“You must give us a minute or two,” he insisted. “We shall not go away, I promise you. Within five minutes you shall hear our decision.”
Peter sat down at the writing-table and commenced a letter. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge mounted guard over the door and stood there, a grim figure of impatience. Before the five minutes was up, Bernadine crossed the room.
“I congratulate you, Baron,” he said, dryly. “You are either an exceedingly lucky person or you are more of a genius than I believe. Kosuth is even now returning his letters of credit to your friend. You are quite right. The loan cannot stand.”
“I was sure,” Peter answered, “that you would see the matter correctly.”
“You and I,” Bernadine continued, “know very well that I don’t care a fig about Turkey, new or old. The ships I will admit that I intended to have for my own country. As it is, I wish you joy of them. Before they are completed, we may be fighting in the air.”
Peter smiled, and, side by side with Bernadine, strolled across to Heseltine-Wrigge, who was buttoning up a pocket-book with trembling fingers.
“Personally,” Peter said, “I believe that the days of wars are over.”
“That may or may not be,” Bernadine answered. “One thing is very certain. Even if the nations remain at peace, there are enmities which strike only deeper as the years pass. I am going to take a drink now with my disappointed friend Kosuth. If I raise my glass ‘To the Day!’ you will understand.”
Peter smiled.
“My friend Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge and I are for the same destination,” he replied, pushing open the swing door which led to the bar. “I return your good wishes, Count. I, too, drink ‘To the Day!’”