“You should have gone this morning—the instant you were returned to the hotel! Now, unless Madame Durrand had written about you, it’s a pretty good gamble that the Spencer crowd has forestalled you.”
“Forestalled me! What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Spencer admitted to me that your release was someone’s blunder. The normal thing was to hold you prisoner and so prevent you from communicating with the Ambassador until they had obtained the letter or defeated its purpose. That was not done; but Spencer, you may assume, has attempted to rectify their blunder—possibly by impersonating you, and giving the Marquis d’Hausonville some tale that will fall in with her plans and gain time for her.”
“Impersonating me!” Mrs. Clephane exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes. She knows all the material circumstance—witness the telephone call that inveigled you into the drive up the Avenue, et cetera—and she’ll take the chance that you are not known to the Marquis nor any of the staff, or even the chance that Madame Durrand has not yet informed them. Indeed she may have taken precautions against her informing them. A few bribes to the hospital attendants, carefully distributed, would be sufficient. It’s not everyone who could, or would venture to, pull off the coup, but with Spencer the very daring of a thing adds to its pleasure and its zest.”
“You amaze me!” Mrs. Clephane replied. “I thought also that diplomacy was the gentlest-mannered profession in the world—and the most dignified.”
“It is—on the surface. Fine residences, splendid establishments, brilliant uniforms, much bowing and many genuflections, plenty of parade and glitter—everything for show. Under the surface: a supreme contempt for any code of honour, and a ruthlessness of purpose simply appalling—yet, withal, dignity, strained at times, but dignity none-the-less.”
“Then it isn’t even a respectable calling!” she exclaimed.
“It’s eminently respectable to intimidate and to lie for one’s country—and to stoop to any means to attain an end.”
“And you enjoy it!” she marvelled.