“I cannot imagine how it is possible that our enemies could have obtained sight of the despatch, even for an instant,” I said. “The only other person in the Chief’s room at Downing Street while he was writing was Boyd, who helped him seal it. I then took it, drove in a cab to the club, and there placed it in my belt beneath my clothes. It never left my person until, in the smoking-room here, I took it out and handed it to His Excellency.”
“The telegram was despatched from the maritime station at Calais by some person who signed his name as ‘Gaston.’ He is evidently known to our friends at the Quai d’Orsay.”
There was a brief and painful pause. Such a catastrophe staggered belief. Surely the spies of France did not use the Roentgen rays in order to read the letters carried on one’s person! It would almost appear as though they did.
“Fate seems entirely against us, Ingram,” observed Lord Barmouth, breaking the silence at last. “In every effort we are thwarted by these scoundrelly spies. Our most secret instructions leak out in a way that is absolutely unaccountable. Indeed, the position has now become so critical that I dread to contemplate the result. In the matter of Ceuta we had an illustration of the marvellous astuteness of our enemies, while to-day here is an example much more alarming. And further, we must send home a despatch acknowledging ourselves checkmated. Our position is an ignominious one—most ignominious,” he added vehemently.
“If I were at fault I would willingly bear any blame attaching to my actions,” I said in a tone of protest; “but as far as I am aware I am utterly blameless in this matter.”
“I do not seek to fix any culpability upon you, Ingram,” His Lordship hastened to assure me. “While serving under me you have always done your duty with a thoroughness and tact worthy of the British diplomatist. All I can say is that it is excessively unfortunate for us all, and for the nation at large. Those instructions there, as you will see, are of the highest importance at this juncture; but we are now quite unable to act because our secret intentions have become common property. They will probably be in the Figaro to-morrow.”
“The whole affair is at present a complete enigma,” observed Kaye, who, turning to me, added: “If you cannot give us any clue whatever, I can’t see what can be done.”
“I can give you absolutely no clue,” I answered, utterly bewildered by this amazing turn of events. “All I know is what I have just related.”
The chief of the secret service turned his eyes full upon me, and asked slowly:
“You have, for instance, held no further communication with Mademoiselle de Foville?” Mention of that name caused me to start. All came back to me—how that the Ambassador had suspected her, and Kaye himself had declared that she was a spy.