herself.

“From your words it would appear that some person still holds power over you, even though Dudley is dead,” I said, looking into her eyes seriously.

She sighed deeply, and her hand, resting upon my shoulder, trembled violently. “Yes, you guess the truth,” she answered. “I would tell you all—explain all these facts that no doubt puzzle you and cause me to appear base, heartless and deceitful—yet I fear the consequences. If I did so we should be parted for ever.”

“But if you told the truth and cleared your conduct, I should then have confidence again, and love you. How should we be parted?”

Pale and silent she stood, with her eyes resting upon the distant line of drooping willows. Not until I had repeated my question did she move and answer in a voice almost inaudible, as she clung to me,—

“We should be parted by death,” she whispered hoarsely.

“By death!” I cried, dismayed. “What do you mean, Ella? Do you fear that the same tragic fate that has overtaken Dudley will overtake you?”

She shuddered, and burying her white face upon my shoulder, again burst into a torrent of tears. Hers was indeed a woeful figure, bent, dejected and grief-stricken. Raising her head at last, she stifled her sobs with an effort, and implored with earnestness,—

“Tell me, Geoffrey, that you will not prejudge me. Tell me with your own lips that you will be content to wait in patience until I can present the facts to you in their true light. I am not an adventuress, as you think. I have never, I swear before Heaven, looked upon any other man with thought of affection. I have told you of my inability to speak; I can tell you no more.”

I made a movement, steady, stern and deliberate, to put her from me; but, with her arms around my neck, she cried in an agonised tone,—

“No, Geoffrey. At least show me a single grain of pity. Be patient. If you desire it I will not come near you until I can reply to your questions and clear my conduct of the stigma upon it; I will do anything you ask so long as you give me time to pursue my investigations and free myself from this terrible thraldom. Say you will, and bring back peace to my mind and happiness to my heart. I love you, Geoffrey, I love you!” and her hot, passionate lips met mine in a manner that showed plainly her terrible agitation, and her fear lest I should cast her off.

Slowly, during those moments of painful silence that followed, my anger and bitterness somewhat abated, and, even against my better judgment, feelings of pity swayed my mind. It seemed to me, as I reflected upon the past, that Dudley Ogle had been unfortunate in his early surroundings and education; his character had received a wrong bias from the very beginning, and the possession of wealth had increased it. And yet, in spite of all that, there had been something pleasant and good in him. No man is altogether hideous when truly known, and I had not yet accurately ascertained the character of his mysterious relations with my well-beloved. I had, during this interview, caught glimpses of the real, true woman beneath the veil of falsehood and evasion of the truth; I had seen a wistful look occasionally in Ella’s eyes, as though she were haunted constantly by some terrible dread.

Yea, I pitied her. Perhaps, if I waited, the time would come when her nature would recover from the blight that had fallen upon it; when the alien element that had grafted itself upon her true life would be expelled by those avenging powers that vex and plague the erring soul, not in mockery, but to save it from the death that cannot die.

The strangeness of her manner, and the tragic apprehension of her words would, I knew, never fade from my memory; yet half inclined to believe I had misjudged her, I at length, although feeling that the world could never again be quite the same for me, drew her slight form towards me, and imprinting a long, passionate kiss upon her ready lips, said,—

“I will try and think of you as a woman who has been wronged, Ella. I will wait until you can explain, but remember that until you relate to me truthfully the whole of the facts there can be no love between us.”

“No love!” she wailed in a voice of poignant grief. “Is your love for me so utterly dead, then, that you should say this?”

“No,” I answered, caressing her, stroking her wealth of gold-brown hair fondly as of old. “I love you still, Ella; yet, speaking candidly, I cannot trust you further until you explain the truth.”

“But you will be patient, will you not?” she urged. “Remember that I have before me a task so difficult that it may require all my woman’s tact and cunning to accomplish it. But I will—I must succeed; failure will mean that I lose you, my best beloved. Therefore wait, and ere long I will convince you that I have not lied.”

“Yes, I will wait,” I said, kissing her once again. “Until you have cleared yourself, however, remember that I cannot love you as I have done.”

“Very well,” she answered, her tear-stained face brightening. “If such is your decision, I am content. Before long I will explain all the facts, and then, I feel confident, you, noblest and dearest, will love me even better than before.”

“I trust I shall,” I answered with heartfelt earnestness, taking her small hand and pressing it softly; “for I love you, Ella.”

