“Norgate, you reprobate!”
“Hebblethwaite!”
The latter passed his arm through the young man’s and led him towards the club steps.
“Come in and have a drink,” he invited. “I am just up from the House. I do wish you could get some of your military friends to stop worrying us, Norgate. Two hours to-night have been absolutely wasted because they would talk National Service and heckle us about the territorials.”
“I’ll have the drink, although heaven knows I don’t need any!” Norgate replied. “As for the rest, I am all on the side of the hecklers. You ought to know that.”
They drew two easy-chairs together in a corner of the great, deserted smoking-room, and Hebblethwaite ordered the whiskies and sodas.
“Yes,” he remarked, “I forgot. You are on the other side, aren’t you? I haven’t a word to say against the navy. We spend more money than is necessary upon it, and I stick out for economy whenever I can. But as regards the army, my theory is that it is useless. It’s only a temptation to us to meddle in things that don’t concern us. The navy is sufficient to defend these shores, if any one were foolish enough to wish to attack us. If we need an army at all, we should need one ten times the size, but we don’t. Nature has seen to that. Yet tonight, when I was particularly anxious to get on with some important domestic legislation, we had to sit and listen to hours of prosy military talk, the possibilities of this and that. They don’t realise, these brain-fogged ex-military men, that we are living in days of common sense. Before many years have passed, war will belong to the days of romance.”
“For a practical politician, Hebblethwaite,” Norgate pronounced, “you have some of the rottenest ideas I ever knew. You know perfectly well that if Germany attacked France, we are almost committed to chip in. We couldn’t sit still, could we, and see Calais and Boulogne, Dieppe and Ostend, fortified against us?”
“If Germany should attack France!” Hebblethwaite repeated. “If Prussia should send an expeditionary force to Cornwall, or the Siamese should declare themselves on the side of the Ulster men! We must keep in politics to possibilities that are reasonable.”
“Take another view of the same case, then,” Norgate continued. “Supposing Germany should violate Belgium’s independence?”
“You silly idiot!” Hebblethwaite exclaimed, as he took a long draught of his whisky and soda, lit a cigar, and leaned back in his chair, “the neutrality of Belgium is guaranteed by a treaty, actually signed by Germany!”
“Supposing she should break her treaty?” Norgate persisted. “I told you what I heard in the train the other night. It isn’t for nothing that that sort of work is going on.”
Hebblethwaite shook his head.
“You are incorrigible, Norgate! Germany is one of the Powers of Europe undoubtedly possessing a high sense of honour and rectitude of conduct. If any nation possesses a national conscience, and an appreciation of national ethics, they do. Germany would be less likely than any nation in the world to break a treaty.”
“Hebblethwaite,” Norgate declared solemnly, “if you didn’t understand the temperament and character of your constituents better than you do the German temperament and character, you would never have set your foot across the threshold of Westminster. The fact of it is you’re a domestic politician of the very highest order, but as regards foreign affairs and the greater side of international politics, well, all I can say is you’ve as little grasp of them as a local mayor might have.”
“Look here, young fellow,” Hebblethwaite protested, “do you know that you are talking to a Cabinet Minister?”
“To a very possible Prime Minister,” Norgate replied, “but I am going to tell you what I think, all the same. I’m fed up with you all. I bring you some certain and sure information, proving conclusively that Germany is maintaining an extraordinary system of espionage over here, and you tell me to mind my own business. I tell you, Hebblethwaite, you and your Party are thundering good legislators, but you’ll ruin the country before you’ve finished. I’ve had enough. It seems to me we thoroughly deserve the shaking up we’re going to get. I am going to turn German spy myself and work for the other side.”
“You do, if there’s anything in it,” Hebblethwaite retorted, with a grin. “I promise we won’t arrest you. You shall hop around the country at your own sweet will, preach Teutonic doctrines, and pave the way for the coming of the conquerors. You’ll have to keep away from our arsenals and our flying places, because our Service men are so prejudiced. Short of that you can do what you like.”
Norgate finished his cigar in silence. Then he threw the end into the fireplace, finished his whisky and soda, and rose.
“Hebblethwaite,” he said, “this is the second time you’ve treated me like this. I shall give you another chance. There’s just one way I may be of use, and I am going to take it on. If I get into trouble about it, it will be your fault, but next time I come and talk with you, you’ll have to listen to me if I shove the words down your throat. Good night!”
“Good night, Norgate,” Hebblethwaite replied pleasantly. “What you want is a week or two’s change somewhere, to get this anti-Teuton fever out of your veins. I think we’ll send you to Tokyo and let you have a turn with the geishas in the cherry groves.”
“I wouldn’t go out for your Government, anyway,” Norgate declared. “I’ve given you fair warning. I am going in on the other side. I’m fed up with the England you fellows represent.”
“Nice breezy sort of chap you are for a pal!” Hebblethwaite grumbled. “Well, get along with you, then. Come and look me up when you’re in a better humour.”
“I shall probably find you in a worse one,” Norgate retorted. “Good night!”
