"No, I'm afraid the Ensign will not permit any one else to take me to the ball; but we shall meet there, afterward."
In a New York street, among the lower there was at that time a foreign agency that was not a consulate, but was visited by diplomats of the highest rank in a certain nation, the name of which, or the mystery of whose suspicions, need not be touched upon.
There was no regular staff at the agency. The rooms were maintained under the name of a certain foreign gentleman—or, rather, under the name that he chose to assume. There were two servants, but they saw little of the master of the house. He was seldom at home, but when he was, he had many visitors.
An hour after the luncheon in the rooms of Ensign Summers, the master of the mysterious dwelling was at home. And he had four guests. It would have, greatly surprised Ensign Summers had he known that one of the diplomat's guests was his own man servant, Catin.
"It is the worst duty I have ever had to perform," the diplomat said solemnly. "It means, almost certainly, your death. But it is death for your country. It is the command of your country. The submarine must be destroyed and the plans—we shall get the plans through another agent."
"I am not afraid to die," said Catin.
"Then here is the model of a submarine—not of the one you will enter, of course, but it will give you an idea. I have marked the place where you will secrete the explosive until the proper moment. I have also indicated the position for you to take in order to have some faint chance of reaching the surface and being saved."
One of the other men stepped forward and handed Catin a small square box. "This is the explosive. You know how to handle it."
With a military salute, Catin turned and left the place. Within half an hour he was carefully brushing Ensign Summers' clothes, as Summers came in.
"Would it be too much to ask, sir," inquired the perfect valet, "that I might accompany you in the submarine? I am afraid you will be very uncomfortable without me."