Without replying Varden led the way outside. They let themselves out by a rear gate and quickly plunged into a maze of side streets. The city was more or less deserted. The air was chill and damp and the first streaks of dawn were breaking up the leaden darkness of the sky. They had walked for several minutes, for the most part along narrow, dingy streets with ancient houses on either side that seemed ready to totter forward through sheer old age, when Varden turned sharply and came to a stop in front of one of the largest and quaintest houses they had encountered. It was as dark and still as its neighbours on each side.
"Stairs are creaky, step lightly," whispered Varden, producing a latch-key which gave them entrance to a dark and narrow hall-way. "Can't be too careful, you know. Even a creaking stairway could be heard out there on the road now. The very walls have ears these days."
Clambering cautiously up two flights in darkness of Stygian intensity, they came to a landing across which fell a narrow strip of light, emanating from under a doorway. Varden knocked softly three times in quick succession and then twice slowly. The door was instantly opened and they stepped into a dimly lighted ante-room. The man who had admitted them wore the uniform of an officer of the Ironian Guards.
"You are late," he said. "Your friend?"
"By the prince's permission," responded Varden.
The officer disappeared into an inner room and returned almost immediately, motioning them to enter. They found themselves in a long room, very richly decorated. Fenton thought how oddly out of consonance it was with the outside appearance of the house. Around a long table eight men were seated, one chair being empty.
Fenton started and could hardly forbear from rubbing his eyes. Surely the tall man seated at the end of the table was the great English diplomatist, Sir John Chester?
The Canadian looked again and became convinced that his eyes had not been playing tricks with him. There was no mistaking the man who had figured so largely in the foreign policy of the British Empire. Spare, straight and muscular, Sir John was easily the outstanding personality in the group around the table.
And, piling surprise on surprise, next to him sat Monsieur D'Aubignè, the famous French diplomat. Sir John was speaking as they entered, each word falling with the incisive emphasis that was one of his best-known characteristics. Prince Peter was there too, seated beside a man whose face was vaguely familiar to the Canadian. Fenton studied the handsome, heavily bearded countenance of the stranger for a moment before he recognised him as Count Grobenski of the Russian Foreign Ministry. The rest of the group were quite unknown to Fenton, but he concluded that they were Ironians.
Then he remembered certain hints that Varden had let drop that afternoon to the effect that representatives of the allied nations were in Serajoz. Varden had been very mysterious about it, but Fenton had gained the impression that the object of their visit had been to bring Ironia to a definite stand.