"You are very tired, is it not so?" he asked, and still supporting him, led the way up the steps, along a hall, and into a long room where many persons were sitting on benches against the walls or slowly walking up and down. "You will wait here," added his guide. "It will not be long," and he hurried away.
Stewart dropped upon a bench and looked about him. There were a few women in the room—and he wondered at their presence there—but most of its occupants were men, some in uniform, others in civilian dress of the most diverse kinds, of all grades of society. Stewart was struck at once by the fact that they were all silent, exchanging not a word, not even a glance. Each kept his eyes to himself as if it were a point of honor so to do.
Suddenly Stewart understood. These were agents of the secret service, waiting to report to their chief or to be assigned to some difficult and dangerous task. One by one they were summoned, disappeared through the door, and did not return.
At last it was to Stewart the messenger came.
"This way, sir," he said.
Stewart followed him out into the hall, through a door guarded by two sentries, and into a little room beyond a deep ante-chamber, where a white-haired man sat before a great table covered with papers. The messenger stood aside for Stewart to pass, then went swiftly out and closed the door.
The man at the table examined his visitor with a long and penetrating glance, his face cold, impassive, expressionless.
"You are not one of ours," he said, at last, in English.
"No, I am an American."
"So I perceived. And yet you have a message?"