“It is fortunate that this has returned into our possession,” he observed, his thin blue lips quivering slightly. “I feared that it had already passed beyond our reach, and that one day or other in the near future our policy must be narrowed by the knowledge that it was preserved in the archives of the Foreign Office at St Petersburg, and could be used as a pretence for a declaration of war by Russia and France. Now, however, that the original is again in our possession we can disclaim all copies, and give assurances that no secret understanding exists between us and Berlin. The only fact that at present lends colour to the assertion of the boulevard journals is the ill-timed bestowal of the Iron Cross upon Count Landsfeldt. Such an action was characteristic of their impetuous Emperor.” Then, after a second’s reflection, he added, “Just sit down, Deedes, and write to Sir Philip Emden at Berlin, asking him to obtain audience immediately of the Kaiser, point out the harmful impression this decoration has occasioned, and get His Majesty to exhibit his marked displeasure towards Landsfeldt in some form or other. That will remove any suspicion that the convention is actually an accomplished fact. Besides, you may hint also that it may be well for the relations between the Kaiser and Sir Philip to appear slightly strained, and that this fact should be communicated indirectly to the Press. Sit down and write at once: it must be sent under flying seal.”
I obeyed, and commenced writing a formal dispatch while, in answer to the electric bell rung by his Lordship, the sleepy night-porter appeared.
“Calvert,” exclaimed the Minister, “telephone to the Foreign Office and say that I want a messenger to call here and proceed to Berlin by the morning mail.”
“Yes, m’lord,” answered the man, bowing and closing the door.
While I wrote, the Earl perused the document, the loss of which had caused the Cabinets of Europe so much apprehension, and taking his magnifying glass he examined the portions of the seal still remaining. Then carefully unlocking one of the small private drawers in the top of the great writing-table, he took therefrom some object, and gazed upon it long and earnestly. With a heavy sigh he again replaced it, and slowly locked the drawer. When I had finished and placed the instructions to Sir. Philip Emden before him, he took up his quill, corrected my letter, here and there adding an emphatic word or two, and then appended his signature. Obtaining one of the bags used for the transmission of single dispatches, I deposited it therein, sealed it, and placed upon it one of those labels with a cross drawn upon its face, the signification of that mark being that it is never to be lost sight of by the messenger. There are two kinds of bags sent out and received by the Foreign Office, one with this cross-marked label, and the other without it. The latter are generally larger and less important, and may be placed with the messenger’s luggage. It is no pleasant life our messengers lead, liable as they are to be summoned at an hour’s notice to “proceed at once” to anywhere, from Brussels to Teheran. Armed with a laissez-passer, they are constantly hurrying over the face of Europe as fast as the fastest expresses can carry them, passing through the frontier stations freed from the troublesome concomitant of ordinary travelling—the examination of luggage—known on all the great trunk lines from Paris to Constantinople and from Rome to St Petersburg, sometimes bearing epoch-making documents, sometimes a lady’s hat of latest mode, or a parcel of foreign delicacies, but always on the alert, and generally sleeping on a layer of stiff dispatches and bulky “notes.”
At last, having made up the bag, I rose slowly and faced my chief.
“Well,” he exclaimed, raising his keen eyes from the document I had brought him and regarding me with that stony, sphinx-like expression he assumed when resolved upon cross-questioning, “how did you obtain possession of this?”
“I found it,” I answered.
“Found it?” he growled, with a cynical curl of the lip. “I suppose you have some lame story that you picked it up in the street, or something—eh!” he exclaimed testily.
“No,” I replied hoarsely. “Mine is no lame story, although a wretched one. The discovery has unnerved and bewildered me; it—”