Chapter Twenty.
From Downing Street to Paris.
I sprang quickly to the door, and looked down the passage out into the village street; but he had already made his exit. By the time I had reached the porch of the inn he was already striding quickly along the dusty highway. He turned to glance back, and I perceived that he was thin-faced, with high cheekbones and a small black beard. He was carrying his thick stick jauntily, and walking smartly, with an easy gait which at that moment struck me as being distinctly military.
“Who is that man?” I inquired eagerly of the landlord, who stood beside me, evidently surprised at my sudden rush towards the door.
“A stranger, sir. I don’t know who he is.”
“When did he arrive?”
“He came by the last train to Massingham last night, sir, and had a bed here. My missis, however, didn’t like the looks of ’im.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know. There was something about him a bit peculiar. Besides, he went out before one o’clock, and didn’t return till an hour ago. Then he went up, washed, had a cup o’ tea in his room, paid, and now he’s gone.”
“Rather peculiar behaviour, isn’t it?” I suggested, hoping to find some clue to his identity from what this man might tell me. “Did he have no luggage?”
“None. He seemed a bit down on his luck. His clothes were very shabby, and he evidently hadn’t had a clean collar for a week.”
Then the opinion I had formed of him—namely, that he was shabby genteel—was correct.
“You’re certain you’ve never seen him before?”
“Quite certain,” he replied.
At that moment his wife entered, and, addressing her, he said:
“We’re talking of that stranger who’s just gone, missus. His movements were a bit suspicious, weren’t they?”
“Yes. Why he should want to go out half the night wandering about the neighbourhood I can’t make out, unless he were a burglar or something o’ that sort,” the woman answered, adding: “I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear that one of the houses about here has been broken into. Anyhow, we’d know him again among a thousand.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“Tall and dark, with a beard, and a pair of eyes that seemed to look you through. He spoke all right, but I’ve my doubts as to whether he wasn’t a foreigner.”
“A foreigner!” I echoed quickly, interested. “What made you suspect that?”
“I really can’t tell. I had a suspicion of it the first moment I saw him. He pronounced his ‘r’s’ rather curiously. His clothes seemed to be of foreign cut, and his boots, although worn out, were unusually long and narrow. I brushed ’em this morning, and saw on the tabs a foreign name. I think it was ‘Firenze,’ or something like that.”
I reflected for an instant. The word “Firenze” was Italian for Florence, the town where the boots had evidently been made. Therefore the mysterious stranger might be Italian.
“You didn’t actually detect anything foreign in his style of speaking?”
“He didn’t speak much. He seemed very glum and thoughtful. I sent him up some toast with his tea, but he hasn’t touched it.”
“He didn’t say where he was going?”
“Not a word. When he arrived he only explained that he had come by the last train from Lynn, and that he wanted a bed—that’s all. I should think by the look of him that he’s gone on tramp.”
My first impulse was to follow him; but on reflection I saw that by doing so I should in all probability lose my train, and to dog the fellow’s footsteps would, after all, be of no benefit now that I knew the truth of Edith’s perfidy. So I stood there chatting, discussing the stranger, and wondering who he could be.
“He’s up to no good, that I feel certain,” declared the landlord’s wife. “There’s something about him that aroused my suspicion at once last night. I can’t, however, explain what it was. But a man don’t prowl about all night to admire the moon.”
And thus I waited until it was time to catch the train; then, wishing the innkeeper and his wife good-morning, left them and strolled in the morning sunlight to the station, arriving at Fakenham shortly before seven. I took the short cut through Starmoor Wood to Ryburgh, and, finding Miss Foskett’s maid polishing the door-handle, entered and went upstairs.
Upon the toilet-table was a telegram, which the maid said had just arrived, and on opening it I found a message from the Foreign Office, which had been forwarded from the Club, asking me to call at the earliest possible moment, and to be prepared to return to my post by the afternoon service from Charing Cross. I knew what that implied. The Marquess desired me to bear a secret despatch to my Chief.
I washed, tidied myself after my dusty walk, strapped my bag, and with a feeling of regret that I was compelled to meet my false love again face to face before departure, I descended the stairs.
She was awaiting me, looking cool and fresh in her white gown, with a bunch of fresh roses she had plucked from the garden in her breast. She smiled gladly, and stretched forth her hand as though I were all the world to her. What admirable actresses some women are! Her affected sweetness that yesterday had so charmed me now sickened me. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I was angry with myself that I had ever allowed myself to lose control of my feelings and love her. She was false—false! That one thought alone ran in my mind as she laughed merrily.
“Why, Gerald, wherever have you been? A telegram came for you by special messenger from Fakenham at half-past six, and when Ann knocked at your door she found you were out. And you went out by the dining-room window, too.”
