“I suppose,” he said, “that no doubt can be cast upon the authenticity of the three signatures attached to this document?”
“That’s been in my own mind, Mr. Fiske—leastwise, Mr. Orden,” Phineas Cross, the Northumbrian, remarked, from the other side of the table. “They’re up to any mortal dodge, these Germans. Are we to accept it as beyond all doubt that this document is entirely genuine?”
“How can we do otherwise?” Fenn demanded. “Freistner, who is responsible for it, has been in unofficial correspondence with us since the commencement of the war. We know his handwriting, we know his character, we’ve had a hundred different occasions to test his earnestness and trustworthiness. This document is in his own writing and accompanied by remarks and references to previous correspondence which render its authenticity indisputable.”
“Granted that the proposals themselves are genuine, there still remain the three signatures,” Julian observed.
“Why should we doubt them?” Fenn protested. “Freistner guarantees them, and Freistner is our friend, the friend and champion of Labour throughout the world. To attempt to deceive us would be to cover himself with eternal obloquy.”
“Yet these terms,” Julian pointed out, “differ fundamentally from anything which Germany has yet allowed to be made public.”
“There are two factors here which may be considered,” Miles Furley intervened. “The first is that the economic condition of Germany is far worse than she has allowed us to know. The second, which is even more interesting to us, is the rapid growth in influence, power, and numbers of the Socialist and Labour Party in that country.”
“Of both these factors,” the Bishop reminded them, “we have had very frequent hints from our friends, the neutrals. Let me tell you all what I think. I think that those terms are as much as we have the right to expect, even if our armies had reached the Rhine. It is possible that we might obtain some slight modifications, if we continued the war, but would those modifications be worth the loss of a few more hundred thousands of human lives, of a few more months of this hideous, pagan slaughter and defilement of God’s beautiful world?”
There was a murmur of approval. A lank, rawboned Yorkshireman—David Sands—a Wesleyan enthusiast, a local preacher, leaned across the table, his voice shaking with earnestness:
“It’s true!” he exclaimed. “It’s the word of God! It’s for us to stop the war. If we stop it to-night instead of to-morrow, a thousand lives may be saved, human lives, lives of our fellow creatures. Our fellow labourers in Germany have given us the chance. Don’t let us delay five minutes. Let the one of us you may select see the Prime Minister to-night and deliver the people’s message.”