← catalogue

Her Majesty's Minister

by William Le Queux · English · Gutenberg #41000 · 555,100 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Her Majesty's Minister
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Her Majesty's Minister

Author: William Le Queux


        
Release date: October 9, 2012 [eBook #41000]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41000

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HER MAJESTY'S MINISTER ***

Her Majesty's Minister, by William Le Queux.

________________________________________________________________________















________________________________________________________________________
HER MAJESTY'S MINISTER, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

HIS EXCELLENCY.

"Then, plainly speaking, the whole thing remains a mystery?"

"Absolutely," I responded.  "All my efforts have unfortunately failed."

"And you entertain no suspicion of anyone?"

"None whatever."

"Not of that woman Yolande--or whatever her name is?"

"Certainly not of her," I answered quickly.  "She would assist us, if
necessary."

"Why are you so sure of that?  She has only been in Paris a week."

"Because I happen to know her."

"You know her!" exclaimed His Excellency, unclasping his thin white
hands and leaning across his big writing-table--a habit of his when
suddenly interested.  "Is she a personal friend of yours?"

I hesitated for a moment; then replied in the affirmative.

"Where did you know her?" he inquired quickly, fixing me with that sharp
pair of black eyes that shone behind the zone of soft light shed by the
green-shaded reading-lamp upon the table.  He was sitting in the shadow,
his thin, refined face ashen grey, his hair almost white.  The one spot
of colour was the fine star of Knight Grand Cross of the Bath glittering
on the breast of his braided diplomatic uniform.  Lord Barmouth, British
Ambassador to the French Republic, had just returned from the
President's reception at the Elysee, and had summoned me for
consultation.

"Well," I responded, "I knew her in Rome, among other places."

"H'm, I thought as much," he remarked in a dry, dubious tone.  "I don't
like her, Ingram--I don't like her;" and I knew by the impatient snap of
the Ambassador's fingers that something had displeased him.

"You've seen her, then?"

"Yes," he answered in an ambiguous tone, taking up a quill and making
what appeared to be geometrical designs upon his blotting-pad.  "She's
good-looking--uncommonly good-looking; but I mistrust her."

"It is part of our creed to mistrust a pretty woman," I remarked with a
smile; for, as everyone knows, the fair sex plays a prominent part in
the diplomacy of Europe.  "But what cause have you for suspicion?"

He was silent for a moment; then he said:

"You were not at the ball at the Austrian Embassy the night before last,
I believe?"

"No, I was not back from London in time," I replied.  "Was she there?"

"Yes.  She was dancing with Hartmann, and they were speaking of you.  I
was chatting with Olsoufieff, and distinctly overheard your name
mentioned."

"With Hartmann!"  I repeated.  "That's curious.  He is scarcely a friend
of ours."

"I consider the circumstance suspicious, judged by the light of recent
events," he said.  "Remember that the cause of our piece of ill-fortune
still remains a mystery, and the stroke of diplomacy that we intended to
effect as a coup against our enemies has, by the dastardly betrayal of
our secret, placed us in a very unenviable position.  This untoward
incident has entirely checkmated us."

"I fully realise our critical position," I said seriously, "and I have
done my utmost to discover the truth.  Kaye has been active night and
day."

"Nevertheless, I fear that at Downing Street they will say hard things
of us, Ingram;" and Her Majesty's representative sighed heavily, resting
his weary head upon his hand.

The Ambassador's office was indeed a very thankless one, while my own
position as second secretary of the Paris Embassy was a post not to be
envied, even though it is popularly supposed to be one of the plums of
the diplomatic service.  With Paris full of spies endeavouring to
discover our secrets and divine our instructions from Downing Street,
and the cabinet noir ever at work upon our correspondence, it behoved us
to be always on the alert, and to have resort to all manner of ingenious
subterfuges in order to combat our persistent enemies.

The war-cloud hangs over Europe always.  The mine is laid, and the
slightest spark may fire it.  The duty of the diplomatist is to intrigue
so as to prevent that spark.  It is the intrigue that is difficult, for
counter-plots are met with everywhere.  The power of England is feared;
hence her isolation.

Those who live at home at ease think little of the small band of
Englishmen in each of the capitals who, living ever upon the edge of a
volcano, are straining every nerve to preserve the peace of Europe.  How
often the stability of empires trembles in the balance the British
public little dreams.  "The European Situation" is a stock heading in
the London newspapers, but fortunately the journalists never know the
secrets of our embassies, otherwise the world would very often be
scared.  Many a time in my own diplomatic career in Rome, in Brussels,
and in Vienna, had I remained awake at night, fearing on the morrow a
declaration of war; yet the chiefs under whom I have worked--those
honest, upright, valiant servants of Queen and country--had skilfully
evaded the threatened danger, and Europe remained in ignorance of how
terribly near it had been to the clash of arms.

That night, as I sat with the chief, a trusted servant of Her Majesty,
in his handsome private room in the Embassy, I knew that war was in the
air.  The responsibility resting upon him was of a sort to involve the
prestige of the Queen's Empire and the lives of thousands of her valiant
sons.  An ill-advised despatch, a hasty word, or an injudicious attitude
would inevitably mean the disastrous explosion so long feared--the great
European war that prophets have been predicting ever since the downfall
of the French Empire.

Paris that July night was stifling.  To us the tension of the day had
been terrible.  The catastrophe so long feared seemed now upon us.
There was a breathless calm in the air outside, foreboding a storm.

"Has Kaye absolutely nothing to report?" asked His Excellency, at last
breaking the silence.

"He returned from Madrid at nine o'clock to-night.  His journey there
was futile."

"Ah!" exclaimed His Excellency, whose thin lips closed tightly again.

Through the years that I had served under him in Rome and afterwards in
Paris I had never before seen him outwardly betray the slightest
apprehension.  So skilled was he as a diplomatist that his sangfroid was
always perfect.  His motto--one that he had often impressed upon me--was
that the British lion should always remain fearless of his enemies.  But
now, for the first time, he was plainly agitated, dreading that war
might result.

"Get me out the special cipher-book," he said hoarsely at last.  "I must
telephone to Downing Street."

In obedience I rose, opened with the key upon my chain the big safe, and
took out the small morocco-bound volume containing the secret cipher by
means of which His Excellency could communicate with Her Majesty's
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs--a book supplied only to
ambassadors themselves; and, because it is kept locked, its contents are
never seen even by the staff of an embassy.

His Excellency unlocked it with his own key, took up his quill, and
after searching here and there through the pages, commenced writing a
bewildering row of letters and numerals intermingled, while in the
meantime I had gone to the telephone instrument at the opposite end of
the room and "rung up" London, until there came an answering voice from
one of the night staff of the Foreign Office.

"Hulloa!  I'm Ingram, of the Paris Embassy.  Who are you?"  I asked.

In response came a password by which I knew I was actually speaking with
Downing Street.

"Is the Marquess in London, or at Alderhurst, to-night?"

"Alderhurst.  He left town this afternoon."

"Then put me on there for an important despatch."

"All right," was the response; and some five minutes later the tiny bell
rang, with an inquiry from the private secretary of the great statesman
as to what I wanted.

I answered; then, His Excellency having risen and handed me the slip of
official paper on which he had printed the cipher figures heavily with
his quill, I prefaced the message by the usual formal announcement:

"From Lord Barmouth, Paris, to the Most Noble the Marquess of Malvern,
London.  July 12th, 1:30 a.m."

Then in continuation I read slowly and distinctly each letter and
numeral, the secretary at Alderhurst afterwards repeating the whole
message, so that there should be no possibility of mistake.

Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed, during which time His Excellency,
with his hands behind his back, paced feverishly up and down the room.
Of the nature of that despatch I was in utter ignorance, but from his
manner it was evident that the problem was one vital to the interests of
the British Empire.  By night, as well as by day, those responsible for
the maintenance of the prestige of England as the first Empire of the
world are always active.  How little the public knows of the stealthy,
treacherous ways of modern diplomacy, of the armies of spies seeking
always to plot and counter-plot, of the base subterfuges employed by
certain noted foreign diplomatists, or of the steady perseverance of the
Queen's representatives at the Courts of Europe!  And how little, I
fear, they care!

To most people the diplomatic career is synonymous with an easy
occupation in which the wearing of a uniform and the attendance at
brilliant functions are the greatest inconveniences.  The newspapers
flippantly criticise our actions in leading articles, and declare that
our diplomacy is utterly worthless beside that of Germany, Russia, or
France.  Those who write, as well as those who read, never reflect that
our chief duty is to foil the provocations offered to us by the Powers
who are anxious for war.  Every British Ambassador at a foreign Court
had been told from the lips of his beloved Sovereign--now, alas!
deceased--that he must prevent war.  That instruction was to him as
sacred as a religion.

"The President talked for twenty minutes to-night with de Wolkenstein,"
observed His Excellency, halting suddenly and facing me.  "I wonder if
they know anything in Vienna?"

"I think not," I replied.  "I met Count Berchtold in the Grand Cafe
purposely this evening, and he made no mention of anything to lead me to
believe that the secret was out in that direction."

"If it is out, then it has been circulated by our friends in the Rue de
Lille," he said, meaning the German Embassy.

"Perhaps," I responded.  "But I hardly think that Count de Hindenburg
would care to imperil his position by so doing.  He would rather
endeavour to assist us in this affair, because the interests of England
and Germany are entirely mutual in this matter."

"I tell you, Ingram," he cried angrily--"I tell you that this dastardly
piece of trickery is some woman's work!"

As he spoke, the door suddenly opened, and there burst into the room a
tall girlish figure in a pretty toilette of turquoise chiffon, wearing
an open cape of handsome brocade about her shoulders.

"O father!" she cried merrily, "we've had such an awfully good time at
the Baroness's!"  Then, next instant, astonished by his words, she drew
back in quick surprise.

"What trickery is a woman's work?" she asked, glancing inquiringly at
me.

"Nothing, my dear," His Excellency hastened to reply, placing his thin
hand tenderly upon her shoulder--"nothing, at least, that concerns you."

"But you are not well!" she cried in alarm.  Then, turning to me, said:
"Look, Mr. Ingram, how pale he is!"

"Your father is rather overburdened by important business," I replied.

Her face assumed a puzzled expression.  Sibyl, the pretty, dark-haired
daughter of Lord Barmouth, was acknowledged on all sides to be more than
usually beautiful, and was the pet of diplomatic Paris.  With her mother
she went everywhere in that dazzling vortex of gaiety, in which the
diplomatist accredited to France is bound to move.  Ah! that glare and
glitter, that constant whirl, that never-ceasing music!  How weary I was
of it all, and how it jarred upon me!

And why?  Well, to speak the truth, I myself had an affair of the heart,
and my thoughts were always far from those brilliant spectacles in which
I was merely an official in a braided uniform.

"What has occurred, Mr. Ingram?" asked the Ambassador's daughter
anxiously.  "Father is certainly not himself to-night."

"Another political complication," I responded; "that is all."

"Sibyl, my dear," exclaimed her father, gently taking her hand, "you
know that I forbid any inquiries to be made into matters which must be
secret, even from you."


"I came to tell you all about the ball," she said, pouting.  "I was
introduced to a most pleasant man named Wolf, and danced with him
several times."

"Wolf!"  I cried quickly.  "Rodolphe Wolf?"

"That was his name.  He was dark, about forty, with a small pointed
black beard.  Do you know him?"

"Wolf!"  I repeated; then, suddenly recovering from the surprise she had
caused me by uttering that name, I answered carelessly: "Perhaps it may
be the same man I knew slightly some years ago."

"We had awfully good fun.  He is so amusing, but seems quite a stranger
in Paris."

I smiled inwardly.  Rodolphe Wolf a stranger in Paris!  The thought was
amusing.

"And what was your conversation about?"  I inquired of her, smiling
pleasantly the while.

"You want to know whether he flirted with me, Mr. Ingram?" she laughed
mischievously.  "I know you of old.  It really isn't fair."

"He said nothing to you about your father, or about the composition of
his staff?"  I inquired eagerly.

"Nothing."

"And you did not mention my name?"  I asked anxiously.

"No.  Why?  You talk as though you don't want him to know you are in
Paris."

"You have exactly guessed my desire," I replied.  "If you meet him
again, kindly oblige me by saying nothing."

"Do not utter a word regarding matters here at the Embassy, Sibyl,"
added her father seriously.  "You understand?"

"Of course not.  I'm a diplomat's daughter, and can keep a secret when
necessary.  But tell me, father," she added, "who is the woman of whom
you were speaking when I came in?"

"It is our affair, my dear--entirely our affair," he said in a hard
voice.  "It is nothing you need trouble your head over.  I'm glad you've
enjoyed the ball.  Say good-night, and leave us."

"But you look quite ill," she said with concern in her voice, stroking
his heated forehead with her hand.  "Cannot I get you something?"

"Nothing, dear."

She was a charming type of English girl, smart, accomplished, and
utterly devoted to her father.  That she delighted in mild flirtations
here and there in the cosmopolitan circle in which she moved I was well
aware, and we were such old friends that I often chaffed her about her
fickleness.  But that night she had met Rodolphe Wolf, of all men.  The
fact was strange, to say the least.