“Yes,” I said, not without a touch of sarcasm, “I felt that I wanted fresh air, so I went for a stroll.”
“You are an early bird,” she answered. “Did you go far?”
“No, not very far. Only down the Lynn road a little way.”
“I always thought that you people in Paris never got up till your déjeuner at eleven?”
“I’m an exception,” I said shortly. “I prefer the morning air in the country to lying in bed.”
“And the telegram? Is it anything particular?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I must leave at once. I am summoned to Downing Street, and must leave London this afternoon.”
“What! return to Paris at once?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It is an order from the Chief. There’s a train to London at 9:50, I think. I must not fail to catch that.”
I had not kissed her, and I saw that she was somewhat puzzled by my coolness. Did the fact that I had let myself out by the dining-room window give her any clue to the reason why I had chosen that mode of egress?
“I thought you would remain here with us at least to-day,” she pouted. “That’s the worst of diplomacy. You never seem to know what you may do next.”
We were standing alone in the dining-room, where breakfast was already laid and the copper kettle was hissing above the spirit-lamp. As Aunt Hetty had not entered, it was upon the tip of my tongue to charge Edith with that clandestine meeting; yet if I did so, I reflected, a scene would certainly be created. Aunt Hetty would first be scandalised and afterwards wax indignant, while my departure would doubtless be fraught with considerable unpleasantness. Therefore I resolved to keep my anger within my heart, and on my return to Paris to write a letter of explanation to this smiling, bright-faced woman who had thus played me false.
“You cannot tell how wretched I am at the thought of your departure, Gerald,” she said, her dark eyes suddenly grave and serious. “Each time we part I always fear that we shall not meet again.”
I smiled, rather bitterly, I think, and uttered some weak platitude without appearing to be much interested. Then with a quick movement she took my hand, but next instant was compelled to drop it, for Miss Foskett entered suddenly, and, after an explanation of my unexpected call by telegram, we seated ourselves and breakfasted.
As the woman I had so dearly loved sat opposite me I saw that she was strangely nervous and agitated, and that she was eager to question me; but with feigned indifference I chatted and laughed with the punctilious old spinster until the boy brought round the pony-trap and it was time for me to depart for Fakenham, where I could join the express for London.
Edith drove me to the station, but, the boy being with us, she could say nothing confidential until we were walking together upon the platform. Then, looking at me in strange eagerness, she suddenly asked:
“Gerald, tell me why you are so cold towards me this morning? You were so different yesterday. Have I displeased you?”
“Yes,” I said in a hard voice, “you have.”
“How?” she gasped, laying her gloved hand upon my arm and stopping short.
I was silent. Should I tell her, or should I say nothing about my knowledge of her perfidy?
“Why do you not speak?” she urged. “Surely if I have caused you pain I ought to know the reason!”
“You know the reason,” I answered in a mechanical voice, regarding her coldly.
“No, I do not.”
“In this matter it is entirely unnecessary to lie to me, Edith,” I said; “I am aware of the truth.”
“The truth? What truth?”
“That you do not love me,” I said hoarsely.
At that instant the train rushed into the station, and my voice was almost drowned by the noise of the escaping steam. As I thought she deserved to suffer, I was not sorry for the interruption.
“Gerald!” she cried, gripping me by the hand, “what are you saying? What have I done?”
“It is enough,” I answered, my voice broken by emotion, which I could no longer suppress, for my heart was at that moment bursting with grief. “Good-bye;” and turning, I raised my hat and stepped into the empty compartment, in which a porter had placed my bag.
In an instant she was leaning in at the doorway, imploring me to tell her the truth. But I evaded her questions.
The guard came and closed the door.
“Gerald!” she cried, bursting into tears, “tell me why you treat me thus when I love you so dearly! It is cruel! You cannot guess how deeply I have suffered these two hours! Will you not kiss me once before you go?” and she raised her white face to the window with an imploring expression.
“No,” I said, “I cannot, Edith.”
“You refuse to kiss me this once—for the last time?” she wailed.
“Yes,” I answered in a strained voice. “If you desire to know the reason of this refusal you will discover it when you reflect upon your actions of last night.”
“What!” she gasped, pale to the lips. “You saw him!”
“Yes,” I answered gravely, “I saw him.”
Then the train moved off, leaving her standing there pale and rigid; and without further glance at the blanched but beautiful face which only twelve hours ago I had believed to be the open countenance of the purest and sweetest woman on earth, I flung myself back into the corner, plunged in my own bitter reflections. I had told her the ghastly truth, and we had parted. Edith Austin, whom I had hoped to make my wife, was lost to me for ever.