* * * * *
It was one o’clock when Norgate let himself into his rooms. To his surprise, the electric lights were burning in his sitting-room. He entered a little abruptly and stopped short upon the threshold. A slim figure in dark travelling clothes, with veil pushed back, was lying curled up on his sofa. She stirred a little at his coming, opened her eyes, and looked at him.
CHAPTER XVI
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Throughout those weeks and months of tangled, lurid sensations, of amazing happenings which were yet to come, Norgate never once forgot that illuminative rush of fierce yet sweet feelings which suddenly thrilled his pulses. He understood in that moment the intolerable depression of the last few days. He realised the absolute advent of the one experience hitherto missing from his life. The very intensity of his feelings kept him silent, kept him unresponsive to her impetuous but unspoken welcome. Her arms dropped to her side, her lips for a moment quivered. Her voice, notwithstanding her efforts to control it, shook a little. She was no longer the brilliant young Court beauty of Vienna. She was a tired and disappointed girl.
“You are surprised—I should not have come here! It was such a foolish impulse.”
She caught up her gloves feverishly, but Norgate’s moment of stupefaction had passed. He clasped her hands.
“Forgive me,” he begged. “It is really you—Anna!”
His words were almost incoherent, but his tone was convincing. Her fears passed away.
“You don’t wonder that I was a little surprised, do you?” he exclaimed. “You were not only the last person whom I was thinking of, but you were certainly the last person whom I expected to see in London or to welcome here.”
“But why?” she asked. “I told you that I came often to this country.”
“I remember,” Norgate admitted. “Yet I never ventured to hope—”
“Of course I should not have come here,” she interrupted. “It was absurd of me, and at such an hour! And yet I am staying only a few hundred yards away. The temptation to-night was irresistible. I felt as one sometimes does in this queer, enormous city—lonely. I telephoned, and your servant, who answered me, said that you were expected back at any moment. Then I came myself.”
“You cannot imagine that I
am not glad to see you,” he said earnestly.
“I want to believe that you are glad,” she answered. “I have been restless ever since you left. Tell me at once, what did they say to you here?”
“I am practically shelved,” he told her bitterly. “In twelve months’ time, perhaps, I may be offered something in America or Asia—countries where diplomacy languishes. In a word, your mighty autocrat has spoken the word, and I am sacrificed.”
She moved towards the window.
“I am stifled!” she exclaimed. “Open it wide, please.”
He threw it open. They looked out eastwards. The roar of the night was passing. Here and there were great black spaces. On the Thames a sky-sign or two remained. The blue, opalescent glare from the Gaiety dome still shone. The curving lights which spanned the bridges and fringed the Embankment still glittered. The air, even here, high up as they were on the seventh story of the building, seemed heavy and lifeless.
“There is a storm coming,” she said. “I have felt it for days.”
She stood looking out, pale, her large eyes strained as though seeking to read something which eluded her in the clouds or the shadows which hung over the city. She had rather the air of a frightened but eager child. She rested her fingers upon his arm, not exactly affectionately, but as though she felt the need of some protection.
“Do you know,” she whispered, “the feeling of this storm has been in my heart for days. I am afraid—afraid for all of us!”
“Afraid of what?” he asked gently.
“Afraid,” she went on, “because it seems to me that I can hear, at times like this, when one is alone, the sound of what one of your writers called footsteps amongst the hills, footsteps falling upon wool, muffled yet somehow ominous. There is trouble coming. I know it. I am sure of it.”
“In this country they do not think so,” he reminded her. “Most of our great statesmen of today have come to the conclusion that there will be no more war.”
“You have no great statesmen,” she answered simply. “You have plenty of men who would make very fine local administrators, but you have no statesmen, or you would have provided for what is coming.”
There was a curious conviction in her words, a sense of one speaking who has seen the truth.
“Tell me,” he asked, “is there anything that you know of—”
“Ah! but that I may not tell you,” she interrupted, turning away from the window. “Of myself just now I say nothing—only of you. I am here for a day or two. It is through me that you have suffered this humiliation. I wanted to know just how far it went. Is there anything I can do?”
“What could any one do?” he asked. “I am the victim of circumstances.”
“But for a whole year!” she exclaimed. “You are not like so many young Englishmen. You do not wish to spend your time playing polo and golf, and shooting. You must do something. What are you going to do with that year?”
He moved across the room and took a cigarette from a box.
“Give me something to drink, please,” she begged.
He opened a cupboard in his sideboard and gave her some soda-water. She had still the air of waiting for his reply.
“What am I going to do?” he repeated. “Well, here I am with an idle twelve months. It makes no difference to anybody what time I get up, what time I go to bed, with whom or how I spend the day. I suppose to some people it would sound like Paradise. To me it is hateful. Shall I be your secretary?”
“How do you know that I need a secretary?” she asked.
“How should I?” he replied. “Yet you are not altogether an idler in life, are you?”
For a moment she did not answer. The silence in the room was almost impressive. He looked at her over the top of the soda-water syphon whose handle he was manipulating.
“What do you imagine might be my occupation, then?” she asked.