"Shall I send Harding to you?" she asked, standing there in the shadow,
the diamond star in her well-dressed hair alone catching the light and
gleaming with a thousand fires.  The star was a parting gift to her by
Queen Margherita of Italy, with whom she had been an especial favourite
while her father was Ambassador in Rome.

"No," answered His Excellency.  "Please say good-night, dear, and leave
us."

Then he bent, kissed her tenderly on the brow, and dismissed her.

"Well," she laughed poutingly, "if I am ordered off, I suppose I must
go.  I'm a striking example of the obedient daughter.  Good-night, Mr.
Ingram."

And as I held open the door for her to pass out, she added
mischievously:

"I'll leave you to talk together over the shortcomings of my sex;" and
laughing gaily she disappeared down the corridor.

CHAPTER TWO.

TWO ENIGMAS.

"Who is this Wolf?" the Ambassador inquired quickly, as soon as I had
closed the door.  "I don't seem to recollect the name."

"I have a suspicion," I responded.  "When it is established I will
explain."

"An alias--eh?"

"I think so," I said.  "Your daughter should be warned against him.
They had better not meet."

"I will see to that," he said, and the next instant the telephone-bell
rang loudly, announcing the response from Alderhurst.

In a moment we were both at the instrument.  Then with the receiver at
my car I inquired who was there.

"Durnford, Alderhurst," was the response.  "Are you Ingram?"

I replied in the affirmative, adding the word without the receipt of
which no cipher despatch is ever sent by telephone, lest some trickery
should be attempted.

"Take down, then," came the secretary's voice from the other side of the
Channel.  "From the Marquess of Malvern, to His Excellency, Lord
Barmouth, Paris.  July 12th, 2:10 a.m.;" and then followed a long row of
ciphers, each of which I carefully wrote down upon the paper before me,
reading it through aloud, in order that he might compare it with his
copy.

Then, when the voice from Alderhurst gave the word "End," I hung up the
receiver and gave the paper into His Excellency's eager hands.

Those puzzling lines of letters and numerals were secret instructions
from the ruler of England's destiny, who had been called from his bed to
decide one of the most critical problems of statesmanship.  Truly the
position of the British Minister for Foreign Affairs is no enviable one.
The responsibility is the heaviest weighing upon any one man in the
whole world.

His Excellency seated himself quickly at his table, and with the aid of
a second book which I handed him from the safe proceeded to decipher the
Chief's despatch.  With his pen he placed the equivalent beneath each
cipher, and as he did so I saw that his countenance fell.  He went pale
as death.

"Ah!" he gasped, when he had finished the arrangement and had read the
deciphered message through.  "It is exactly as I feared.  Never in the
course of my career as Ambassador has such a serious complication
arisen--_never_!"

I was silent.  What, indeed, could I say?  I well knew that he was not
the man to betray the slightest emotion without good reason.

For a moment he sat there, resting his brow upon his hand, staring
blankly at the paper I had given him.  The nature of his secret
instructions I knew not.  His utter despair was sufficient to convince
me, however, that a catastrophe was inevitable.  Only the low ticking of
the clock upon the high mantelshelf broke the painful silence.  The
representative of Her Majesty--one of England's most skilled and trusted
diplomats--sighed heavily, for he knew too well how black was the
outlook at that moment--how, indeed, because of our mysterious betrayal,
our enemies had triumphed, and how, at the other embassies, that very
night the downfall of England's power was being discussed.

"All this is a woman's doing, I tell you!" he cried, striking the table
fiercely, rising and pacing the room.  "We must discover the truth--we
must, you hear?"

"I am making every possible effort," I answered; adding, "I think I have
hitherto shown myself worthy of your confidence?"

"Certainly, Ingram," he hastened to assure me.  "Without you here I
should not dare to act as I have done.  I know that nothing escapes you.
Your shrewdness is equal to that of old Sterk, the Chief of Police in
Vienna."

"You are too complimentary," I said; "I have merely done my duty."

"But if we could only get at the truth in this affair!"

"At present it is an absolute mystery.  Only two persons were aware of
the secret.  You knew it, and I also knew it.  And yet it is out--
indeed, the very terms of the agreement are known!"

Suddenly halting, he pushed open the window, and looked out upon the
hot, overcast night.  Paris was still bright with her myriad electric
lights, and the glaring cafes on the boulevards were still as busy as
during the hour of the absinthe.  The City of Pleasure never sleeps.

He leaned over the balcony, gasping for air; but in an instant I was
behind him, saying:

"Someone may be watching outside.  Is it really wise for you to be
seen?"

"No," he answered.  "You're right, Ingram;" and he turned back and
closed the long windows opening upon the balcony.  "A bold front must be
maintained through all."  He walked to his table, took up the despatch,
and, striking a vesta, ignited it, holding it until it was completely
consumed.  Then he cast the blackened tinder into the grate, growing in
a single instant calm again.  "You are right, Ingram," he repeated
rather hoarsely.  "Our enemies must not obtain any inkling that we know
the truth, if we are to effect a successful counter-plot.  In this
affair I detect the hand of a woman.  Is not that your opinion?"

"I must admit that it is," I responded.  "I believe there is a female
spy somewhere."

"But who is she?" he cried anxiously.

"Ah!"  I said, "we have yet to discover her name."

"It is not Yolande?" he asked dubiously.

"No.  Of that I feel quite certain."

"But you are certain of nothing else?"

"All the rest is, I regret, an absolute mystery."

There was no disguising the fact that the information which by very
mysterious means had leaked out from the Embassy had created the most
intense excitement in certain other foreign embassies in Paris.  Kaye,
the chief of our secret service in the French capital--a shrewd fellow,
whose capacity for learning which way the diplomatic wind was blowing
was little short of marvellous--had come to me at midnight to report
that the Spanish Ambassador was exchanging frequent despatches with
Madrid.  That statement was sufficient to show the enemy's hand.

For fully six months France had been scheming to obtain a naval station
in the Mediterranean, and the point she coveted was Ceuta, on the
Moorish coast, opposite Gibraltar.  Knowledge of this caused us to
exercise the most delicate diplomacy in order to thwart the conspiracy
to aim a blow against England's naval power in the Mediterranean.  A
week ago I had been in London, and the Marquess of Malvern himself had
given me a crossed despatch to convey to my chief in Paris.  This had
contained certain instructions in cipher, which, on my return, I had
helped to translate into English.  Then the despatch was burnt by His
Excellency, and we alone knew its contents.  From the moment I received
it in the Marquess's private room at the Foreign Office, until the
moment when I handed it over to Lord Barmouth in Paris with its five
great seals intact, it had never left the pouch of chamois-leather
which, when travelling with despatches, I always wore around my waist,
next my skin.  For spies to have obtained a copy of it was impossible.
I had seen it written, and had likewise seen it destroyed.  It was not
likely either that the British Ambassador had himself exposed his secret
instructions in a matter of such delicacy, where the greatest finesse
and the most skilful diplomacy were necessary; and equally certain was
it that I myself had not uttered a single word.

The secret instructions showed marvellous foresight, as did all the
actions of the great statesman in whose hands rested the prestige of
England among the Powers.  They were briefly to show with great delicacy
to the Spanish Ambassador that his Government, having regard to existing
relations, had no right to sell Ceuta to any Power, and that if any
attempt were made by any other Government to establish a naval station
there, England would oppose it to the utmost, even to the extent of
hostilities.  Yet somehow, by means that formed a most puzzling enigma,
these secret instructions had become instantly known to France; and even
before Lord Barmouth could obtain an interview with the Marquis Leon y
Castillo, the French Minister of Foreign Affairs had called at the
Embassy in the Boulevard de Courcelles, and had apparently arranged a
line of action.  Thus England had been checkmated, and in all
probability the sale of that most important strategic point in the
Mediterranean had already been effected.

Kaye had been to Madrid, and his inquiries in the Spanish capital tended
to confirm this theory.

Truly we were in evil case.  So decisive had been His Excellency's
instructions that if he did not now vigorously protest and threaten a
cessation of diplomatic negotiations it would exhibit such weakness as
the British Government must never show.  That motto of Lord Malvern's,
"To be strong is to avert war; to be weak is to invite it," is ever
foremost in the mind of each representative of Her Majesty at a foreign
Court.  Yet Lord Barmouth's dilemma was, indeed, a serious one.  He had
declared the exposure of our secret due to some woman's scheming, and
suspected one person--the pretty Yolande de Foville.  His suspicion of
her caused me a good deal of reflection; and as I walked along the
boulevard to my bachelor apartment au troisieme, I pondered seriously.
What, I wondered, had caused him to think ill of her?  If she had danced
with Hartmann, this action was surely not enough to condemn her.  Yet
why, I wondered, had she mentioned myself?  And why, indeed, was
Rodolphe Wolf, of all men, in Paris?

No, I did not like the aspect of things in the least.  The night was
absolutely breathless, and the asphalt of the boulevard seemed to
reflect back into one's face the heat of the sun that had blazed upon it
during the day.  I removed my hat, and walked with it in my hand, my
brain awhirl.  The spies of France had effected a coup against us, and
within twenty-four hours Europe might, I knew, be convulsed by a
declaration of war.

Here and there the cafes were still open, but few customers were inside.
A pair of drunken roysterers staggered past me singing that catchy song
of the less fashionable boulevards:

  "Dansons la ronde
  Des marmites de Paris,
  Ohe! les souris!
  Les rongeuses de monde!
  Faisons sauter avec nous
  Nos michets et nos marlous.
  Dansons la ronde!
  Paris est a nous!"

With that single exception all was silent.  From half-past three till
four in the morning is the quietest period that the City of Pleasure
experiences.  She is dormant only one half-hour in the whole
twenty-four.

Yolande was suspected of being a spy!  The thought seemed absolutely
absurd.  She was Belgian, it was true, and there is somehow always a
prejudice against Belgian women in Paris, due perhaps to the fact that
although they speak French with an accent, they are often perfect
linguists.  But for Yolande to be actually a spy--why, the thing was
ridiculous!

Arrived at my own rooms, I found Mackenzie, my old Scotch manservant,
awaiting me.

"Mr. Kaye called, sir, half an hour ago," he said.  "He could not wait,
for he was leaving Paris."

"Leaving Paris?"  I echoed, for the ubiquitous chief of the secret
service had only come back from Madrid a few hours before.

"Yes, sir.  He left you a note;" and my well-trained man drew a letter
from his pocket.  He always kept my letters upon his person, in order
that any callers might not pry into them during my absence.

I tore open the note eagerly, and read the few scribbled lines.  Next
instant the paper almost fell from my fingers.  I held my breath,
scarcely believing my own eyes.  Yet the writing was plain enough, and
was as follows:

"_Within the past hour I have ascertained that your friend Yolande de
Foville is a secret agent.  Keep strict watch upon her.  I have left
instructions that if she leaves Paris she is to be followed.  I go to
Berlin at once to make inquiries, and am leaving by the 4:30 train this
morning.  I have the address you gave, and the particulars concerning
her.  Shall return as soon as possible_.

"K."

I crushed the note in my hand, and, walking on into my sitting-room,
gulped down some brandy.  Everything had conspired against me.  When I
had given Kaye those details concerning my charming little friend three
years ago, I had never dreamed that he would register them and
afterwards use them in an endeavour to fasten upon her a charge of being
a spy.  Yet he was actually on his way to Berlin, and any attempt upon
my part to hinder him would only be misconstrued into a treasonable
endeavour to shield her.

Upon the table before me stood her photograph in a silver frame, looking
out at me.  I took it up.  Those eyes were so innocent that I could not
bring myself to believe that any evil lurked in them.  Surely she would
not attempt to harm me?  Such an action was absolutely contrary to any
woman's nature.

Yolande!  The sound of that name brought back to me a sweet, tender
memory of the past.  I sighed as the recollection of that bygone day
arose within me, and flung myself down into an easy-chair to smoke and
to think.  In the blue ascending rings from my cigarette her face seemed
to smile at me with those red parted lips and merry eyes, clear and
azure as a child's.  How charming and chic she had once appeared to me
in those days when we had first met--in those days before I had known
Edith Austin, my absent well-beloved!  Her portrait, too, was there--the
picture of a woman, sweet, tender, grave-faced, of similar age perhaps,
but whose peerless beauty was typically English and devoid of any
artificiality.  I took it up and touched it reverently with my lips.  I
loved the original of that photograph with all the strength of my being,
hoping always that some day ere long I might ask her to become my wife.

Some there are who hold the theory that to all diplomatists, ambassadors
excepted, wives are an unnecessary encumbrance.  I admit that there is
much to be said in favour of the celibate state as the ideal existence
for the secretary or attache, who is bound, more or less, to make
himself agreeable to the many cosmopolitan ladies who make up the
diplomatic circle, and sometimes even to flirt with them, when occasion
requires.  Yet after fifteen years or so beneath the shadows of the
various thrones of Europe, a man tires of the life, and longs for the
one sweet woman whom he can trust and love.  In this I was no exception.
I loved Edith Austin with all my heart and all my soul; and she, I felt
assured, reciprocated my affection.

