Having assured himself that the seals were all intact, he broke them, and, taking it at once to the bureau, I got for him the key of the private cipher used only for the confidential despatches, written by the hand of the Prime Minister to the representatives abroad. Then, standing underneath the tall lamp, the Ambassador slowly deciphered it.
What he read caused him serious reflection, judging from the manner in which his countenance changed. Then, taking a match from his pocket, he crossed to the grate, lit the paper at the corner, and held it until it was all consumed.
The nature of that confidential communication none knew save the Cabinet in London and the Ambassador himself. That it was extremely important was certain, and I felt confident that some decision had been arrived at which would materially affect the European situation.
After telephoning an acknowledgment of the despatch to Downing Street, we returned together to the smoke-room, where I drank a whisky and soda, and then, lighting a cigar, left the Embassy and drove to my own rooms, wearied out after the journey.
At noon next day, when I went round to the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, Harding, the footman, met me in the hall, saying:
“His Excellency has just telephoned to you. He wishes to see you immediately.”
I went straight to his private room, and found him seated with Kaye, the lynx-eyed chief of the secret service.
The Ambassador’s face was pale as death, and his voice trembled as he hoarsely acknowledged my salutation.
“Ingram,” he said in a low tone, motioning me to close the door, “we have been betrayed!”
“Betrayed? How?” I gasped.