At midday I wearily ascended the great marble staircase at the Foreign Office, those stairs which every diplomatist in London climbs, and in the corridor met Boyd, one of the Marquess’s private secretaries, who informed me that a meeting of the Cabinet was being held, and that his lordship had left instructions that I was to wait until he returned, when he would give me a despatch to carry at once to Paris.
So, accompanied by Boyd and my friend Thorne, of the Treaty Department, I strolled along Parliament Street and lunched at the Ship, that old coffee-house frequented by Foreign Office and other officials. In the days before I received my appointment abroad I used to lunch there regularly, and as I entered I found many of my old colleagues at the tables.
After an hour I returned to Downing Street, and went up to the Foreign Secretary’s private room. He was seated at his great table at the farther end of the sombre, green-painted apartment, the windows of which looked down upon the silent courtyard, where the cooing pigeons strut undisturbed. Upon his grey, refined face was an intensely anxious look, and by the nervous manner in which he toyed with his quill as he acknowledged my salutation I knew that the subject discussed by the Cabinet had been a momentous one. The meeting had been specially and unexpectedly convened, and I had heard below that during its sitting several despatches had been exchanged over the private wire to Windsor, facts which in themselves were sufficient to show that some complication had arisen, and that the lines of British policy had been discussed and submitted to the Sovereign for approbation.
“You are returning to Paris this afternoon, Mr Ingram?” said the Marquess. “I am just writing a private despatch to Lord Barmouth, which must be placed in his hands at the earliest possible moment. The instructions contained in it are secret—you understand?”
“I shall deliver it, I hope, before eleven o’clock this evening,” I said.
“Good,” he answered approvingly; and while I walked to the window and looked out upon the courtyard, the great statesman continued tracing the cipher upon the large sheet of blue despatch-paper with his creaking quill. I glanced at a newspaper to while away the time, until presently one of the secretaries entered, prepared the taper and wax, and I watched the Marquess affix the five seals upon the envelope, impressing his own arms with the large old fob seal which he wore upon his watch-guard. He affixed the last seal, held the envelope for a few moments in order that the wax should set, then handed it to me, saying:
“Remember, Ingram, none of our friends across the Channel must be allowed to get sight of this. It is entirely confidential. Please ask Lord Barmouth to telephone me to-night an acknowledgment of its safe receipt.”
“Certainly,” I answered, placing it in my pocket. I then bowed, and wished the Minister good-day.
“Good-day,” he said, smiling pleasantly, “and a pleasant journey to you, Ingram.”
Then I withdrew, and drove in a cab to the club. Arrived there, I placed the despatch in my belt next my skin, and, taking my bag, went down to Charing Cross and caught the tidal train.
The journey was uneventful, the passage smooth, and about eleven o’clock that night I mounted the stairs of the Embassy in Paris, and went to his lordship’s private room. He was alone, enjoying a final cigar before turning in, and was surprised at my sudden return. I quickly explained the reason, and taking off my belt in his presence handed him the despatch.
Having assured himself that the seals were all intact, he broke them, and, taking it at once to the bureau, I got for him the key of the private cipher used only for the confidential despatches, written by the hand of the Prime Minister to the representatives abroad. Then, standing underneath the tall lamp, the Ambassador slowly deciphered it.
What he read caused him serious reflection, judging from the manner in which his countenance changed. Then, taking a match from his pocket, he crossed to the grate, lit the paper at the corner, and held it until it was all consumed.
The nature of that confidential communication none knew save the Cabinet in London and the Ambassador himself. That it was extremely important was certain, and I felt confident that some decision had been arrived at which would materially affect the European situation.
After telephoning an acknowledgment of the despatch to Downing Street, we returned together to the smoke-room, where I drank a whisky and soda, and then, lighting a cigar, left the Embassy and drove to my own rooms, wearied out after the journey.
At noon next day, when I went round to the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, Harding, the footman, met me in the hall, saying:
“His Excellency has just telephoned to you. He wishes to see you immediately.”
I went straight to his private room, and found him seated with Kaye, the lynx-eyed chief of the secret service.
The Ambassador’s face was pale as death, and his voice trembled as he hoarsely acknowledged my salutation.
“Ingram,” he said in a low tone, motioning me to close the door, “we have been betrayed!”
“Betrayed? How?” I gasped.
“A copy of the despatch you brought me last night reached the Quai d’Orsay at two o’clock this morning. Our secret agent there has handed a copy of it to Mr Kaye. The wording of the instructions, as sent to me by the Marquess, is exact. Here it is;” and he held towards me a sheet of that pale yellow paper used in the French Foreign Office, upon which a transcription of the despatch had been hurriedly traced in pencil.
I glanced at it, then stood speechless. The secret despatch had never left my possession. The theft was utterly incredible.