“Well, what about him?” Nigel demanded, a little carried away by Maggie’s earnestness.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “If the stories one hears about him are true, no man nor any woman could ever influence him. At least, though, one could watch and hope.”
“Prince Shan is supposed to be coming to Paris, not to London,” Nigel remarked.
“If he goes to Paris,” Maggie said, “Naida and Immelan will go. So shall we. If he comes here, it will be easier. Tell me, Nigel, did you see the Prime Minister?”
“I saw him,” Nigel replied, “but without the slightest result. He is clearly of the opinion that the open verdict was a merciful one. In other words, he believes that it was a case of suicide.”
“How wicked!” Maggie exclaimed.
“I suppose it is trying the ordinary Britisher a little high,” Nigel remarked, “to ask him to believe that he was murdered in cold blood, here in the heart of London, by the secret service agent of a foreign Power. The strangest part of it all is that it is true. To think that those few pages of manuscript would have told us exactly what we have to fear! Why, I actually had them in my hand.”
“And I in my corsets!” Maggie groaned.
They were both silent for a moment. Then Nigel moved towards the door and opened it.
“Come downstairs into the library, will you, Maggie?” he begged. “Let us go in for a little reconstruction.”
They found Brookes in the hall and took him with them. The blinds in the room had never been raised, and there was still that nameless atmosphere which lingers for long in an apartment which has become associated with tragedy. Instinctively they all moved quietly and spoke in hushed voices. Nigel sat in the chair where his uncle had been found dead and made a mental effort to reconstruct the events which must have immediately preceded the tragedy.
“I know that this was all thrashed out at the inquest, Brookes,” he said, “but I want you to tell me once more. You see how far it is from this table to the door. My uncle must have had abundant warning of any one approaching. Was there no other way by which any one could have entered the room?”
“There was, your lordship,” the man replied, “and I have regretted several times since that I did not mention it at the inquest. The cleaners were here on the morning of that day, and the window at the farther end of the room was unfastened—I even believe that it was open.”
Nigel rose and examined the window in question. It was almost flush with the ground, and although there were iron railings separating it from the street, a little gate opening from the area entrance made ingress not only possible but easy. Nigel returned to his chair.
“I can’t understand this not having been mentioned at the inquest, Brookes,” he said.
“I was waiting for the question to be asked, your lordship. It was perfectly clear to every one there, if your lordship will excuse my saying so, that both the coroner and the police seemed to have made up their minds that it was a case of suicide.”
Nigel nodded.
“I had the same idea with reference to the coroner, at any rate, Brookes,” he said. “So long as the verdict was returned in the form it was, I am not sure that it was not better so.”
He dismissed the man with a little nod and sat turning over the code books which still stood upon the table.
“You and I, at any rate, Maggie, know the truth,” he said, “and so long as we can get no help from the proper quarters, I think that we should do better to let the matter remain as it is. We don’t want to direct people’s attention to us. We want to lull suspicion so far as we can, to be free to watch the three.”
The telephone bell rang, and as Nigel moved his arm to take off the receiver, he knocked over one of the black, morocco-bound code books, A sheet of paper with a few words upon it came fluttering to the ground. Maggie picked it up, glanced at it carelessly at first and then with interest.
“Nigel,” she exclaimed, “you see whose handwriting this is? Could it be part of the decoded dispatch?”
The telephone enquiry had been unimportant. Nigel pushed the instrument away. They both looked eagerly at the page of manuscript paper. It was numbered “8” at the top, and the few words written upon it in Lord Dorminster’s writing were obviously the continuation of a paragraph:
The name of the middle one, then, of the three secret cities, into which at all costs some one must find his way, is Kroten, and the telephone number which is all the clue I have been able to get, up to the present, to the London end of the affair, is Mayfair 146.
“This is just where he got to in the decoding!” Nigel declared. “I wonder whether it’s any use looking for the rest.”
They searched through every page of the heavy code books in vain. Then they returned to their study of the single page. Nigel dragged down an atlas and studied it.
“Kroten,” he muttered. “Here it is,—a small place about six hundred miles from Petrograd, apparently the centre of a barren, swampy district, population thirty thousand, birth rate declining, industries nil. Cheerful sort of spot it seems!”
“I have more luck than you!” Maggie cried, her finger tracing out a line in the open telephone book. “Look!”
Nigel glanced over her shoulder and read the entry to which she was pointing:
“Immelan Oscar, 13 Clarges Street, W. Mayfair 146.”
CHAPTER VI
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Nigel played golf at Ranelagh, on the following Sunday morning, with Jere Chalmers, a young American in the Diplomatic Service, who had just arrived in London and brought a letter of introduction to him. They had a pleasant game and strolled off from the eighteenth green to the dressing rooms on the best of terms with each other.
“Say, Dorminster,” his young companion enjoined, “let’s get through this fixing-up business quickly. I’ve had a kind of feeling for a cocktail, these last four holes, which I can’t exactly put into words. Besides, I want to have a word or two with you before the others come down.”