“I have heard it suggested,” he said slowly, “that you have been a useful intermediary in carrying messages of the utmost importance between the Kaiser and the Emperor of Austria.”
“Your Intelligence Department is not so bad,” she remarked. “It is true. Why not? At the German Court I count for little, perhaps. In Austria my father was the Emperor’s only personal friend. My mother was scarcely popular there—she was too completely English—but since my father died the Emperor will scarcely let me stay a week away. Yes, your information is perhaps true. I will supplement it, if you like. Since our little affair in the Cafe de Berlin, the Kaiser, who went out of his way to insist upon your removal from Berlin, has notified the Emperor that he would prefer to receive his most private dispatches either through the regular diplomatic channels or by some other messenger.”
Norgate’s emphatic expletive was only half-stifled as she continued.
“For myself,” she said with a shrug, “I am not sorry. I found it very interesting, but of late those feelings of which I have told you have taken hold of me. I have felt as though a terrible shadow were brooding over the world.”
“Let me ask you once more,” he begged. “Why are you in London?”
“I received a wire from the Emperor,” she explained, “instructing me to return at once to Vienna. If I go there, I know very well that I shall not be allowed to leave the city. I have been trusted implicitly, and they will keep me practically a prisoner. They will think that I may feel a resentment against the Kaiser, and they will be afraid. Therefore, I came here. I have every excuse for coming. It is according to my original plans. You will find that by to-morrow morning I shall have a second message from Vienna. All the same, I am not sure that I shall go.”
There was a ring at the bell. Norgate started, and Anna looked at the clock.
“Who is that?” she asked. “Do you see the time?”
Norgate moved to the door and threw it open. A waiter stood there.
“What do you want?” demanded Norgate.
The man pointed to the indicator.
“The bell rang, sir,” he replied. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
“I rang no bell,” Norgate asserted. “Your indicator must be out of order.”
Norgate would have closed the door, but Anna intervened.
“Tell the waiter I wish to speak to him,” she begged.
The man advanced at once into the room and glanced interrogatively at Anna. She addressed him suddenly in Austrian, and he replied without hesitation. She nodded. Then she turned to Norgate and laughed softly.
“You see how perfect the system is,” she said. “I was followed here, passed on to your floor-waiter. You are a spy, are you not?” she added, turning to the man. “But of course you are!”
“Madame!” the man protested. “I do not understand.”
“You can go away,” she replied. “You can tell Herr Selingman in your morning’s report that I came to Mr. Norgate’s rooms at an early hour in the morning and spent an hour talking with him. You can go now.”
The man withdrew without remark. He was a quiet, inoffensive-looking person, with sallow complexion, suave but silent manners. Norgate closed the door behind him.
“A victim of the system which all Europe knows of except you people,” she remarked lightly. “Well, after this I must be careful. Walk with me to my hotel.”
“Of course,” he assented.
They made their way along the silent corridors to the lift, out into the streets, empty of traffic now save for the watering-carts and street scavengers.
“Will there be trouble for you,” Norgate asked at last, “because of this?”
“There is more trouble in my own heart,” she told him quietly. “I feel strangely disturbed, uncertain which way to move. Let me take your arm—so. I like to walk like that. Somehow I think, Mr. Francis Norgate, that that little fracas in the Cafe de Berlin is going to make a great difference in both our lives. I know now what I had begun to believe. Like all the trusted agents of sovereigns, I have become an object of suspicion. Well, we shall see. At leas
t I am glad to know that there is some one whom I can trust. Perhaps to-morrow I will tell you all that is in my heart. We might even, if you wished it, if you were willing to face a few risks, we might even work together to hold back the thunder. So! Good night, my friend,” she added, turning suddenly around.
He held her hand for a moment as they stood together on the pavement outside her hotel. For a single moment he fancied that there was a change in that curious personal aloofness which seemed so distinctive of her. It passed, however, as she turned from him with her usual half-insolent, half gracious little nod.
“To-morrow,” she directed, “you must ring me up. Let it be at eleven o’clock.”
CHAPTER XVII
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The Ambassador glanced at the clock as he entered his library to greet his early morning visitor. It was barely nine o’clock.
“Dear friend,” he exclaimed, as he held out his hands, “I am distressed to keep you waiting! Such zeal in our affairs must, however, not remain unnoticed. I will remember it in my reports.”
Anna smiled as he stooped to kiss her fingers.
“I had special reasons,” she explained, “for my haste. I was disappointed, indeed, that I could not see you last night.”
“I was at Windsor,” her host remarked. “Now come, sit there in the easy-chair by the side of my table. My secretaries have not yet arrived. We shall be entirely undisturbed. I have ordered coffee here, of which we will partake together. A compromising meal to share, dear Baroness, but in the library of my own house it may be excused. The Princess sends her love. She will be glad if you will go to her apartments after we have finished our talk.”
A servant entered with a tray, spread a cloth on a small round table, upon which he set out coffee, with rolls and butter and preserves. For a few moments they talked lightly of the weather, of her crossing, of mutual friends in Berlin and Vienna. Then Anna, as soon as they were alone, leaned a little forward in her chair.
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