“I never heard of him. Wait a minute.”
He touched a bell, and a clerk appeared.
“Ask Mr. Rowlands if he knows anything of a Count Slavianski, now lodging at Shepperton.”
The clerk soon returned.
“Mr. Rowlands heard of the Count this morning, sir,” he said, “and has sent Williams down to inquire.”
“Thank you.” The clerk disappeared. “We shall know more presently. Perhaps you had better have a detective or two with you, as far as Dover at any rate.”
“I think not. They would only draw attention to me and show the importance of my journey. These fellows, if they are spies, no doubt have agents abroad, and would put them on the qui vive. I had better go quietly, and try to find some means of throwing them off the scent.”
“Just as you please,” said the Under-Secretary, with a smile.
Buckland went up Whitehall into the Strand, made his purchases, and started back again to the National Club. There was no sign of the foreigners. He took an early lunch, and returned to the Foreign Office at half-past one. The despatch still not being ready, he sat down to wait. While so doing an idea struck him. He got some Foreign Office paper, and amused himself by writing an imaginary despatch in the usual cipher, jotting down the first words that came into his head. This he sealed up in a long envelope like those that were ordinarily used, but took the precaution to make a small mark on it, by which he would be able to distinguish it from the real despatch.
The minutes flew by. Two o’clock came. Holding his watch in his hand, he began to doubt his chance of catching the Paris train. At a quarter past he gave it up. It was half-past before he was summoned to the Secretary’s room.