“Yes, as a secret agent. He warned me to be wary of her.”
“Well,” I said, “I, who knew her most intimately years ago, never suspected it for one single instant.”
“Ah, Ingram,” the Ambassador answered, a smile crossing his serious, hard-set face, “you were in love with her. A man in love never believes that his idol is of mere clay.”
A sigh escaped me. His words were indeed true. A thought of Edith flashed across my mind. The face of that woman who was false to me rose before my vision, but I swept it aside. All was over between us. Diplomacy and flirtation are sister arts, but diplomacy and love never run hand-in-hand. I had quaffed the cup of life, with all its infinite joys and agonies, in one intoxicating draught.
Kaye rose at last and departed, promising to leave no stone unturned in his efforts to discover how the contents of the secret despatch had been obtained by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; and then, at the Ambassador’s dictation, I wrote a despatch to London explaining to the Marquess the reason why his instructions could not be acted upon. Thus were we compelled to acknowledge our defeat.
Below, in the hall, I met Sibyl dressed smartly, ready to go out.
“What!” she exclaimed, laughing, “you are back again! Why, I thought you would be at least a week in London. Did you bring that lace for me?”
“Yes,” I answered, “I have it round at my rooms. I’ll send it you this afternoon.”
“Why are you back so soon?” she inquired, holding out her hand, so that I might button her glove. “Was London too hot?”
“The heat was insufferable. Besides, we have much to attend to just now.”