“I shan’t be a minute,” Nigel promised. “I’m going to change into flannels after lunch—that is, if you don’t mind playing a set or two at tennis. My cousin-in-law Maggie Trent, whom you’ll meet at luncheon, is rather keen, and she doesn’t care about golf.”
“I’m game for anything,” the other agreed, lifting his head spluttering from the basin. “Gee, that’s good! Get a move on, there’s a good fellow. I have a fancy for just five minutes with you out on the lawn, with the ice chinking in our glasses.”
Nigel finished smoothing his hair, and the two men strolled through the hall, gave an order to a red-coated attendant, and found a secluded table under a marvellous tree in the gardens on the other side. Chalmers had become a little thoughtful.
“Dorminster,” he declared, “yours is a wonderful country.”
“Just how is it appealing to you at the moment?” Nigel enquired.
“I’ll try and tell you,” was the meditative reply. “It’s your extraordinary insouciance. It seems to me, as a budding diplomat, that you are running the most ghastly risks on earth.”
“In what direction?”
The young American shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, you’ve got a thoroughly democratic Government—not such a bad Government, I should say, as things go. They’ve bled your bourgeoisiea bit, and serve ‘em right, but with an empire to keep up you’re losing all touch upon international politics. Your ambassadors have been exchanged for trade consuls, the whole of your secret service staff has been disbanded, you place your entire faith on this sacred League of Nations. Say, Dorminster, you’re taking risks!”
“You mustn’t forget,” Dorminster replied, “that it was your country who started the League of Nations.”
“President Wilson did,” Chalmers grunted. “You can’t say that the country ever backed him up. That’s the worst of us on the other side—we so seldom really get a common voice.”
“The L
eague of Nations was a thundering good idea,” Nigel declared, “but it belongs to Utopia and not to this vulgar planet.”
“Just so,” Chalmers rejoined, “and yet you are about the only nation who ever took it into her bosom and suckled it. To be perfectly frank with you, now, what other nation in the world is there, except yours, which is obeying the conventions strictly? I tell you frankly, we keep our eye on Japan, and we build a good many commercial ships which would astonish you if you examined them thoroughly. Our National Guard, too, know a bit more about soldiering than their grandfathers. You people, on the other hand, seem to have become infatuated pacifists. I can’t tell tales out of school, but I don’t like the way things are going on eastwards. Asia means something different now that that amazing fellow, Prince Shan, has made a great nation of China.”
“I am entirely in accord with you,” Nigel agreed, “but what is one to do about it? Our present Government has a big majority, trade at home and abroad is prosperous, the income tax is down to a shilling in the pound and looks like being wiped out altogether. Everybody is fat and happy.”
“Just as they were in 1914,” Chalmers remarked significantly.
“More so,” Dorminster asserted. “In those days we had our alarmists. Nowadays, they too seem to have gone to sleep. My uncle—”
“Your uncle was an uncommonly shrewd man,” Chalmers interrupted. “I was going to talk about him.”
“After lunch,” Nigel suggested, rising to his feet. “Here come my cousin and some of her tennis friends. Karschoff is lunching with us, too. You know him, don’t you? Come along and I’ll introduce you to the others.”
It was a very cheerful party who, after a few minutes under the trees, strolled into luncheon and took their places at the round table reserved for them at the end of the room. Maggie at once took possession of Chalmers.
“I have been so anxious to meet you, Mr. Chalmers,” she said. “They tell me that you represent the modern methods in American diplomacy, and that therefore you have been made first secretary over the heads of half a dozen of your seniors. How they must dislike you, and how clever you must be!”
“I don’t know that I’m so much disliked,” the young man answered, with a twinkle in his eyes, “but I flatter myself that I have brought a new note into diplomacy. I was always taught that there were thirty-seven different ways of telling a lie, which is to state a diplomatic fact. I have swept them all away. I tell the truth.”
“How daring,” Maggie murmured, “and how wonderfully original! What should you say, now, if I asked you if my nose wanted powdering?”
“I should start by saying that the question was outside the sphere of my activities,” he decided. “I should then proceed to add, as a private person, that a little dab on the left side would do it no harm.”
“I begin to believe,” she confessed, “that all I have heard of you is true.”
“Tell me exactly what you have heard,” he begged. “Leave out everything that isn’t nice. I thrive on praise and good reports.”
“To begin with, then, that you are an extraordinarily shrewd young man,” she replied, “that you speak seven languages perfectly and know your way about every capital of Europe, and that you have ideas of your own as to what is going to happen during the next six or seven years.”
“You’ve been moving in well-informed circles,” he admitted. “Now shall I proceed to turn the tables upon you?”
“You can’t possibly know anything about me,” she declared confidently.
“I could tell you what I’ve discovered from personal observation,” he replied.
“That sounds like compliments or candour,” she murmured. “I’m terrified of both.”
“Well, I guess I’m not out to frighten you,” he assured her. “I’ll keep the secrets of my heart hidden—until after luncheon, at any rate—- and just ask you—how you enjoyed your stay in Berlin?”
Maggie’s manner changed. She lowered her voice.
