"My word! yes," said Desjardins. "I am in enchantment. De Japanese, dey are adorable. Deir politesse, it is exquisite; dey tell you everyting, but vis a charm—everyting, except vat you vant to know."
"You are right," said Mr. Jacob T. Vanzant, war commissioner of the New York Eagle. "I flattered myself I could raise a column of red-hot news out of a dumb waiter, but it would be easier to make the Egyptian sphinx talk than to draw one of these smiling, affable young slips at the foreign office. But it's war, gentlemen; there isn't a doubt about that. Listen to this."
He took up a fortnight-old copy of the San Francisco Argonaut lying at his elbow.
"Our fellow-citizens will learn with regret that since the fifteenth current the location of Mrs. Isidore G. Pottle and her niece has been involved in obscurity. When our esteemed contributor's usual letter failed to reach our offices, we cabled enquiries to the Russian commandant-general in Manchuria, and received in response the following communication: 'Mesdames priées de faire retour via Port Arthur; disparues il y a deux jours'. We have every hope that in spite of the unsettled state of Manchuria Mrs. Isidore G. Pottle's magnificent energy and determination, which have been strikingly evinced in the palpitating series of letters that have appeared in the Argonaut, will ultimately ensure her safe return to her native city."
"But I do not onderstand," said Herr Schwab, "vherefore ze egsentricity of your Mrs. Bottle shall be a cause of var."
Mr. Vanzant smiled, and proceeded to explain that if the Russian authorities had not had serious grounds for believing that hostilities were impending, they would have had no occasion to interrupt Mrs. Pottle's projected journey across Korea to Seoul, and thus curtail the programme she had set herself to perform when she left San Francisco on her trip round the world.
"Very ingenious," remarked Morton; "but if that's all you've got to go on, seems to me you're raising a skyscraper on a very slight foundation."
"I presume, sir," retorted the American, "you have not met Mrs. Isidore G. Pottle."
Desjardins immediately wanted to know all about the adventurous lady, and an animated conversation ensued, in which Bob took no part. Remembering the telegram screwed up in his pocket, he had felt a certain constraint while Mr. Vanzant had been giving his reasons. Conscious that he was not a diplomatist, and fearing lest in an unguarded moment he should let drop information the mere hint of which would be telegraphed to every part of the world, he took an early opportunity of slipping away.
"Zey are civilized? Ach! zey buy nozink. Ruskin, zey vill not read him; batent mangle, zey vill not look at it. Vy, ven I vas in ze Congo State viz Mr. Burnaby, ze blacks zey buy eferyzink: pins, lawn-mower, lexicon, hair-oil—" These were the last words Bob heard as he left the room, and the last he was destined to hear from Herr Schwab for a considerable time to come.