“I care for nothing else,” she answered, raising her face to mine and smiling through her tears. “I am happy in the knowledge that you still think of me. You have enemies; yes, many. But there was one that loved you always—ay, and loves you now, and ever shall love you.”

For a moment I gazed into the deep blue depths of her clear, trusting eyes, still grasping her tiny hand in mine, but almost at that instant the door opened and Mrs Laing, fussy, good-natured, and full of sympathy, entered, and seating herself, commenced to chat about the events of that memorable morning.

Chapter Ten.

England’s Peril.

By the discovery of the duplicate of Lord Warnham’s private seal in the possession of my dead companion, it became impressed upon my mind that Dudley Ogle, the man in whom I had placed implicit trust, had not only abused my confidence by making love to Ella, but was a spy in the Russian secret service. Try how I would I could see no extenuating circumstances, and as next morning, when sitting alone in my London flat, moody and disconsolate, I calmly reflected upon the startling events of the past few days, I saw plainly, from Ella’s attitude when I had exhibited the brass stamp, that, notwithstanding her declaration to the contrary, she had seen it before.

It seemed placed beyond all doubt that Dudley had acted in conjunction with certain agents, who had by some means ascertained the very day and hour that the secret convention would arrive from Berlin. Then Dudley, armed with the forged duplicate, called upon me, and while we were together extracted the document from my pocket and substituted the envelope. Yet there was the registration mark upon it, so cleverly imitated as to defy detection. How that had been placed upon the dummy puzzled me, for the designation I had written could not be known until the envelope, with its precious contents, had been filched from my pocket.

The reason of Dudley’s visit to Warnham was now, to a certain extent, explained. More than probable it seemed that through bribery he had obtained from one of the servants an impression in wax of the Earl’s private seal, and from it the brass stamp had been cut. The theft of the document had been accomplished with a neatness that seemed almost miraculous; and if Dudley really had stolen it, he must have been a most adroit pickpocket. Nevertheless, even though his every action had now corroborated up to the hilt the suspicion that he was a spy, I could not, somehow, believe him capable of such crafty, nay devilish, deception. Friends that we were, I could have trusted him with any secret, or with any of my possessions; but these revelations startled and amazed me.

Still there was a more remarkable and puzzling phase of the mystery. If Ella’s fears were well grounded, why had he been murdered, and by whom?

The mysterious secret possessed by the woman I adored, the woman who held me under the spell of her marvellous beauty, was of a tragic and terrible nature, I felt assured. No doubt it had some connection with Dudley’s death, and that sinister circumstance, once elucidated, would, I knew, furnish a very valuable clue to the identity of the spy, if perchance the innocence of my companion should be established, as I hoped it might be.

There was still one fact, too, that required explanation, one that seemed to prove conclusively that Dudley was in the pay of our enemies. I had found, on looking over his possessions in our cottage at Shepperton, some pieces of crumpled foolscap. He had evidently intended to throw them away, but being unable to get rid of them at the moment, had placed them in a drawer and locked them up. On smoothing them out, I found another piece of paper inside. To my astonishment I saw it was a letter written by me, while the pieces of foolscap accompanying it were covered with words and sentences in ink and pencil, showing how carefully he had studied and copied all the characteristics of my handwriting. These papers were, in themselves, sufficient evidence that he had practised the forger’s art.

I had, after leaving Staines, returned straight to Shepperton, and in company with a detective carefully investigated all my friend’s belongings. We spent the afternoon and evening in reading through heaps of letters, but discovered nothing that would lead to any suspicion of foul play. The detective made notes of one or two of the addresses of the writers, and took charge of several letters relating to money matters. When, however, we had removed all the correspondence from the small wooden box in which it had been kept, the detective ascertained that there was a false bottom, and unable to find out the secret whereby it might be opened, we forced it with a chisel.

At first we were disappointed, only one insignificant-looking paper being therein concealed, but when the officer eagerly opened it I at once recognised its extreme importance, although I preserved silence. The paper was nothing less than a Russian passport of a special character signed by the Chief of Secret Police in St Petersburg, and countersigned by the Minister of the Interior himself. It was not a formally printed document, but written in Russian upon official paper stamped with the double-headed eagle. It was made out in the name of Dudley Ogle, and after explaining that he was an official engaged on secret service, gave him complete immunity from arrest within the Russian Empire.

“What’s this, I wonder?” the detective said, puzzled by the unfamiliar characters in the writing.

