"I know! I know!" he exclaimed. "Your grandfather! Good! And Nicholas
Courage—what of him?"
"My uncle!" I answered. "You have heard of him in Teheran."
A spot of color burned in his pallid cheeks.
"I hesitate no longer," he cried. "These were great men; but I will show you the way to deeds which shall leave their memory pale. Listen! Did you ever hear of Wortley Foote?"
"The spy," I answered, "of course!"
He started as though he were stung even to death. His cheeks were flushed, and then as suddenly livid. He seemed to have grown smaller in his chair, to be shrinking away as though I had threatened him with a blow.
"I forgot," he muttered. "I forgot. Never mind. I am Wortley Foote. At least it has been my name for a time."
It was my turn to be astonished. I looked at him for a moment petrified. Was this indeed the man who had brought all Europe to the verge of war, who was held responsible for the greatest international complication of the century? Years had passed, but I remembered well that week of fierce excitement when the clash of arms rang through Europe, when three great fleets were mobilized, and the very earth seemed to reverberate with the footsteps of the gathering millions, moving always towards one spot. Disaster was averted by what seemed then to be a miracle; but no one ever doubted but that one man, and one man alone, was responsible for what might have been the most awful catastrophe of civilized times. And it was that man who sat in my study and watched me now, with ghastly face and passionately inquiring eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded thin and cracked.
"I had forgotten," he said, "that I was speaking to one of the million. To you, mine must seem a name to shudder at. Yet listen to me. My life is finished. I have lied before now in great causes. No man in my position could have avoided it. To-day, I speak the truth. You must believe me! Do you hear?"
"Yes!" I answered, "I hear!"