It is part of the diplomatist's creed to be on good terms with all and
sundry of the feminine butterflies who hover about the embassies, no
matter what their age or nationality.  Hence it was that five years ago,
while stationed at Brussels, I had become attracted by Yolande de
Foville.  Once, long before I met Edith, I fancied myself in love with
her.  Her father, Count de Foville, was aide-de-camp to King Leopold,
and with her mother she moved in the best society in Paris and Brussels.
On several occasions I had been invited for the boar hunting at the
great gloomy old chateau at Houffalize, in the Ardennes forest, where
the powerful de Fovilles had been seigneurs through five centuries.

It was a dull, snowbound, dreary place in winter, bare and chill,
furnished in ancient style, and situated thirty miles from the nearest
railway, in the midst of a flat forest country.  It was, therefore, not
surprising that on the death of the Count, Yolande and her mother should
prefer to leave Belgium and travel in England and Italy, spending the
winter at Rome or at Monte Carlo, the spring in Paris, and summer in one
or other of the fashionable French watering-places.  During three years
we had been excellent friends, and after I had been promoted from
Brussels to the Embassy in Rome, she came with her mother and spent the
spring in the Eternal City, with the result that our firm friendship
became even firmer.  I am fain to admit that our flirtation was of the
kind called desperate, and that it had ended in love.

And a week ago she had suddenly arrived in Paris at the smart little
flat in the Rue de Courcelles, which her mother had possessed for years,
but now so seldom occupied.  Her arrival was unexpected, and I had only
known of it from Giraud, the military attache at the Belgian Legation, a
friend of my Brussels days, whom I met in the Cafe de Paris one evening
after the opera, and who had said suddenly:

"Do you, my dear Ingram, know that a little friend of yours has arrived
in Paris?"

"Who?"  I inquired eagerly.

"Yolande," was the response.  "You used to be her cavalier in Brussels
in the old days.  Have you forgotten her?"

His announcement surprised me.  Since my friendship with Edith had grown
to be a grand passion, I had exchanged no correspondence with Yolande.
Indeed, the last I had heard of her was that she and the Countess were
at Cairo spending the winter.

To tell the truth I was rather glad that she had not sought me out, for
I had no wish to renew her acquaintance, now that I had found a woman in
England whom I meant to try to win for my wife.  Yet as I looked back at
the past through the haze of my cigarette-smoke I was compelled to admit
that I had spent some charming hours by her side, dancing at those
brilliant balls in Brussels or driving in that pretty wood so beloved of
the Bruxellois, the Bois de la Cambre.  Many were the incidents that
came back to me as I sat there pondering.  Nevertheless, in the
storehouse of memory I found nothing half sweet enough to tempt me from
my love for Edith.

The denunciation of the pretty Yolande as a spy staggered belief; yet
the Chief himself, as well as Kaye, was convinced, and the latter was
already on his way to the north to prosecute inquiries.

What, I wondered, had really aroused their suspicions?  As His
Excellency had not seen Kaye since his return from Madrid, they could
not have exchanged views.  It seemed my duty to call and see her, to
renew the acquaintance that I so strongly desired to end, and, indeed,
to continue the flirtation of bygone days with a view to discovering the
truth.  Was it fair?  Was it just?  I hesitated to call upon her, half
fearful lest her charm and natural chic should again attract me towards
her.  Nevertheless, it was my duty, as servant of my Sovereign, to
attempt to discover England's secret enemies.

CHAPTER THREE.

YOLANDE.

The remainder of that night I spent in restless agitation, and at the
Embassy early next morning showed His Excellency the note that Kaye had
left for me.

"You must see her, Ingram," he said briefly.  "You must obtain her
secret from her."

"But I cannot believe that she is a secret agent!"  I declared.  "We
were friends, and she surely would not seek to injure me?"

"Trust nobody, my dear Ingram," answered the grave-eyed old man.  "You
know how unreliable women are where diplomacy is concerned.  Remember
the incident of the Princess Ghelarducci in Rome."

My lips compressed themselves.  He referred to a matter which, for me,
was anything but a pleasant recollection.  The Princess, after learning
our intentions regarding Abyssinia, had openly betrayed us; and I had
very foolishly thought her my friend.

"I shall call on her this afternoon," I answered briefly.  "The worst of
it is that my action will lead her to think that I desire to renew the
acquaintance."

"H'm, I see," observed His Excellency quickly, for his shrewdness had
detected the truth.  "You were once in love with her--eh?"


I nodded.

"Then don't allow her to think that your love has cooled," he urged.
"Act diplomatically in this matter, and strive to get at the truth."

"And deceive her?"

"Deception is permissible if she is a spy."

"But she is not a spy," I declared quickly.

"That remains to be seen!" he snapped.  He then turned on his heel and
passed into an adjoining room.

At three o'clock I presented my card at the flat in the Rue de
Courcelles, and was admitted to a cosy little salon, where the
persiennes were closed to keep out the blazing July sun, and the subdued
light was welcome after the glare of the streets.  Scarcely, however,
had my eyes become accustomed to the semi-darkness, when the door
suddenly opened, and I found myself face to face with the woman I had
loved a few years ago.

"Gerald!  You!" she cried in English, with that pretty accent which had
always struck me as so charming.

Our hands clasped.  I looked into her face and saw that in the two years
which had elapsed she had grown even more beautiful.  In a cool white
dress of soft, clinging muslin, which, although simply made, bore the
unmistakable stamp of a couturiere of the first order, she stood before
me, my hand in hers, in silence.

"So you have come to me?" she said in a strained voice.  "You have come,
at last?"

"You did not let me know you were in Paris," I protested.

"Giraud told you four days ago," she responded, "and you could not spare
a single half-hour for me until to-day!" she added in a tone of
reproach.  "Besides, I wrote to you from Cairo, and you never replied."

"Forgive me," I urged--"forgive me, Yolande.  It is really my fault."

"Because you have forgotten me," she said huskily.  "Here, in Paris, you
have so many distractions that memories of our old days in Brussels and
at Houffalize have all been swept away.  Come, admit that what I say is
the truth."

"I shall admit nothing of the kind, Yolande," I answered, with
diplomatic caution.  "I only admit my surprise at finding you here in
July.  Why, there is nobody here except our unfortunate selves at the
embassies.  The boulevards are given over to the perspiring British
tourist in knickerbockers and the usual week-end trippers who `do' the
city in a char-a-banc."

She laughed for the first time, and seated herself upon a large settee
covered with yellow silk, motioning me to a chair near her.

"It is true," she said.  "Paris is not at all pleasant just now.  We are
only here for frocks.  In a week we go to Marienbad.  And you--how are
you?" and she surveyed me with her head held slightly aside in that
piquante manner I knew so well.

"The same," I laughed--"ever the same."

"Not the same to me," she hastened to protest.

"I might make a similar charge against yourself," I said.  "Remember,
you did not tell me you were in Paris."

"Because I thought you would know it quickly enough.  I wanted, if
possible, to meet you accidentally and surprise you.  I went to the ball
at the German Embassy, but you were not there."

"I was in London," I explained briefly, my thoughts reverting to the
allegation against her and the unhesitating action of the wary Kaye in
travelling direct to Berlin.

If there was any man in Europe who could clear up a mystery it was the
indefatigable chief of the British secret service.  He lived in Paris
ostensibly as an English lawyer, with offices in the Boulevard des
Italiens, next the Cafe Americain.  Hence his sudden journeys hither and
thither were believed to be undertaken in the interests of various
clients.  But although he had an Irish solicitor, O'Brien by name, to
attend to the inquiries of any chance clients, the amount of legal
business carried on in those offices was really nil.  The place was, in
fact, the headquarters of the British secret service on the Continent.

"I, too, was in England a year ago," she said.  "We were invited to a
house-party up in Scotland.  Mother was bored, but I had great fun.  An
English home seems somehow so much jollier than the houses where one
visits in any other country.  You know how I love the English!"

"Is that meant as a compliment?"  I laughed.

"Of course," she answered.  "But English diplomatists are just as grave
as those of any other nation.  Your people are always full of all sorts
of horrid secrets and things."

She referred to the old days in Brussels, for she knew well the
difficulties under which our diplomacy had been conducted there, owing
to the eternal questions involving Egypt and the Congo.

But I laughed lightly.  I did not intend that she should suspect the
real motive of my call.  Evidently she knew nothing of my love for Edith
Austin, or she would have referred to it.  Fortunately I had been able
to keep it a secret from all.

"And you are actually leaving us in a week?"

I observed, for want of something else to say.  "I hear that Marienbad
is crowded this season."

"We are going to visit my uncle, Prince Stolberg, who has a villa
there."

Then I asked her of our mutual friends in Brussels, and she in return
retailed to me all the latest gossip concerning them.  As she sat there
in the subdued light, her white dress, relieved by a touch of turquoise
at the wrists and waist, she presented a picture graceful, delicate, and
altogether charming.  I reasoned with myself as she went on chattering.
No; it was not surprising that I had once fallen in love with her.  She
was more French than Belgian, for the days of her girlhood had been
passed mostly in France; her Christian name was French, and in manner
she possessed all that smartness and chic peculiar to the Parisienne.
Mentally I compared her with Edith, but next instant laughed within
myself.  Such comparison was impossible.  Their styles were as different
as were their nationalities.  Beside Edith, my well-beloved, the beauty
of this fair-haired, gesticulating girl paled entirely, and became
insipid.  The Englishwoman who held me beneath the spell of her soft and
truthful eyes was without a peer.


Still, Yolande amused me with her chatter.  The reader will forgive me
this admission, for in calling there I was only acting a part.  I was
endeavouring in the interests of my country to find out whether there
was any truth in the allegation recently made against her by my friend.
Of a sudden a thought crossed my mind, and I asked:

"Have you met many acquaintances since you've been in Paris?"

"Only Hartmann and some of the people at the Legation," she responded.
"We are just going to five o'clock with the Princess Olsoufieff this
afternoon."

"There is an old friend of yours just arrived," I said.  "Have you met
him?"

"An old friend?" she echoed in surprise.  "Man or woman?"

"A man," I answered.  "Rodolphe Wolf."

"Rodolphe Wolf!" she gasped, starting up, the colour dying from her lips
in an instant.  "Rodolphe Wolf in Paris--impossible!"

"He was at the Baroness de Chalencon's last night," I said quite calmly,
watching her face the while.

Her sudden fear and surprise made plain a fact of which I had not before
been aware--namely, that there was something more than a casual link
between them.  Years ago, when in Brussels, I had suspected Wolf of
being a secret agent, and the fact that she was closely acquainted with
him appeared to prove that my Chiefs suspicion was not unfounded.

She had risen.  Her hands were trembling, and although she strove
desperately to betray to me no outward sign of agitation, she was
compelled to support herself by clutching the small table at her side.
Her countenance was blanched to the lips.  She presented the appearance
of one haunted by some terrible dread.

"Wolf!" she gasped again, as though speaking to herself.  Then, turning
to me, she stretched forth both her hands, and, looking earnestly into
my eyes, cried in wild desperation: "Gerald, save me!  For the sake of
our love of the old days, save me!"

"From what?"  I cried, jumping up and catching her by both hands.  "Tell
me, Yolande.  If I can assist you I certainly will.  Why are you so
distressed?"

She was silent, with one trembling hand pressed upon her heart, as
though to stay its wild, tumultuous beating.

"No," she said in a hoarse whisper, "it is useless--all useless."

"But if you are in distress I can surely help you," I said.

"Alas! you cannot," she answered in despair.  "You do not know--you
cannot understand."

"Why not tell me?  Confide in me," I urged.

"No," she replied.  "I am very foolish--forgive me;" and she tried to
smile.

"The news that Wolf is here has upset you," I said.  "Why?"

"He has escaped."

"From where?"

"From prison."

I was silent.  I knew not what to say.  This declaration of hers was
strange.  It was startling news to me that Rodolphe Wolf had been in
prison.

"You have asked me to save you," I said, reverting to her wild
supplication.  "I will do so willingly if you only tell me how."

"It is impossible," she said in a broken voice, shaking her head
mournfully.  "By what you have told me I am forewarned."

A deep sigh escaped her, and I saw that her fingers worked restlessly in
the palms of her hands.  She was desperate.

"Can I do absolutely nothing?"  I asked in a tone of sympathy, placing
my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

"Nothing," she answered in a hoarse whisper.  "I am not fit to talk
further.  Let us say good-bye."

"Then you prefer that I should leave you?"

"Yes," she said, holding out her hand.  "Forgive me for this, but I want
to go to my own room to think.  What you have told me has upset me."

"Tell me plainly--you fear that man?"

She nodded in the affirmative.

"And you will not allow me either to advise or to assist you?"

"No," she said hoarsely.  "Go, Gerald.  Leave me!  When we meet again I
shall be calmer than I am now."

Her face was deathly pale; her eyes had a distinct look of terror in
them.

"Very well," I answered when again she had urged me to leave her; "if
you insist, I will go.  But remember that if I can be of service,
Yolande, I am ready at once to render you assistance.  Good-bye," and I
pressed her hand in sympathy.

She burst into tears.

"Farewell," she faltered.

Then I turned, and, bowing, went forth into the glaring sunshine of the
boulevard.

She had virtually admitted a close acquaintance with a man upon whom
distinct suspicion rested, and her actions had been those of a guilty
woman.  My thoughts were full of that interview and its painful ending
as I walked back towards the Embassy.

