He turned to his stenographer, and said (in Spanish, in which tongue, it may be observed, it sounded even better than in the English rendering): “And so the gentle doves of peace comma pursued down stormy skies by the hawks of war comma shall find at length ... shall find at length.... Alvarez, please finish that sentence later on. That will do for the present, señorita.... Admit Mr. Beechtree, messenger.”
Mr. Beechtree was admitted. The slim, pale, shabby and yet somehow elegant young man, with his monocle, so useless, so foppish, dangling on its black ribbon, pleased, on the whole, M. Croza's fastidious taste.
After introductions, courtesies, apologies, and seatings, Mr. Beechtree got to business.
“I have,” he began, in his soft, light, tired voice, “a curious story to tell. I am in a position, after much search, to throw a good deal of light on the recent mysterious disappearances. I have evidence of a very serious nature indeed....”
M. Croza, in his capacity of President of Committee 9, had become used to such evidence of late. But he always welcomed it, and did so now, with an encouraging nod.
Perhaps the nod, though encouraging, had an air of habit, for Mr. Beechtree added quickly, “What I have to tell you is most unusual. It implicates persons not usually implicated. Indeed, never before. I am not here to hurl random accusations against persons for whom I happen to feel a distaste. I am here with solid, documentary evidence. I have it in this case.” He opened his shabby dispatch case, and showed it full of papers.
“It implicates,” he continued, “an individual who holds a distinguished position on the staff of the Secretariat.”
M. Croza leant forward, interested, stimulated, not displeased.
“You amaze me,” he said. “Take a note, Alvarez, if you please.”
“Some years ago,” said Henry, gratified by the delegate's attention and the secretary's poised pencil, “before the League of Nations, so-called——”