Taking it from him I glanced through it, and without betraying the slightest surprise, answered, “Merely a passport for Russia.”

“That doesn’t lead us to anything,” he replied, taking it from my form, glancing at it again for an instant, and tossing it back carelessly into the box.

But when he had completed his investigations, removed whatever letters and papers he thought might be of use and departed, I secured the passport and the crumpled foolscap, and giving Juckes orders to remove my belongings back to London and give up possession of the cottage, I returned to Rossetti Mansions.

With these undeniable evidences of Ogle’s activity as a spy, I was sitting alone next morning pondering over the best course to pursue, at last resolving to go to the Foreign Office and boldly place the startling facts before Lord Warnham.

About noon I knocked at the door of the Minister’s private room, and received, in his deep, hoarse voice, permission to enter. He was alone, seated at his big writing-table, engrossed in a long, closely-written document he was studying.

“Well, sir,” he exclaimed, with an expression of displeasure when he saw me, “to what, pray, do I owe this intrusion?”

“I have come,” I said, “to clear myself of the charge you have made against me.”

“To clear yourself! Bah!” he cried in disgust, returning to his papers. “My time is too valuable for further discussion,” and he made a movement to ring the bell for a messenger to conduct me out.

But I placed my hand upon his bony fingers firmly, and stayed it, saying,—

“It is to your interest, Lord Warnham, as well as to my own, that you should know the truth.”

“A traitor who will sell his country’s honour is capable of any falsehood whereby to justify himself,” he snapped savagely.

“I am no traitor,” I protested in anger.

His thin, white face relaxed into a bitterly sarcastic smile, and his lip curled in withering contempt.

“The efforts of ten years’ delicate diplomacy with Berlin have been rendered futile by your treachery or culpable negligence. Now you come to me with some lame, paltry tale or other, in an endeavour to convince me that you are neither thief nor spy! Each word of yours only aggravates your offence. I have dismissed you, and I tell you I decline to reopen the question.”

“But you have accused me of a crime, and I demand to be judged,” I cried.

“I have already judged you,” he said, after a pause, laying down his pen with a sudden calmness, and fixing his grey eyes keenly upon me.

“Yes, falsely.”

“You have come to me to prove that I have misjudged you,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair. “Very well. Let me hear your story.”

“I have no story further than what I have already told you,” I answered. “You have made a charge against me; I have come to you to refute it.”

“By what means?”

“By documentary evidence.”

“Documentary evidence!” he exclaimed. “Of what kind?”

“You will remember that I told you of the death of the only man who could speak regarding my absence from the office and my return.”

“Yes. He died mysteriously. The inquest was held yesterday;” and, taking up a letter from his table, the Earl added, “They report from Scotland Yard that an open verdict was returned, although one witness, a woman, alleged murder. Well, what was the allegation? Against yourself?” he asked, raising his grey, shaggy brows.

“No,” I said with emphasis. “I am not a murderer.”

“Then why did this woman—what’s her name?—Ella Laing,” he said, referring to the letter, “why did she allege foul play?”

“I cannot tell; but all the facts I have ascertained point to the same conclusion, although the medical evidence negatived any such suggestion.”

“Then what is your contention?”

“That the man who was my friend was a spy,” I said.

“You would shift the responsibility upon one who, being dead, can tell us nothing,” he said in a tone of reproachful contempt. “I suspected this. It was but what might have been expected.”

“But I have evidence indisputable that he was a spy,” I exclaimed excitedly. “Read this,” and I handed to him Dudley’s passport.

Spreading it out before him, he carefully adjusted his gold pince-nez, and after a little difficulty translated it. Then, without expressing any surprise, he turned it over and held the paper to the light of the window, examining the water-mark.

“Well,” he exclaimed calmly at last, “what else?”

I placed before him the crumpled sheets of foolscap whereon attempts had been made—and successfully too—to imitate my handwriting, explaining where I had discovered them. These he also examined very minutely, giving vent to a low grunt, as was habitual to him when reassured.

“Anything more?” he asked impatiently. “I can’t waste time. The outlook is too serious.”

“But you must—you shall spare time to fully investigate this mystery,” I cried. “You will remember that the dummy envelope you took from your safe bore an imitation of your private seal?”

“Yes. What of that?”

“Here is the seal with which that impression was made,” I replied in triumph, handing to him the little brass stamp. “I have had the portions of wax microscopically examined, and they are of the same wax as was used to seal the dummy.”