“In Berlin?” she repeated.
“In the household of the erstwhile leather manufacturer, the present President, Herr Essendorf. I hope you liked those fat children. They always seemed to me loathsome little brats.”
“What do you know about my stay in Berlin?” she demanded.
“Everything there is to be known,” he answered. “To tell you the truth, our people there were a trifle anxious about you. I was the little angel watching from above.”
“You are, without a doubt,” Maggie pronounced, “a most interesting young man. We will talk together presently.”
“A hint which sends me back to my mutton,” the young man observed. “Dorminster,” he added, turning to his host, “I heard the other day, on very good authority, that you were thinking of writing a novel. If you are, study the lady who has just entered. There is a type for you, an intelligence which might baffle even your attempts at analysis.”
Naida, escorted by her father and Immelan, took her place at an adjacent table. She bowed to Nigel and Karschoff before sitting down, and her eyes travelled over the rest of the party with interest. Then she recognised Maggie and waved her hand.
“Immelan is a very constant admirer,” Prince Karschoff remarked, a little uneasily.
“Is that her father?” Maggie asked.
The Prince nodded.
“He is one of the ambassadors of commerce from my country,” he said. “In place of diplomacy, he superintends the exchange of shipping cargoes and talks freights. I suppose Immelan and he are all the time comparing notes, but I scarcely see where my dear friend Naida comes in.”
“There is still the oldest interest in the world for her to fall back upon,” Chalmers murmured. “One hears that Immelan is devoted.”
“Scandalmonger!” the Prince declared severely. “Young man from the New World,” he proceeded, “get on with your lunch and drink your iced water. Let the vision of those two remind you that it was your people who foisted the League of Nations upon us, and be humble, even sorrowful, when you view one of the sad results.”
“I can’t be responsible, directly or indirectly, for a political flirtation,” Chalmers grumbled. “Besides, why should there be any politics about it at all? Mademoiselle Karetsky is quite attractive enough to turn the head even of a seasoned old boulevardier like you, Prince.”
“That young man,” Karschoff said deliberately, “will find himself before long face to face with a blighted career. He has no respect for age, and he is shockingly lacking in finesse. All the same, on one point I am agreed. I don’t think there is a man breathing who could resist Naida if she wished to call him to her.”
The little party broke up presently and wandered out into the gardens. They sat for a while upon the lawn, drinking their coffee and exchanging greetings with acquaintances. In the distance, the orchestra was playing soft music, with a fine regard for the atmosphere of the pleasant, almost languorous spring afternoon. Everywhere were signs of contentment, even gaiety, and here the alien streak of unfamiliar newcomers was far less pronounced. When the time came for tennis, Chalmers led the way with Maggie. As soon as they were out of hearing of the others, she turned towards him a little abruptly.
“Tell me exactly what you know about my stay in Berlin,” she demanded.
“Everything,” he answered gravely.
“You mean?”
“I mean that the New World to-day has progressed where the Old World seems to have been stricken with a terrible blindness. Our secret-service system has never been better, and frankly I hear many things which I don’t like. I am going to talk to Lord Dorminster this afternoon very seriously, but in the meantime I wanted to speak to you. I heard a rumour that you thought of going back to Berlin.”
“I don’t know how you heard it, but the rumour is not altogether untrue,” she admitted. “I have not yet made up my mind.”
“Don’t go,” he begged.
“You think they really do know all about me?”
“I know that they
do. I don’t mind telling you that you had the shave of your life on the Dutch frontier last time, and I don’t mind telling you, also, that we had two of our men shadowing you. One of them acted on his own initiative, or you would never have crossed the frontier.”
“I rather wondered why they let me out,” she observed. “Perhaps you can explain why Frau Essendorf keeps on writing to me under my pseudonym of ‘Miss Brown’ and to my reputed address in Lincolnshire, begging me to return.”
“I could tell you that, too,” he replied. “They want you back in Berlin.”
“They really do know, then, that I brought over the dispatch from Atcheson?” she asked.
“They know it,” he assured her. “They know, too, that it was chiefly a wasted labour. Their London agents saw to that.”
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “you know who their London agents are?”
“Sooner or later in our conversation,” he remarked, “we were bound to arrive at a point—”
“Come along and let us make up a set then,” she intervened.
CHAPTER VII
Table of Contents
Naida, deserted by her father, who had found a taxicab to take him back to the purlieus of Piccadilly and auction bridge, sauntered along at the back of the tennis nets until she arrived at the court where Nigel and his party were playing.
“I should like to watch this game for a few minutes,” she told her companion. “The men are such opposite types and yet both so good-looking. And Lady Maggie fascinates me.”
Immelan fetched two chairs, and they settled down to watch the set. Nigel, with his clean, well-knit figure, looked his best in spotless white flannels. Chalmers, a more powerful and muscular type, also presented a fine appearance. The play was fast and sometimes brilliant. Nigel had Maggie for a partner, and Chalmers one of her friends, and the set was as nearly equal as possible. Naida leaned forward in her chair, following every stroke with interest.
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