CHAPTER FOUR.

A CURIOUS STORY.

There was war in the air.  At the Embassy we could not conceal from
ourselves the seriousness of the situation.  From hour to hour we were
living in dread lest diplomatic negotiations should be broken off with
the French Republic.  We had discovered what seemed very much like a
conspiracy against England, and as an energetic protest it appeared
quite possible that the Marquess of Malvern might order my Chief to
leave Paris.  This would mean a rupture of diplomatic relations, and in
all probability war.

Never in the history of modern Europe had there been a day so critical
as that blazing, well-remembered one in mid-July.  There were ugly
rumours of complications in the Transvaal.  The fate of certain nations
trembled in the balance.  In every capital diplomatists were active,
some striving to force war, others endeavouring to prevent it.  A
diplomatist's life is assuredly no sinecure.  The British public, as I
have said before, little dreams of the constant anxiety and terrible
tension which are parts of the daily life of its faithful servants
abroad.

On my return to the Embassy I found that some important despatches had
been brought from London by Anderson, the foreign service messenger.

He was sitting in my room smoking a cigarette, and awaiting me in order
to obtain the receipt for his despatch-box.  A tall, round-faced, merry
man of middle age, he was an especial favourite in all the embassies as
far as Teheran.  A thorough cosmopolitan and man of the world, he had
resigned his commission in the Scots Greys to become one of that
half-dozen of the greyhounds of Europe known as Queen's messengers.

"Well, Anderson," I exclaimed, shaking his hand on entering, "what's the
news from Downing Street?"

"Oh, nothing very fresh," he laughed, sinking back in his chair again,
and passing me over the receipt for signature.  "Old Tuite, of the
Treaty Department, has retired on his pension this week.  That's about
all that's new.  The Chief, however, seems busy.  I'm loaded with
despatches."

"Where for?"

"Vienna and Constantinople.  I leave by the Orient express in an hour's
time," he answered, with a glance at his watch.

"Then you're getting over a little ground just now?"  I laughed.

"A little ground!" he echoed.  "Well, I've been two trips to Petersburg
this month, twice here to Paris, and once to Vienna.  I've only slept
one night in London since the 1st."

"You're a bit sick of it, I should think," I observed, looking at the
round face lit up by its pair of merry grey eyes.  He was an easy-going
fellow; his good-humour never seemed ruffled.

"Oh, it agrees with me," he laughed lightly.  "I don't care as long as I
get the monthly run to Teheran now and then.  That's a bit of a change,
you know, after these everlasting railways, with their stuffy
sleeping-cars and abominable arrangements for giving a man indigestion."

I examined the box to see that the seals affixed in Downing Street were
intact, then signed the receipt and handed it back to him.

Of the corps of Queen's messengers--nicknamed "the greyhounds" because
of the badge which each wears suspended round his neck and concealed
beneath his cravat, a silver greyhound surmounted by the Royal arms--
Captain Jack Anderson was the most popular.  A welcome guest at every
embassy or legation, he was on friendly terms with the whole staff, from
the Ambassador himself down to the hall-porter, and he carried the
gossip of the embassies to and fro across Europe.  From him we all
gathered news of our old colleagues in other capitals--of their joys and
their sorrows, their difficulties and their junketings.  His baggage
being by international courtesy free from Customs' examination, he
oft-times carried with him a new frock for an ambassador's wife or
daughter--a service which always put him high in the good graces of the
feminine portion of the diplomatic circle.

"Kaye seems bobbing about pretty much," he observed, handing me his
cigarette-case.  Anderson's cigarettes were well known for their
excellence, for he purchased them at a shop in Petersburg, and often
distributed a box in one or other of the embassies.  "I met him a week
ago on board the Calais boat, and two days later I came across him in
the buffet down at Bale.  He was, however, as close as an oyster."


"Of course.  It isn't likely that he'd talk very much," I remarked.
"His profession is to know everything, and at the same time to affect
ignorance.  He went to Berlin last night."

"We had breakfast together in the early morning at Bale, and he
questioned me closely about a friend of yours."

"Who?"

"A lady--Mademoiselle de Foville.  You remember her in Brussels, don't
you?"

"Mademoiselle de Foville!"  I echoed.  The denunciation of her as a
secret agent instantly flashed through my mind.

"Yes, you were extremely friendly with her in Brussels," he went on.
"Don't you recollect that you introduced me to her one evening at an
al-fresco concert in the Vauxhall Gardens, where we sat together for
quite a long time chatting?"

"I remember distinctly," I responded.  Every detail of that balmy summer
night in those gaily illuminated gardens came back to me in that moment.
I loved Yolande in those long-past days.  "And what did Kaye want to
know regarding her?"

"He asked me whether I had ever met her, and I told him that you had
once introduced us."

"Well?"

"Oh, nothing much else.  He remarked how very charming she was--a
verdict in which we both agreed.  Have you seen her lately?"

I hesitated for a moment.

"Yes, she's here, in Paris."

He bent forward quickly, regarding me curiously.

"That's strange.  How long has she been here?" he inquired with a rather
puzzled look.

"Only a few days.  I did not know that she was here till yesterday," I
replied with affected carelessness.

"Ah, I thought she could not have been here long."

"Why?"

"Because only a week ago she travelled in the same compartment as myself
between Berlin and Cologne."

"And did you claim acquaintance with her?"  I inquired quickly.

"No.  She had a companion with her--a pimply-faced, ugly Johnnie, whom I
took to be a German.  They spoke in German all the time."

Could it be, I wondered, that Yolande and her companion had travelled
with Anderson with some evil intent?

"Didn't you speak to them?"

"The man tried to open a conversation with me, but I pretended to be
Italian, without any knowledge of German or English, so he didn't get
very far.  To affect Italian is generally a sure game, for so few people
speak it in comparison with those who know other Continental languages."

"You wanted to overhear their conversation--eh?"

"I wanted to ascertain what their game was," answered the Queen's
messenger.  "They eyed my despatch-box very curiously; and it was to me
an extremely suspicious circumstance that although they joined the train
at Berlin they did not enter my compartment until an hour later, when
the express stopped to change engines."

"You were alone?"

"Yes, and it was at night," he answered, adding: "To me it was also a
curious circumstance that only three days afterwards Kaye should become
so deeply interested in her.  I had never seen her from that night in
Brussels until we had met in the train, but I've a good memory for
faces.  I can swear I was not mistaken."

"You speak as though you suspected her," I said, looking straight into
his ruddy countenance, which had grown unusually serious while we had
been speaking.

"Well, to tell the truth, I did suspect her," he responded.  "I didn't
half like the look of the man.  He was well-dressed, but as you know
I've always a sharp eye where my fellow-travellers are concerned, and I
felt certain that there was something shady about him.  They shifted
about all night, and were constantly watching to see whether I had gone
to sleep.  But all their watching was without reward.  Jack Anderson
never sleeps while he has a crossed despatch upon him;" and he blew a
cloud of smoke upward from his lips.

"But surely you don't think that their intention was to steal your
despatches?"  I cried.

"They were welcome to the whole collection in the box," he laughed.
"They were only consular reports and necessary evils of that sort.  What
they wanted was the crossed despatch from Berlin that I had in my belt
next my skin."

"They made no attempt to get at it?"

"Yes, they did.  That's just where my suspicion was proved."

"How?"  I asked breathlessly, bending eagerly towards him.

"Well, as you know, I always carry among my wraps a little cushion
covered with black satin.  Experience has taught me that that cushion
has saved me many an aching head and stiff neck when on long journeys.
So I placed it behind my head, and through the night read a novel by the
dim, uncertain light.  About two o'clock in the morning we ran into
Hanover, and I got out to get a drink.  When I returned, however, and
placed the cushion behind my head, I felt a slight dampness upon it.  In
an instant suspicion seized me.  Some liquid had been sprinkled upon it
in my absence.  My two fellow-travellers, wrapped in their rugs, were
apparently sleeping.  At once I resolved to act with caution, and,
turning my cheek towards the pillow, smelt it.  There was a curious
odour, sweet and subtle, like some new perfume.  I had suspected
chloroform, but it was certainly not that.  Yet almost the instant after
I had inhaled it a curious and unaccountable drowsiness seized me.  Then
I knew the truth.  They had plotted to render me insensible and
afterwards steal the despatch!  I struggled against this feeling of
weariness, and, rising to my feet, buttoned my overcoat as though I were
chilly.  This action allowed the cushion to fall away from my head, and,
again re-seating myself, I made a feint of being interested in my book;
but in reality my head was awhirl, and in the pocket of my ulster I had
my hand upon my revolver, ready to use it should that pimply-faced
ruffian attempt violence.  The pair commenced to shift about uneasily in
their seats, and I could see that their failure had considerably
disconcerted them."

"You gave them no idea that you had discovered their intentions?"

"None whatever.  I was anxious to see how they would act after being
foiled."

"Well, what did they do?"

"They exchanged glances of annoyance, but spoke no word.  They were
silent for over an hour, during which time it occurred to me to move the
cushion farther from me, in case the evaporation of the mysterious
liquid should cause insensibility.  I was determined that your pretty
little friend's companion should be the first to be thus affected.  The
feeling of drowsiness, however, wore off, and at Cologne the pair, after
chatting in German regarding the train to Venlo, bustled about hastily
and descended.  They had no baggage, and went into the buffet to
breakfast."

"You, of course, continued your journey?"

"Yes, to Ostend and London."

"It seems as though you had rather a narrow escape," I observed
thoughtfully.

"It was a daring attempt to get at that despatch," he remarked with some
warmth.  "Depend upon it, my dear Ingram, that woman is a spy.  I know
she's a friend of yours, but I can't help saying just what I think."

"But I can't believe it!"  I declared.  "Indeed, I won't believe it!"  I
added vehemently.

"As you like," he said coldly, with a slight shrug of his broad
shoulders.  "I've told you the plain truth as to what occurred."

"She's wealthy, and of one of the best families in Belgium.  There is no
necessity whatever for her to be in the pay of any foreign Government,"
I protested.

"We have nothing to do with her reasons," he said.  "All we know is that
she and her companion tried to drug me in order to get at the despatch."

"You have no idea, I suppose, of the contents of the despatch in
question?"  I inquired.

"None, except that when I gave it into the Chief's own hands in his
private room at Downing Street, he appeared to be very much surprised by
its contents, and at once wrote a reply, with which I posted back to
Berlin by the same night's mail from Charing Cross."

"Then it was upon a matter of importance?"

"I judged it to be of extreme importance.  Yolande de Foville was
evidently well aware that I had the despatch in my belt."

"You had never before seen this man who accompanied her?"

"Never.  But now he has made one attempt it is quite probable he may
make another.  I'm on the look-out for him again."

"And the cushion?  Have you discovered what they placed upon it?"

"I left it in London with Dr. Bond, the analyst, at Somerset House.
He's trying to discover the liquid used.  I hope he will be successful,
for the stuff was so potent that I have no desire for it again to be
sprinkled upon my belongings."

"They were at least ingenious," I exclaimed, amazed at this
extraordinary story, which seemed to prove so conclusively the truth of
Kaye's denunciation.

Yet I could not believe that Yolande, my charming little friend, in whom
I had in the old days reposed so many confidences, and by whose side I
had lingered through many idle hours in the Bois or in that almost
endless forest around her feudal home, was actually a spy.  The
suggestion seemed too absurd.  Nevertheless, Kaye was not a man to make
unfounded charges, nor was Anderson given to relating that which was
untrue.  Truth to tell, this story of his held me absolutely
dumbfounded.  I recollected my conversation with her an hour ago, and
the strange effect my announcement that Wolf was in Paris had made upon
her.  She had implored me to save her.  Why?

A silence fell between us.  I was preoccupied by my own thoughts.  But a
few moments later the Queen's messenger again glanced at his watch, and,
rising, said:

"I must be off, or I shan't catch the Orient.  Any message for them down
at Constantinople?"

"No," I responded, gripping his strong hand in farewell.  "Take care of
yourself, and don't let any of those confounded spies get at you again."

"Trust me, my dear fellow," he laughed, and lighting another cigarette
he went forth on his long journey to the East as airily as though he
were strolling down to get a cocktail at Henry's.

When he had gone I sat for a long time thinking.  A remembrance of the
mad love of those days that had gone came back to me, sweet, charming
memories of that half-forgotten time when Yolande was my ideal, and when
her lips met mine in tender, passionate caresses.  Ah! how fondly I had
loved her in those days!  But with an effort I at last arose, and,
casting all those reflections behind me with a sigh, broke the seals of
the despatch-box, and, seating myself at the big writing-table,
commenced to examine them with a view to ascertaining their contents.

There were several important papers, and very soon I became absorbed in
them.  Nearly an hour later there came a sudden rap at the door, and one
of the English footmen entered, saying:


"There is a man below, sir, who wishes to see you at once on important
business.  He says he is valet-de-chambre of the Countess de Foville."

"Of the Countess de Foville!"  I echoed, much surprised.

I at once ordered him to be shown upstairs, and a few moments later a
tall, thin-faced, clean-shaven Frenchman entered.

"M'sieur Ingram?" he inquired breathlessly in French, evidently in a
state of great agitation.