He took it between his thin fingers that now trembled with excitement. The production of this object was, I saw, entirely unexpected. Suddenly rising from his chair he unlocked his great safe and took therefrom the dummy envelope. Then, returning to his table, he lit a taper and carefully made an impression in wax of the seal I had given him, afterwards taking it to the light, and by the aid of a large magnifying glass compared it closely with the seal upon the dummy.

“And where did you find this seal?” he inquired, glancing across to me.

“Among the contents of the dead man’s pockets,” I answered.

“Impossible!” he retorted. “The police have possession of everything found on the man.”

“Yes, they had, but this came into my possession yesterday at the inquest.”

“How?”

I hesitated, then, determined to conceal no fact from the great statesman, I answered boldly,—

“I stole it from the table whereon it was displayed.”

“Stole it!” he echoed.

Slowly he turned the brass stamp over in his hand as if deep in thought; then, with brows knit in anger, he looked me straight in the face, exclaiming bluntly,—

“Your story is an absolute tissue of lies from beginning to end.”

His words staggered me. I had expected him to be eager to further probe the mystery, and try and elucidate the manner in which Dudley had manufactured the dummy and exchanged it for the secret convention. Instead of this he was distrustful and suspicious; indeed, he boldly accused me of attempting to wilfully mislead him and conceal the truth.

“I have told you no lies. Every word I have uttered is the truth,” I answered, with fierce indignation.

“You certainly never obtained possession of this seal in the manner in which you would have me believe, for the detectives sent to Staines had strict injunctions to search for any object that would lead them to suppose the dead man was not what he represented himself to be, and I made a special request that any seals discovered might be submitted to me for examination. If this had been in the dead man’s pockets it would have been brought to me.”

“But I tell you it was among the articles found upon him. I picked it up from the Coroner’s table, and finding it was not missed, brought it to you, rather than inform the police of our suspicions, which I understood you desired should, for the present, be kept secret.”

“I do not believe you,” he retorted angrily.

“Ask whoever searched the body, and they will no doubt remember finding the seal,” I answered.

“It is quite unnecessary,” he exclaimed.

“Unnecessary? Why?”

“Because I don’t believe one word of this elegantly romantic story of yours.”

“But I have brought you evidence in black and white that Ogle was a spy!” I cried.

“Evidence of a sort,” he answered carelessly, returning to his table and sinking into his armchair. “You have brought these things to me in order to induce me to believe that they were in the dead man’s possession instead of where they really were—in your own.”

“It is false,” I protested, flushing at his base and dogged insinuations.

“So is this elaborate so-called evidence you have brought me,” he answered.

“In what way?” I demanded.

“You wish to know,” he cried. “Well, I will tell you. First, the passport is a forged one, and was never written in St Petersburg.”

“Why?” I cried in dismay. “How can you tell?”

“Because its water-mark shows it to be English paper, whereas all Russian official paper, as this is supposed to be, is manufactured by Yaronovski, of Moscow, and bears his name.”

This fact had never occurred to me, and taking up the paper I examined the water-mark, finding, to my surprise, the name of a well-known English mill.

“Then the attempts at imitating your handwriting are quite as unsatisfactory,” he went on. “Indeed, I have no proof that all those letters and words have not been made by yourself.”

“They have not,” I protested. “You seem determined not to believe in my innocence.”

“And the seal,” he continued, heedless of my interruption. “You expected that it would be regarded as irresistible proof. Well, in the first place I do not believe it was discovered on the body, as you allege; and, secondly, even if it had been, it is no absolute proof that the dead man was the culprit.”

“Why?” I inquired eagerly.

“Because it was not with that seal that the dummy envelope was secured,” he answered slowly, at the same time handing me the two impressions, and inviting me to compare them.

This I did with breathless eagerness, by the aid of the magnifying glass, and in astonishment was compelled to admit that he spoke the truth. There were several discrepancies in the quarterings of the arms that I had not before noticed, and I saw instantly that they did not correspond with those impressed upon the envelope. The amazing worthlessness of my discoveries held me embarrassed, and I stood helpless, and in silence, as the Minister hurled at me some bitter invectives, declaring that I had come to him with an ingenious story, and evidence that might have convinced a man less shrewd.

