“You take my breath away,” Wolfenden exclaimed, laughing.
Felix was very much in earnest.
“In the little world of diplomacy,” he said, “in the innermost councils these things are known. The outside public knows nothing of the awful responsibilities of those who govern. Two, at least, of your ministers have realised the position. You read this morning in the papers of more warships and strengthened fortifications—already there have been whispers of the conscription. It is not against Russia or against France that you are slowly arming yourselves, it is against Germany!”
“Germany would be mad to fight us,” Wolfenden declared.
“Under certain conditions,” Felix said slowly. “Don’t be angry—Germany must beat you.”
Wolfenden, looking across the street, saw Harcutt on the steps of his club, and beckoned to him.
“There is Harcutt,” he exclaimed, pointing him out to Felix. “He is a journalist, you know, and in search of a sensation. Let us hear what he has to say about these things.”
But Felix unlinked his arm from Wolfenden’s hastily.
“You must excuse me,” he said. “Harcutt would recognise me, and I do not wish to be pointed out everywhere as a would-be assassin. Remember what I have said, and avoid Sabin and his parasites as you would the devil.”
Felix hurried away. Wolfenden remained for a moment standing in the middle of the pavement looking blankly along Piccadilly. Harcutt crossed over to him.