"Yes," I said.  "What is your message?"

"I have been sent by Madame la Comtesse to ask you to be good enough to
come to her at once.  A most distressing incident has occurred."

"What has occurred?"  I demanded quickly.

"Ah, m'sieur, it is terrible!" he cried with much Gallic gesticulation.
"Poor Mademoiselle Yolande!  She is asking to see you.  She says she
must speak with you, m'sieur."

"With me?"

"Yes, m'sieur.  Do not let us lose a single instant, or it may be too
late.  Ah! my poor young mistress!  Poor mademoiselle! it is terrible--
terrible!"

CHAPTER FIVE.

LA COMTESSE.

The Countess, a handsome, well-preserved woman of middle age, slightly
inclined to embonpoint, met me on the threshold, and in silence grasped
my hand.  From the window she had apparently watched me alight from the
fiacre, and had rushed forth to meet me.

That something unusual had occurred was plain from the paleness of her
countenance and the look of despair in her eyes.  We had been excellent
friends in Brussels in bygone days, for she had favoured my suit and had
constantly invited me to her pretty home in the Boulevard de Waterloo or
to the great old chateau in the Ardennes.  A glance was sufficient to
show me that she had grown considerably older, and that her face,
although it still bore distinct traces of a faded beauty, was now worn
and haggard.  She was essentially a grande dame of the old regime, now
fast disappearing from our ken, but at no time could she be considered a
great hostess.  She was somewhat intransigent, a woman of strong
prejudices, usually well justified, and incapable of pretence or shams.
But the law of kindliness was ever on her tongue, and she contented
herself with giving those of whom she disapproved a wide berth.  She was
dressed plainly in black, with a single wisp of lace at the throat--a
costume unusual for her.  In Brussels her handsome toilettes, obtained
from Paris, had always been admired.  Although matronly, like the
majority of Belgian women, she was extremely chic, with an almost
girlish waist, and at whatever hour one called one always found her
dressed with extreme taste and elegance.  I must, however, admit that
her appearance surprised me.  Her hair had grown greyer, and she seemed
as though utterly negligent of her personal appearance.

"Madame!"  I exclaimed in alarm as our hands met, "tell me what has
occurred."

"Ah, m'sieur," she cried in French, "I am in despair, and have sent for
you!  You can help me--if you will."

"In what manner?"  I inquired breathlessly.

"Yolande!" she gasped, in a choking voice.

"Yolande!"  I echoed.  "What has happened to her?  Your man will tell me
nothing."

"He has orders to say nothing," she explained, leading the way into the
elegant salon.  "Now tell me," she said, looking at me very earnestly,
"I am in sheer desperation, as you may see, or I would not presume to
question you.  Will you forgive me if I do?"

"Most certainly," I responded.

"Then before we go further I will put my question to you," she said in a
strange voice.  "Do you love Yolande?"

Such direct inquiry certainly took me by complete surprise.  I stood
looking at her for a few seconds absolutely open-mouthed.

"Why ask me that?"  I inquired, puzzled.  "Tell me what has happened to
her."

"I can tell you nothing until you have answered my question," she
replied quite calmly.  I saw from her countenance that she was
desperate.

"I think, madame, that when we were together in Brussels my actions must
have betrayed to you--a woman--the state of my heart towards your
daughter," I said.  "I do not seek to deny that at that time I loved her
more fondly than I could ever love again, and--"

"Then you do not love her still?" she cried, interrupting me.

"Allow me to conclude," I went on, speaking quite calmly, for I saw in
this curious question of hers some mysterious motive.  "I loved her
while in Brussels, and for two years hoped to make her my wife."

"And then you grew tired of her?" the Countess asked, in a tone that was
almost a sneer in itself.  "It is always the same with you diplomatists.
The women of every capital amuse you, but on your promotion you bow
your adieux and seek fresh fields to conquer."

"I think you misjudge me," I protested, rather annoyed at her words.  "I
loved Yolande.  When I admit this, I also admit that, like other men
whose calling it is to lounge in the principal salons of Europe, I had
not escaped the fascination exercised by other eyes than hers.  But to
me she was all the world.  Surely, madame, you remember the days at
Houffalize?  You cannot disguise from yourself that I really loved her
then?"

"But all that is of the past," she said seriously, her white hands
clasped before her.  "Briefly, you no longer entertain any love for her.
Is not that so?"

I hesitated.  My position was a difficult one.  I was a diplomatist, and
could speak untruths artistically when occasion required, but she had
cornered me.

"Madame has guessed the truth," I answered at last.

"Ah!" she cried hoarsely, "I thought as much.  You have found some other
woman whom you prefer?"

I nodded assent.  It was useless to lead her to believe what was not the
truth.  Yolande was of course charming in many ways; but when I thought
of Edith I saw that comparison was impossible.

"And you have no further thought of her?" she asked.

"As far as marriage is concerned, no," I responded.  "Nevertheless, I
still regard her as an intimate friend.  I was here only two or three
hours ago chatting with her."

"You!" she cried, glaring at me strangely.  "You were here--to-day?"

"Yes," I replied.  "I thought she would certainly tell you of my visit."

"She told me nothing.  I was quite unaware of it.  I was out, and the
servants told me that a gentlemen had called in my absence."

"I gave a card," I replied.  "It is no doubt in the hall."

"No, it is not.  It has been destroyed."

"Why?"  I asked.

"For some mysterious reason known to Yolande."  Then, turning quickly
again to me, she placed her hand upon my arm in deep earnestness,
saying: "Tell me, is your love for her absolutely and entirely dead--so
dead that you would not care to perform her a service?"

Anderson's strange and startling story flashed through my mind.  I made
no reply.

"Remember the affection you once bore her," she urged.  "I am a woman,
m'sieur, and I presume to remind you of it."

I needed no reminder.  The recollection of those sweet idyllic days was
still fresh as ever in my memory.  Ah! in those brief sunny hours I had
fondly believed that our love would last always.  It is ever the same.
Youth is ever foolish.

"I should have loved her now," I answered at last, "were it not for one
fact."

There was a mystery which had ended our love, and I saw now an
opportunity of clearing it up.  "To what fact do you refer?"

"To the reason of our parting."

"The reason!" echoed the Countess.  "I have no idea whatever of the
reason.  What was it?"

I held my breath.  Would it be just to tell her the truth?  I wondered.
I reflected for a moment, then in a calm voice answered:

"Because I discovered that her heart was not wholly mine."

She regarded me with undisguised amazement.

"Do you mean that Yolande had another lover?"

"No!"  I cried with sudden resolve.  "This conversation is not fair to
her.  It is all finished.  She has forgotten, and we are both happy."

"Happy!" cried the Countess hoarsely.  "You are, alas! mistaken.  Poor
Yolande has been the most unhappy girl in all the world.  She has never
ceased to think of you."

"Then I regret, madame," I responded.

"If you really regret," she answered, "then your love for her is not
altogether dead."

She spoke the truth.  At this point I may as well confide to you, my
reader, the fact that I still regarded my charming little friend of
those careless days of buoyant youth with a feeling very nearly akin to
love.  I recollected the painful circumstances which led to our parting.
My memory drifted back to that well-remembered, breathless summer's
evening when, while walking with her along the white highway near her
home, I charged her with friendliness towards a man whose reputation in
Brussels was none of the best; of her tearful protests, of my
all-consuming jealousy, of her subsequent dignity, and of our parting.
After that I had applied to the Foreign Office to be transferred, and a
month later found myself in Rome.

Perhaps, after all, my jealousy might have been utterly unfounded.
Sometimes I had thought I had treated her harshly, for, truth to tell, I
had never obtained absolute proof that this man was more than a mere
acquaintance.  Indeed, I think it was this fact, or just a slight twinge
of conscience, that caused a suspicion of the old love I once bore her
to remain within me.  It was not just to Edith--that I knew; yet
notwithstanding the denunciations of both Kaye and Anderson, I could not
altogether crush her from my heart.  To wholly forget the woman for whom
one has entertained the grand passion is often most difficult,
sometimes, indeed, impossible of accomplishment.  Visions of some sweet
face with its pouting and ready lips will arise, constantly keeping the
past ever present, and recalling a day one would fain forget.  Thus it
was with me--just as it has been with thousands of others.

"No," I admitted truthfully and honestly at last, "my love for Yolande
is perhaps not altogether dead."

"Then you will render me a service?" she cried quickly.  "Say that you
will--for her sake!--for the sake of the great love you once bore her!"

"Of what nature is this service you desire?"  I asked, determined to act
with caution, for the startling stories I had heard had aroused within
me considerable suspicion.

"I desire your silence regarding an absolute secret," she answered in a
hoarse half-whisper.

"What secret?"

"A secret concerning Yolande," she responded.  "Will you, for her sake,
render us assistance, and at the same time preserve absolute secrecy as
to what you may see or learn here to-day?"

"I will promise if you wish, madame, that no word shall pass my lips," I
said.  "But as to assistance, I cannot promise until I am aware of the
nature of the service demanded of me."

"Of course," she exclaimed, with a faint attempt at a smile.  My words
had apparently reassured her, for she instantly became calmer, as though
relying upon me for help.  "Then as you give me your promise upon your
honour to say nothing, you shall know the truth.  Come with me."

She led the way down the long corridor, and turning to the left suddenly
opened the door of a large and handsome bed-chamber, the wooden
sun-blinds of which were closed to keep out the crimson glow of the
sunset.  The room was a fine one with big crystal mirrors and a shining
toilette-service in silver, but upon the bed with its yellow silk
hangings lay a female form fully dressed, but white-faced and
motionless.  In the dim half-light I could just distinguish the features
as those of Yolande.

"What has occurred?"  I cried in a hoarse whisper, dashing towards the
bedside and bending down to look upon the face that had once held me in
fascination.

"We do not know," answered the trembling woman at my side.  "It is all a
mystery."

I stretched forth my hand and touched her cheek.  It was icy cold.

In those few moments my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light of
the darkened room, and I detected the change that had taken place in the
girl's countenance.  Her eyes were closed, her lips blanched, her fair
hair, escaped from its pins, fell in a sheen of gold upon the lace-edged
pillow.

I held my breath.  The awful truth was distinctly apparent.  I placed my
hand upon her heart, the bodice of her dress being already unloosened.
Then a few seconds later I drew back, standing rigid and aghast.

"Why, she's dead!"  I gasped.

"Yes," the Countess said, covering her face with her hands and bursting
into tears.  "My poor Yolande! she is dead--_dead_!"

The discovery appalled me.  Only a couple of hours before we had chatted
together, and she seemed in the best of health and spirits, just as in
the old days, until I had made the announcement of Wolf's presence in
Paris.  The effect of that statement upon her had apparently been
electrical.  Why, I knew not.  Had she not implored me to save her?
This in itself was sufficient to show that she held him in deadly fear.

Again I bent in order to make further examination, but saw the
unmistakable mark of death upon her countenance.  The lower jaw had
dropped, the checks were cold, and the silver hand-mirror which I had
snatched from the table and held at her mouth was unclouded.  There was
no movement--no life.  Yolande, my well-beloved of those long-past days,
was dead.

I stood there at the bedside like a man in a dream.  So swiftly had she
been struck down that the terrible truth seemed impossible of
realisation.

The Countess, standing beside me, sobbed bitterly.  Truly the scene in
that darkened chamber was a strange and impressive one.  Never before in
my whole life had I been in the presence of the dead.

"Yolande--Yolande!"  I called, touching her cheek in an effort to awaken
her, for I could not believe that she was actually dead.

But there was no response.  Those blanched lips and the coldness of
those cheeks told their own tale.  She had passed to that land which
lies beyond the range of human vision.

How long I stood there I cannot tell.  My thoughts were inexpressibly
sad ones, and the discovery had utterly upset me, so that I scarcely
knew what I said or did.  The blow of thus finding her lifeless crushed
me.  The affair was mysterious, to say the least of it.  Of a sudden,
however, the sobs of the grief-stricken Countess aroused me to a sense
of my responsibility, and taking her hand I led her from the bedside
into an adjoining room.

"How has this terrible catastrophe occurred?"  I demanded of her
breathlessly.  "Only two hours ago she was well and happy."

"You mean when you saw her?" she said.  "What was the object of your
call?"

"To see her," I responded.

"And yet you parted ill friends in Brussels?" she observed in a tone of
distinct suspicion.  "You had some motive in calling.  What was it?"

I hesitated.  I could not tell her that I suspected her daughter to be a
spy.

"In order to assure her of my continued good friendship."

She smiled, rather superciliously I thought.

"But how did the terrible affair occur?"

"We have no idea," answered the Countess brokenly.  "She was found lying
upon the floor of the salon within a quarter of an hour of the departure
of her visitor, who proved to be yourself.  Jean, the valet-de-chambre,
on entering, discovered her lying there, quite dead."

"Astounding!"  I gasped.  "She was in perfect health when I left her."

She shook her head sorrowfully, and her voice, choking with grief,
declared:

"My child has been killed--murdered!"

"Murdered!  Impossible!"  I cried.

"But she has," she declared.  "I am absolutely positive of it!"

CHAPTER SIX.

A PIECE OF PLAIN PAPER.