“Take your clumsily-forged documents and your attempt to reproduce my seal, and leave me at once!” he cried, in a terrible ebullition of wrath, gathering up the objects I had brought and tossing them back to me. “Your dastardly conduct is too despicable for words; but remember that to you, and you alone, your country owes the overwhelming catastrophe that must now inevitably fall upon it.”

With these ominous words ringing in my ears I stumbled out, knowing not whither I went, and scarcely responding to the greetings of the men I knew, who regarded me in askance. The great central staircase, up which climbed the brilliantly-uniformed representatives of all civilised countries on the face of the earth whenever the Minister held his receptions, I descended with heavy heart, and crossing the grey, silent courtyard, soon found myself amid the bustle of Parliament Street.

I saw with chagrin how utterly I had failed in my endeavour to elucidate the mystery, for not only had I been unable to throw any further light upon the theft of the treaty, or the tragic end of the man I suspected, but I had actually heaped increased suspicion upon myself. On reflection, I found myself in accord with the Minister’s declaration that the passport was a forgery, and that the brass stamp was not the seal used by the spy. These facts were absolutely incontestable. The only thing remaining was the paper whereon attempts had been made to imitate my writing. I tried to explain this fact away, and clear the memory of the dead man of all suspicion, but, alas! could not bring myself to believe in his innocence. There rankled in my breast the bitter thought that he had uttered words of love to Ella, and had tried to induce her to break off her engagement to me. She herself had acknowledged on oath before the Coroner that they had quarrelled because she loved me. No. Although this passport was a clumsy imitation, and the seal had been cut without due regard to the Warnham quarterings, the plain, incontestable evidence of his forgery remained.

He was, after all, a cunning, despicable scoundrel, who had brought dishonour upon my name and ruined me both socially and financially. I found myself smiling grimly at the thought of how quickly retribution had fallen upon him. If he had died from natural causes it was but a judgment for his misdeeds; if struck down by an unknown hand it was but vengeance for his treachery towards his Queen, his country, and his bosom friend.

Heedless of where I went I walked on, called at my club, I remember, and thrust my letters into my pocket unopened; then, pursuing my way, arrived home late in the afternoon. As I entered, Juckes handed me a note from Ella, telling me that they had left Staines owing to the tragic affair, and asking me to call that evening at Pont Street, adding that she wished to see me upon a very important matter. For a long time I sat alone, smoking and thinking, trying to devise some means by which I could bring the Earl to believe in my loyalty; but at last, in desperation, I rose, dressed, and took a cab to Mrs Laing’s.

The house was not large, but well ordered, exquisitely furnished, and there was about everything an air of elegant refinement that betokened wealth, taste and culture. It was nearly seven when I arrived, and I was gratified to learn that, with the exception of Beck, who came later, I was the only guest. Dinner was a much more stately meal at Pont Street than it had been at Staines, where very often we sat down in flannels, and I was not sorry when it was over, and I found myself free to talk alone with Ella. It was plain, from the dark rings about her eyes, that she had passed a sleepless night, and that her terrible and mysterious secret bore her down beneath its oppressive weight. Yet she had greeted me with the same joyous smile, the same hearty hand-shake as of old, and I had, while sitting at dinner chatting with her, felt myself wondering how I could ever have brought myself to utter such bitter reproaches and recriminations as I had done on the previous day. Her kiss, now that we were alone, thrilled me; her speech, soft and musical, held me enraptured by its charm.

She told me, in answer to my questions, how she had fared after I left “The Nook”; how dismal the place had appeared, and how many bitter memories it would always possess for her. Then, in response to her suggestion, we walked out upon the balcony, where, under the striped awning, a table and chairs were set. Here, in the cool night air, the quiet only broken by an occasional footfall or the tinkle of a passing cab-bell, we sipped our coffee and gossiped on as lovers will.

Suddenly, while she was telling me of the plans her mother had prepared for their sojourn for a couple of months at the seaside, the loud, strident cry of a running newsman broke upon our ears. At first, in the distance, the voice did not attract our attention, but when it neared us, the words, hoarse, yet indistinct, held me speechless. I sat stunned.

Ella herself sprang from her chair, and leaned over the balcony, straining her ears to catch every sound of the rough, coarse voice. The man had paused for breath before the house, a bundle of papers across his shoulder, and the ominous words he shouted were,—

“Extra spe-shall! Probable war against England! Spe-shall! War against England! Startling statement! Spe-shall!”

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, the Novoë Vremya had 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 the Novoë 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 the Nineteenth 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.

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 to The 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.”