"What medical examination has been made?"  I demanded.

"None," responded the Countess.  "My poor child is dead, and no doctor
can render her assistance.  Medical aid is unavailing."

"But do you mean to say that on making this discovery you did not think
it necessary to send for a doctor?"  I cried incredulously.

"I did not send for one--I sent for you," was her response.

"But we must call a doctor at once," I urged.  "If you have suspicion of
foul play we should surely know if there is any wound, or any injury to
account for death."

"I did not consider it necessary.  No doctor can return her to me," she
wailed.  "I sent for you because I believed that you would render me
assistance in this terrible affair."

"Most certainly I will," I replied.  "But in our own interests we must
send for a medical man, and if it is found to be actually a case of foul
play, for the police.  I'll send a line to Doctor Deane, an Englishman
whom I know, who is generally called in to see anybody at the Embassy
who chances to be ill.  He is a good fellow, and his discretion may be
relied upon."

So saying, I scribbled a line on the back of a card, and told the man to
take a cab down to the Rue du Havre, where the doctor occupied rooms
over a hosier's shop a stone's throw from the bustling Gare St. Lazare.

A very curious mystery was evidently connected with this startling
discovery, and I was anxious that my friend, Dick Deane, one of my old
chums of Rugby days, should assist me in clearing it up.

The Countess de Foville, whose calmness had been so remarkable while
speaking with me before we entered the death-chamber, had now given way
to a flood of emotion.  She sank back into her chair, and, burying her
face in her hands, cried bitterly.

I tried to obtain some further information from her, but all that
escaped her was:

"My poor Yolande!  My poor daughter!"  Finding that my endeavours to
console her were futile, I went forth and made inquiries of the three
frightened maidservants regarding what had occurred.

One of them, a dark-eyed Frenchwoman in frilled cap, whom I had seen on
my previous visit, said, in answer to my questions:

"Jean discovered the poor mademoiselle in the petit salon about a
quarter of an hour after m'sieur had left.  She was lying upon her face
near the window, quite rigid.  He shouted; we all rushed in, and on
examining her found that she was already dead."

"But was there no sign of a struggle?"  I inquired, leading the way to
the room indicated.

"The room was just as m'sieur sees it now," she answered, with a wave of
her hand.

I glanced around, but as far as I could distinguish it was exactly as I
had left it.

"There was no mark of violence--nothing to show that mademoiselle had
been the victim of foul play?"

"Nothing, m'sieur."

Could it have been a case of suicide?  I wondered.  Yolande's words
before I had taken leave of her were desponding, and almost led me to
believe that she had taken her life rather than face the man Wolf who
had so suddenly arrived in Paris--the man who exercised upon her some
mysterious influence, the nature of which I could not guess.

"It was not more than fifteen minutes after I had left, you say?"  I
inquired.

"No, m'sieur, not more."

"Mademoiselle had no other visitor?"

"No, m'sieur.  Of that we are all certain."

"And the Countess, where was she during the time I was here?"

"She was out driving.  She did not return till about five minutes after
we had made the terrible discovery."

"And how did madame act?"

"She ordered us to carry poor mademoiselle to her room.  Poor madame!
She bore the blow with wonderful fortitude."


That remark caused me to prick up my ears.

"I don't quite understand," I said.  "Did she not give way to tears?"

"No, m'sieur; she shed no tears, but sat erect, motionless as a statue.
She appeared unable to realise that poor mademoiselle was actually dead.
At last she rang, and sent Jean to you."

"You are absolutely certain that mademoiselle had no visit or after I
left?"

"Absolutely."

"It would, moreover, not be possible for anyone to enter or leave
without your knowledge?"  I suggested.

"M'sieur understands me perfectly.  Mademoiselle must have fallen to the
floor lifeless immediately after I had let you out.  She made no sound,
and had Jean not entered with her letters, which the concierge had
brought, my poor young mistress might be lying there now."

The average Frenchwoman of the lower class is always dramatic wherever a
domestic calamity is concerned, and this worthy bonne was no exception.
She punctuated all her remarks with references to the sacred personages
of the Roman Catholic religion.

"You haven't searched the room, I suppose?"

"No, m'sieur.  Madame gave orders that nothing was to be touched."

This reply was eminently satisfactory.  I glanced again around the
place, now dim in the falling twilight, and ordered her to throw back
the sun-shutters.

The woman went to the window and opened them, admitting a flood of
mellow light, the last crimson of the glorious afterglow.  Up from the
boulevard came the dull roar of the traffic, mingling with the sound of
distant bells ringing the Ave Maria.  The bonne--an Alsatian, from her
accent--crossed herself from force of habit, and retreated towards the
door.

"You may go," I said.  "I will remain here until the doctor arrives."

"Bien, m'sieur," answered the woman, disappearing and closing the door
after her.

My object in dismissing her was to make a thorough search of the
apartment, in order to discover whether any of Yolande's private
possessions were there.  She had been denounced by Kaye and Anderson as
a spy, and it occurred to me that I might possibly discover the truth.
But she was dead.  The painful fact seemed absolutely incredible.

The room was not a large one, but well furnished, with considerable
taste and elegance.  There was the broad, silk-covered couch, upon which
Yolande had sat in the full possession of health and spirits only a
couple of hours before; the skin rug, upon which her tiny foot had been
stretched so coquettishly; the small table, by which she had stood
supporting herself after I had made the fatal announcement that Wolf was
in Paris.

As I stood there the whole of that strangely dramatic scene occurred to
me.  Yet she was dead--dead!  She had died with her secret in her heart.

At any moment Dick Deane might arrive, but I desired to be the first to
make an examination of the room, and with that object crossed to the
little escritoire of inlaid olive-wood, one of those rather gimcrack
pieces of furniture manufactured along the Ligurian coast for
unsuspecting winter visitors.  It was the only piece of incongruous
furniture in the room, all the rest being genuine Louis Quatorze.

One or two letters bearing conspicuous coats-of-arms were lying there,
but all were notes of a private nature from one or other of her friends.
One was an invitation to Vichy from the Baronne Deland, wife of the
great Paris financier; another, signed "Rose," spoke of the gaiety of
Cairo and the dances at Shepheard's during the past winter; while a
third, also in French, and bearing no signature, made an appointment to
meet her in the English tea-shop in the Rue Royale on the following day
at five o'clock.

That note, written upon plain paper of business appearance, had
apparently been left by hand.  Who, I wondered, was the person who had
made that appointment?  To me the writing seemed disguised, and
probably, owing to the thickness of the up-strokes, had been penned by a
male hand.  There was a mistake in the orthography, too, the word
"plaisir" being written "plasir."  This showed plainly that no Frenchman
had written it.

I placed the letter in my pocket, and, encouraged by it, continued my
investigations.

In the tiny letter-rack was a note which the unfortunate girl had
written immediately before being struck down.  It was addressed to
"Baronne Maillac, Chateau des Grands Sablons, Seine et Marne."  The
little escritoire contained four small drawers; the contents of each I
carefully scrutinised.  They were, however, mostly private letters of a
social character--some from persons whom I knew well in Society.
Suddenly, from the bottom of one of the smaller drawers, I drew forth
several sheets of plain octavo paper of a pale yellow shade.  There
were, perhaps, half-a-dozen sheets, carefully wrapped in a sheet of
plain blue foolscap.  I opened them, and, holding one up to the light,
examined the water-mark.

Next instant the truth was plain.  That paper was the official paper
used in French Government offices for written reports.  How came it in
her possession, if the accusation against her were untrue?

I held it in my hand, glaring at it in bewilderment.  Sheet by sheet I
examined it, but there was no writing upon it.  Apparently it was her
reserve store of paper, to be used as wanted.  In the French Ministry of
Foreign Affairs everything is methodical, especially the preparation of
the dossiers.  A certain dossier had once fallen into Kaye's hands, and
it contained sheets of exactly similar paper to that which I held in my
hand.

Eagerly I continued my search, striving to discover some writing which
might lead me to a knowledge of the truth, but I found nothing.  I had
completed an examination of the whole of the contents of the drawers,
when it occurred to me that there might be some other drawer concealed
there.  Years ago I had been offered an escritoire of this pattern in
Genoa, and the sun-tanned fellow who endeavoured to induce me to
purchase it had shown behind the centre drawer in the table a cunningly
contrived cavity where private correspondence might be concealed.

Therefore I drew out the drawer, sounded the interior at the back, and,
finding it hollow, searched about for the spring by which it might be
opened.  At last I found it, and next moment drew forth a bundle of
letters.  They were bound with a blue ribbon that time had faded.  I
glanced at the superscription of the uppermost, and a thrill of sympathy
went through me.

Those carefully preserved letters were my own--letters full of love and
tenderness, which I had written in the days that were dead.  I stood
holding them in my hand, my heart full of the past.

In this narrative, my reader, it is my intention to conceal nothing, but
to relate to you the whole, undisguised truth, even though this chapter
of England's secret history presents a seemingly improbable combination
of strange facts and circumstances.  Therefore I will not hide from you
the truth that in those moments, as I drew forth one of the letters I
had written long ago and read it through, sweet and tender memories
crowded upon me, and in my eyes stood blinding tears.  I may be forgiven
for this, I think, when it is remembered how fondly I had once loved
Yolande, before that fatal day when jealousy had consumed me, and I had
turned my back upon her as a woman false and worthless.

Letter after letter I read, each bringing back to me sad memories of
those days, when in the calm sunset hour we had wandered by the
riverside hand in hand like children, each supremely content in each
other's love, fondly believing that our mad passion would last always.
In all the world she had been, to me, incomparable.  The centre of
admiration at those brilliant balls at the Royal Palace at Brussels, the
most admired of all the trim and comely girls who rode at morning in the
Bois, the merriest of those who picnicked in the forest round about the
ancient chateau, the sweetest, the most tender, and the most pure of all
the women I knew--Yolande in those days had been mine.  There, in my
hand, I held the letter which I had written from Scotland when on leave
for the shooting, asking if she loved me sufficiently to become my wife.
To that letter I well remembered her reply--indeed, I knew it verbatim;
a tender letter, full of honest love and straightforward admission--a
letter such as only a pure and good woman could have penned.  Yes, she
wrote that she loved me dearly, and would be my wife.

And yet it was all of the past.  All had ended.

I sighed bitterly--how bitterly, mere words cannot describe.  You,
reader, be you man or woman, can you fully realise how deeply I felt at
that moment, how utterly desolate the world then seemed to me?

Those letters I slowly replaced in the cavity and closed it.  Then, as I
turned away, my eyes fell upon the photographs standing upon a small
whatnot close by the escritoire.  They were of persons whom I did not
know--all strangers, save one.  This was a cabinet portrait in a heavy
silver frame, and as I took it up to scrutinise it more closely a cry
involuntarily escaped my lips.

The picture was a three-quarter length representation of a
black-bearded, keen-eyed man, standing with his hands thrust idly in his
pockets, and smoking a cigarette.  There was no mistaking those
features.  It was the photograph of the man the discovery of whose
presence in Paris had produced such an extraordinary effect upon her--
Rodolphe Wolf.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

BY A THREAD.

I was still standing by the window, holding the photograph in my hand,
and gazing upon it in wonder, when Dick Deane was shown in.

"What's the matter, old chap?  Are you the man in possession here?" he
asked breezily, gripping me by the hand.

He was a fair, merry-faced fellow of thirty-five, rather good-looking,
smartly dressed in black frock-coat of professional cut, and wearing a
pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez.  He had been born in Paris, and had spent
the greater part of his life there, except during the years when he was
at school with me before going to Edinburgh, where he took his degree.
Then he had returned to Paris, taken his French degree, and had soon
risen to be one of the fashionable doctors in the French capital.  He
was an especial favourite in the salons, and, like every good-looking
doctor, a favourite with the ladies.

"I'm not in possession," I answered.  "A very serious affair has
happened here, and we want your assistance."

In an instant he became grave, for I suppose my tone showed him that I
was in no humour for joking.

"What's the nature of the affair?" he asked.

"Death," I replied seriously.  "A lady here--a friend of mine--has died
mysteriously."

"A mystery--eh?" he exclaimed, instantly interested.  "Tell me about
it."

"This place," I replied, "belongs to the Countess de Foville, a lady
whom I knew well when I was at the Brussels Embassy, and it is her
daughter Yolande who has been found dead in this room this evening."

"Yolande de Foville!" he repeated, with knit brows.  "She was a friend
of yours once, if I mistake not?" he added, looking me straight in the
face.

"Yes, Dick, she was," I responded.  "I told you of her long ago."

"You loved her once?"

"Yes," I answered with difficulty, "I loved her once."

"And how did the unfortunate affair occur?" he asked, folding his arms
and leaning back against a chair.  "Tell me the whole story."

"I called here this afternoon, and spent half an hour or so with her," I
said.  "Then I left and returned straight to the Embassy--"

"You left her here?" he inquired, interrupting.  "Yes, in this very
room.  But it seems that a quarter of an hour later one of the servants
entered and discovered her lying upon the door, dead."

"Curious!" he ejaculated.  "Has a medical man seen her?"

"No.  The Countess sent for me as being one of her daughter's most
intimate friends, and I, in turn, sent for you."

"Where is the poor young lady?"

"In her room at the end of the corridor," I answered hoarsely.

"Is there any suspicion of murder?"

"Apparently none whatever.  She had no visitor after I left."

"And no suspicion of suicide?" he asked, with a sharp look.  "Did you
part friends?"

"Perfectly so," I responded.  "As to suicide, she had no reason, as far
as anyone knows, to make an attempt upon her life."

He gave vent to an expression which sounded to me much like a grunt of
dissatisfaction.

"Now, be perfectly frank with me, Gerald," he said, suddenly turning to
me and placing his hand upon my shoulder.  "You loved her very dearly
once--was that not so?"

I nodded.

"I well remember it," he went on.  "I quite recollect how, on one
occasion, you came over to London, and while dining together at Jimmy's
you told me of your infatuation, and showed me her photograph.  Do you
remember the night when you told me of your engagement to her?"

"Perfectly."

"And as time went on you suddenly dropped her--for what reason I know
not.  We are pals, but I have never attempted to pry into your affairs.
If she really loved you, it must have been a hard blow for her when she
heard that you had forsaken her for Edith Austin."

"You reproach me," I said.  "But you do not know the whole truth, my
dear fellow.  I discovered that Yolande possessed a second lover."

He nodded slowly, with pursed lips.

"And that was the reason of your parting?"

"Yes."

"The sole reason?"

"The sole reason."

"And you have no suspicion that she may have committed suicide because
of her love for you?  Such things are not uncommon, remember, with girls
of a certain temperament."

"If she has committed suicide, it is not on my account," I responded in
a hard voice.

"I did not express that opinion," he hastened to protest.  "Before we
discuss the matter further it will be best for me to see her.  Death may
have been due to natural causes, for aught we know."

I stood motionless.  His suggestion that my sweetheart of the old days
had committed suicide because I had forsaken her was a startling one.
Surely that could not be so?

"Come," my friend said, "let us lose no time.  Which is the room?"

I led him along the corridor, and opened the door of the chamber in
which she was lying so cold and still.  The light of the afterglow fell
full upon her, tipping her auburn hair with crimson and illuminating her
face with a warm radiance that gave her back the appearance of life.
But it was only for a few moments.  The slanting ray was lost, and the
pallor of that beautiful countenance became marked against the gold of
her wondrous hair.

In silence I stood at the foot of the bed watching my friend, who was
now busy with his examination.  He opened her eyes and closed them
again, felt her heart, raised her arms, and examined her mouth, uttering
no word.  His serious face wore a look as though he were infinitely
puzzled.

One after the other he examined the palms of her hands long and
carefully, then, bending until his eyes were close to her face, he
examined her lips, brow, and the whole surface of her cheeks.  Upon her
neck, below the left ear, was a mark to which he returned time after
time, as though not satisfied as to its cause.  Upon her lower lip, too,
was a slight yellow discoloration, which he examined several times,
comparing it with the mark upon the neck.  He was unable to account for
either.

"Curious!" he ejaculated.  "Very curious indeed!"

"What is curious?"  I inquired eagerly.

"Those marks," he answered, indicating them with his finger.  "They are
very puzzling.  I've never seen such marks before."

"Do they point to foul play?"  I inquired, feeling suspicious that she
had by some mysterious means fallen the victim of an assassin.

"Well, no," he responded, after some hesitation; "that is not my
opinion."

"Then what is your opinion?"

"At present I have none.  I can have none until I make a thorough
examination.  There are certainly no outward marks of violence."

"We need not inform the police, I suppose?"

"Not at present," he replied, his eyes still fixed upon the blanched
face of the woman who had once been all the world to me.

I raised her dead hand, and upon it imprinted a last fervent kiss.  It
was cold and clammy to my lips.  In that hour all my old love for her
had returned, and my heart had become filled with an intense bitterness
and desolation.  I had thought that all my love for her was dead, and
that Edith Austin, the calm, sweet woman far away in an English county,
who wrote to me daily from her quiet home deep in the woodlands, had
taken her place.  But our meeting and its tragic sequel had, I admit,
aroused within me a deep sympathy, which had, within an hour, developed
into that great and tender love of old.  With men this return to the old
love is of no infrequent occurrence, but with women it seldom happens.
Perhaps this is because man is more fickle and more easily influenced by
woman's voice, woman's glances, and woman's tears.

The reader will probably accuse me of injustice and of fickleness of
heart.  Well, I cannot deny it; indeed, I seek to deny nothing in this
narrative of strange facts and diplomatic wiles, but would only ask of
those who read to withhold their verdict until they have ascertained the
truth yet to be revealed, and have read to the conclusion, this strange
chapter of the secret history of a nation.

My friend the doctor was holding one hand, while I imprinted a last kiss
upon the other.  A lump was in my throat, my eyes were filled with
tears, my thoughts were all of the past, my anguish of heart
unspeakable.  That small chill hand with the cold, glittering ring--one
that I had given her in Brussels long ago--seemed to be the only reality
in all that hideous phantasmagoria of events.

"Do not despair," murmured the kind voice of my old friend, standing
opposite me on the other side of the bed.  "You loved her once, but it
is all over--surely it is!"

"No, Dick!"  I answered brokenly.  "I thought I did not love her.  I
have held her from me these three years--until now."

"Ah!" he sighed, "I understand.  Man always longs for the unattainable."

"Yes, always," I responded.

In that moment the memory of the day when we had parted arose gaunt and
ghost-like.  I had wronged her; I felt confident that I had.  All came
back to me now--that cruel, scandalous denunciation I had uttered in the
heat of my mad jealousy--the false tale which had struck her dumb by its
circumstantial accuracy.  Ah! how bitter it all was, now that punishment
was upon me!  I remembered how, in the hour of my worldly triumph and of
her highest hope--at the very moment when she had spoken words of
greater affection to me than she had ever used before--I had made the
charge against her, and she had fallen back with her young heart crushed
within her.  My ring was there, still glittering mockingly upon her dead
hand.  By the unfounded charge I had made against her I had sinned.  My
sin at that moment arose from its grave, and barred the way for ever to
all hope--to all happiness.

The summer twilight was stealing on apace, and in the silence of the
room there sounded the roar of life from the boulevard below.  Men were
crying _Le Soir_ with strident voices, and all Paris was on its way to
dine, and afterwards to enjoy itself in idleness upon the terraces of
the cafes or at those al-fresco variety performances in the Avenue des
Champs Elysees, where the entrance fee includes a consommation.

Deane still held my old love's hand, bending in the dim light until his
eyes were close to it, watching intently.  But I took no notice, for my
eyes were fixed upon that face that had held me in such fascination, and
had been so admired at those brilliant receptions given by King Leopold
and the Countess of Flanders.  The doctor stretched forth his hand, and
of a sudden switched on the electric light.  The next instant I was
startled by his loud ejaculation of surprise.

"Thank God!" he cried.  "She's not dead, after all!"

"Not dead!"  I gasped, unable fully to realise his meaning.

"No," he answered breathlessly.  "But we must not lose a single
instant."  And I saw that with a lancet he had made an incision in her
delicate wrist, and there was blood there.  "She is in a state of
catalepsy, and we must do all in our power to bring her round."

"But do you think you can?"  I cried.

"I hope so."

"Do your best, Dick," I implored.  "Save her, for my sake."

"Rely upon me," he answered calmly, adding: "Run along to Number 18 in
the boulevard--the corner house on the right--and bring Doctor Trepard
at once.  He lives au troisieme.  Tell him that I sent you, and that the
matter is one of life or death."  He scribbled some words on a card,
and, giving it me, added: "Tell him to bring this.  Meanwhile, I will
commence artificial respiration.  Go!"

"But do you think she will really recover?"  I demanded.

"I can't tell.  We have already lost so much time.  I had no idea of the
truth.  It has surprised me just as it has surprised you.  This moment
is not one for words, but for actions.  Don't lose an instant."

Thus urged, I snatched up my hat and tore along the boulevard like a
madman.  Without difficulty I found Trepard's appartement, and on being
admitted found him a grave-faced, rather stout old Frenchman, who, on
the instant I mentioned Dick's name and gave him the card with the words
upon it, naming some drugs he required, went into an adjoining room, and
fetched a phial of tiny red pillules, which he held up to the light.
Then he put on his hat, and descended with me to the street.  A fiacre
was passing, which we took, and five minutes later we were standing
together in the room where Yolande was lying.

"This is a most curious case, my dear Trepard," began Dick, speaking in
French--"a case of coma, which I have mistaken for death;" and,
continuing, he briefly explained how the patient had been found in a
state so closely resembling death that he himself had been deceived.

The old Frenchman placed his hand upon her heart, and, withdrawing it,
said:

"She's breathing now."

"Breathing!"  I echoed.  "Then she is recovering!"

"Yes, old fellow," Dick replied, "she is recovering--at least we hope we
shall save her."  Then, turning to his colleague, he raised her hand and
pointed to the finger-nails, asking: "Do you notice anything there?"

The other, adjusting his pince-nez, bent and examined, them one by one.

"Yes," he answered at last.  "A slight purple discoloration at the base
of the nails."

"And upon the lower lip does anything strike you as peculiar?"

"A yellow mark," he answered, after carefully inspecting the spot
indicated.

"And there?"  Deane asked, touching the mark upon the neck.

"Very strange!" ejaculated the elder man.  "It is a most unusual case."

"Yes.  Have you brought the hydrated peroxide of iron?"

For answer the Frenchman produced the tiny tube, saying:

"Then you suspect poison?"

"Most certainly," he replied; and, taking a glass, he placed a single
pillule in it, dissolving it in water, which he afterwards forced
between the grey lips of my unconscious love.  Afterwards he glanced at
his watch, observing: "We must give another in fifteen minutes."

Then, drawing a chair to the bedside, he seated himself, holding her
wrist and watching her countenance for any change that might take place
there.

"Have you no idea of the nature of the poison?"  I inquired eagerly.

"None," he responded.  "Ask me no questions now.  When we have brought
her round will be time enough.  It should be sufficient for you to know
that she is not dead.  Why not leave us for the present?  Go and break
the good news to the Countess."

"You wish to be alone?"

"Yes.  This is a serious matter.  Leave us undisturbed, and on no
pretext allow her mother to enter here."

Thus urged, and feeling reassured by their statement that she still
lived and that the pulsations of her heart were already quite
perceptible, I left the room, noiselessly closing the door after me, and
sought the Countess in the small blue boudoir to which she had returned
plunged in grief and dark despair.

She was seated in a chair, motionless and statuesque, staring straight
before her.  The blow had utterly crushed her, for she was entirely
devoted to her only daughter now that her husband was dead.  I well knew
how deep was her affection for Yolande, and how tender was her maternal
love.

The room was in semi-darkness, for she had not risen to turn on the
light.  As I entered I did so with her permission, saying quietly:

"Madame, I come to you with a message."

"From whom?" she asked in a hard mechanical voice.

"From my friend Deane, the English doctor whom I have summoned.  Yolande
still lives!"

"She lives!" she cried, springing to her feet in an instant.  "You are
deceiving me!"

"I am not, madame," I reassured her, smiling.  "Your daughter is still
breathing, and is increasing in strength perceptibly.  The doctors say
that she will probably recover."

"Thank God!" she gasped, her thin white hands clasped before her.  "I
pray that He may give her back to me.  I will go to her."

But I held her back, explaining that both the medical men had expressed
a wish to remain there alone.

"But what caused that appearance so akin to death?" she asked quickly.

"At present they cannot tell," I responded.  "Some deleterious substance
is suspected, but until she has returned to consciousness and can give
us some details of her sudden attack we can determine nothing."

"But she will recover, m'sieur?" the Countess asked.  "Are you certain?"

"The chances are in her favour, the doctors say.  They have given her a
drug to counteract the effect of the poison."

"Poison!  Was she poisoned?" gasped the Countess.

"Poison is suspected," I answered quietly.  "But calm yourself, madame.
The truth will be discovered in due course."

"I care nothing so long as Yolande is given back to me!" the distressed
woman cried.  "Was it your English friend who discovered the truth?"

"Yes," I replied.  "He is one of the cleverest men in Paris."

"And to him my poor Yolande will owe her life?"

"Yes, to him."

"And to you also, m'sieur?  You have done your utmost for us, and I
thank you warmly for it all."

"Madame," I said earnestly, "I have done only what a man should do.  You
sought my assistance, and I have given it, because--"

"Because of what?" she inquired sharply the instant I paused.

"Because I once loved her," I responded with perfect frankness.

A sigh escaped her, and her hand sought my arm.

"I was young once, m'sieur," she said in that calm, refined voice which
had long ago always sounded so much to me like that of my own dead
mother.  "I understand your feeling--I understand perfectly.  It is only
my poor daughter who does not understand.  She knows that you have
forsaken her--that is all."

It was upon my tongue to lay bare to her the secret of my heart's
longings, yet I hesitated.  I remembered that calm, serious, sweet-faced
woman on the other side of the English Channel, far from the glare and
glitter of life as I knew it--the fevered life which the diplomat in
Paris is forced to lead.  I remembered my troth to Edith, and my
conscience pricked me.

"Could it be possible," I reflected, "that Yolande was really in the pay
of a Government hostile to England?"  Kaye was already nearing Berlin
with the intention of searching out her actions and exposing her as a
spy, while Anderson had already denounced her as having been a party to
an attempt to secure the secret which he had carried from Berlin to
Downing Street.

With a mother's solicitude the Countess could for some time only speak
of Yolande's mysterious attack; but at last, in order to prosecute my
inquiries further, I observed, during a lull in the conversation:

"At the Baroness de Chalencon's last night a friend of yours inquired
about you, madame."

"A friend?  Who?"

"A man named Wolf--Rodolphe Wolf."

The next instant I saw that the mention of that name affected the mother
no less markedly than it had affected the daughter.  Her face blanched;
her eyes opened wide in fear, and her glance became in a moment
suspicious.  With marvellous self-possession she, however, pretended
ignorance.

"Wolf?" she repeated.  "I do not remember the name.  Possibly he is some
person we have met while travelling."

"Yolande knew him, I believe, in Brussels," I remarked.  "He appeared to
be acquainted with you."

"My daughter's friends are not always mine," she remarked coldly, with
that cleverness which only a woman of the world can possess, and at once
returned to the discussion of Yolande and the probability of her
recovery.

This puzzled me.  I felt somehow convinced that she knew the truth.  She
had some distinct object in endeavouring to seal my lips.  What it was,
however, I could not determine.

She was expressing a fervent hope that her daughter would recover, and
pacing the room, impatient to go to her bedside, when, of a sudden, Dick
opened the door, and, putting his head inside, addressed me, saying:

"Can I speak with you a moment, Ingram?"  She dashed to the door in
eagerness, but after a word of introduction from myself, he informed her
that Yolande had not sufficiently recovered to be disturbed.

"Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary, madame," he urged.  "Your
daughter, I am pleased to tell you, will live; but she must be kept
absolutely quiet.  I cannot allow you to approach her on any pretext
whatsoever."

"She will not die, will she?" the woman implored distractedly.

"No," he replied, in a voice somewhat strained, I thought, "she will not
die.  Of that you may rest assured."

Then turning to me, he beckoned, and I followed him out of the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE OLD LOVE.

"I don't like that woman, old fellow," were the first words Dick uttered
when we were alone in the room in which Yolande had been found.

"Why not?"  I asked, rather surprised.  "The Countess de Foville is
always charming."

He shrugged his shoulders, saying:

"One sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know.  This
is one of mine."

"And Yolande," I asked, "what of her?"

"She's better.  But it was fortunate I made the discovery just when I
did, or she would no doubt have passed away.  I never saw an appearance
so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, I'd have
staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life."

"But what was the cause of it all?"  I demanded.  "You surely know the
reason?"

"No, we cannot yet tell," he answered.  "The marks puzzle us.  That mark
on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable.  At present we
can say nothing."

"Then why did you call me out?"

"Because I want to consult you," he replied.  "The fact is, that in this
affair there is a strong element of mystery which I don't like at all.
And, moreover, the few seconds during which I've seen the Countess have
plainly impressed upon me the belief that either she has had something
to do with it, or else that she knows the truth."

I nodded.  This was exactly my own theory.  "Do you think Yolande has
been the victim of foul play?"  I inquired a moment later.

"That's my suspicion," he responded.  "But only she herself can tell us
the truth."

"You really think, then, that a dastardly attempt has been made upon her
life?"  I cried incredulously.

"Personally, I think there can be no doubt."

"But by whom?  No one called here after my departure."

"It is that mystery which we must elucidate," he said.  "All I fear is,
however, that she may render us no assistance."

"Why?"

"Because it is a mystery, and in all probability she will endeavour to
preserve the secret.  She must not see the Countess before we question
her."

"Is she yet conscious?"  I asked in eagerness.

"Yes; but at present we must put no question to her."

"Thank Heaven!"  I gasped.  Then I added, fervently grasping my friend's
hand: "You cannot realise, Dick, what great consolation this is to me!"

"I know, my dear fellow--I know," he answered sympathetically.  "But may
I speak to you as a friend?  You won't be offended at anything I am
about to say, will you?"

"Offended?--certainly not.  Our friendship is too firm for that, Dick.
What is it you wish to say?"

I saw that he was uneasy, and was surprised at his sudden gravity.

"Well," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "you'll forgive me for
saying so, but I don't think that in this affair you've told me exactly
the truth."

"What do you mean?"  I inquired quickly.

"I mean that when you parted from her this afternoon you were not
altogether good friends."

"You are mistaken," I assured him.  "We were as good friends as ever
before."

"No high words passed between you?"

"None."

"And nothing that you told her caused her any sudden grief?  Are you
quite certain of this?" he asked, looking at me very fixedly through his
glasses.

"I made one observation which certainly caused her surprise," I
admitted.  "Nothing else."

"Was it only surprise?" he asked very calmly.

"Surprise mingled with fear."

"Ah!" he ejaculated, as though obtaining some intelligence by this
admission of mine.  "And may I not know the nature of the information
you gave her?"

"No, Dick," I responded.  "It is a secret--her secret."

He was silent.

"You refuse to tell me?" he said disappointedly.

"I am unable," I replied.

"And if I judge rightly, it is this secret which has parted you?"

"No, it is not," I answered.  "That's the most curious part of the whole
affair.  The very existence of the secret has brought us together
again."

"You mean that you have forsaken Edith and returned to her?" he
observed, raising his brows slightly in surprise.

"No; don't put it in that way," I implored.  "I have not yet forsaken
Edith."

He smiled, just a trifle superciliously, I thought.

"And the Countess is also in possession of this mysterious secret--eh?"

"Of that I am not at all certain," I replied.

He sniffed in distinct suspicion that what I had told him was not the
truth.  At the same instant, however, the Countess entered and demanded
to know the condition of her child.

"She is much better, madame," he answered.  "Perfect quiet is, however,
necessary, and constant observation of the temperature.  To-morrow, or
the day after, you may, I think, see her."

"Not till then!" she cried.  "I cannot wait so long."

"But it is necessary.  Your daughter's life hangs upon a single thread."

She was silenced, for she saw that argument was useless.

A few minutes later Jean entered with a message from Trepard asking Dick
and myself to consult with him.  We therefore left the Countess again,
and passed along the corridor to the room in which my love of long ago
was lying.  As we entered she lifted her hand slowly to me in sign of
recognition, and in an instant I was at her side.

"Yolande!"  I cried, taking her hand, so different now that death had
been defeated by life.  "Yolande! my darling," I burst forth
involuntarily, "you have come back to me!"

A sweet, glad smile spread over her beautiful face, leaving an
expression of calm and perfect contentment, as in a low, uncertain
voice, as though of one speaking afar off, she asked:

"Gerald, is it actually you?"

"Yes," I said, "of course it is.  These two gentlemen are doctors," I
added.  "This is my old friend Deane; and the other is Doctor Trepard,
of whom I daresay you have heard."

She nodded to them both in acknowledgment of their kind expressions;
then in a few low words inquired what had happened to her.  She seemed
in utter ignorance of it all.

"You were found lying on the floor of the little salon soon after I
left, and they thought you were dead," I explained.  "Cannot you tell us
how it occurred?"

A puzzled expression settled upon her face, as though she were trying to
remember.

"I recollect nothing," she declared.

"But you surely remember how you were attacked?"  I urged.

"Attacked!" she echoed in surprise.  "No one attacked me."

"I did not mean that," I answered, rather puzzled at her quick protest.
"I meant that you were probably aware of the symptoms which preceded
your unconsciousness."

"I felt a strange dizziness and a curious tightness in the throat and
chest.  That is all I remember.  All became blank until I opened my eyes
again and found myself lying here, with these two gentlemen standing at
my side.  The duration of my unconsciousness did not appear to me longer
than a few minutes."

"Then mademoiselle has no idea of the cause of her strange illness?"
inquired Deane in French.  "None whatever, m'sieur."

"Tell us one fact," he urged.  "During the time which elapsed between
your parting with M'sieur Ingram and your sudden unconsciousness, did
anyone enter the room?"

"No one; of that I am absolutely certain."

"How were you occupied during that time?"

"I was writing a letter."

"And before you rose did you feel the curious giddiness?"

"No, not until after I stood up.  I tried to shout and attract help, but
could not.  Then I reached to press the bell, but stumbled forward, and
the next instant I was lost in what seemed to be a dense fog."

"Curious!" ejaculated Trepard, who stood by with folded arms, eagerly
listening to every word--"very curious!"

"Did you feel any strange sensation on the left side of your neck
beneath the ear, or upon your lower lip?" inquired Deane earnestly.

She reflected for a moment, then said:

"Now that I remember, there was a curious numbness of my lip."

"Followed immediately by unconsciousness?"

"Yes, almost immediately."

The doctors exchanged glances, which showed that the mark upon the lip
was the chief enigma of the situation.

Trepard glanced at his watch, dissolved yet another pillule of hydrated
peroxide of iron, and handed her the draught to swallow.  The antidote
had acted almost like magic.

"You are absolutely certain that no person entered the room after Ingram
had left?" repeated Deane, as though not yet satisfied.

"Absolutely."

Dick Deane turned his eyes full upon me, and I divined his thoughts.  He
was reflecting upon the conversation held between us before we entered
that room.  He was endeavouring to worm from her some clue to her
secret.

"My mother knows that I am recovering?" she went on.  "If she does not,
please tell her.  She has been so distressed of late that this must have
been the crowning blow to her."

"I have told madame your mother everything," I said.  "Do not be uneasy
on her account."

"Ah," she sighed, "how I regret that we came to Paris!  I regret it all,
Gerald, save that you and I have met again;" and she stretched out her
hand until it came into contact with my coat-button, with which she
toyed like a child.

"And this meeting has really given you satisfaction?"  I whispered to
her, heedless of the presence of the others.

"Not only satisfaction," she answered, so softly that I alone could
catch her words, and looking into my face with that expression of
passionate affection which can never be simulated; "it has given back to
me a desire for happiness, for life, for love."

There were tears in those wonderful blue eyes, and her small hand
trembled within my grasp.  My heart at that moment was too full for mere
words.  True, I loved her with a mad fondness that I had never before
entertained for any woman; yet, nevertheless, a hideous shadow arose
between us, shutting her off from me for ever--the shadow of her
secret--the secret that she, my well-beloved, was actually a spy.

CHAPTER NINE.

AT THE ELYSEE.

Having reassured myself of Yolande's recovery, I was compelled to rush
off, slip into uniform, and attend a dinner at the Elysee.  The function
was a brilliant affair, as are all the official junketings of the French
President.  At the right of the head of the Republic, who was
distinguishable by his crimson sash, sat the Countess Tornelli, with the
wife of the United States Ambassador on his left.  The President's
wife--who wore a superb gown of corn-coloured miroir velvet, richly
embroidered and inlaid with Venetian lace, a veritable triumph of the
Rue de la Paix--had on her right the Papal Nuncio, Monsignor Lerenzelli,
the doyen of the Diplomatic Corps, while on her left was my Chief, Lord
Barmouth.

The seat next me was allotted to his daughter Sibyl, who looked charming
in rose chiffon.  During dinner she chatted merrily, describing a
charity bazaar which she had attended that afternoon accompanied by her
mother.  On the other side of her sat Count Berchtold, the secretary of
the Austrian Embassy, who was, I shrewdly suspected, one of her most
devoted admirers.  She was charming--a typical, smart English girl; and
I think that I was proved to be an exception among men by reason of the
fact that I did not flirt with her.  Indeed, we were excellent friends,
and my long acquaintance with her gave me a prescriptive right to a kind
of brotherly solicitude for her welfare.  Times without number I had
chaffed her about her little affairs of the heart, and as many times she
had turned my criticisms against myself by her witty repartee.  She
could be exceedingly sarcastic when occasion required; but there had
always been a perfect understanding between us, and no remark was ever
distorted into an insult.

Dinner was followed by a brilliant reception.  The great Salon des
Fetes, which only a year before was hung with funeral wreaths, owing to
the death of the previous President, resounded with that peculiar hum
made up of all the intonations of conversation and discreet laughter
rolled together against the sustained buzzing of the orchestra a short
distance away.  The scene was one of glittering magnificence.  Everyone
knew everyone else.  Through the crowd of uniforms--which always give an
official reception at the Elysee the appearance of a bal travesti--I
passed Monsieur Casimir Perrier, former President of the Republic;
Monsieur Paul Deschanel, the lion of the hour; Monsieur
Benjamin-Constant, always a prominent figure; Prince Roland Bonaparte,
smiling and bowing; the Duchess d'Auerstadt, with her magnificent
jewels; and Damat, the dapper Grand Chancellor of the Legion of Honour.
All diplomatic Paris was there, chattering, laughing, whispering, and
plotting.  Around me sounded a veritable babel of tongues, but no part
of the function interested me.

From time to time I saluted a man I knew, or bent over a woman's hand;
but my thoughts were of the one woman who had so suddenly and so
forcibly returned into my life.  The representatives of the Powers of
Europe were all present, and as they passed me by, each in his bright
uniform, his orders flashing on his breast and a woman on his arm, I
asked myself which of them was actually the employer of my well-beloved.

The startling events of the day had upset me.  Had it been possible I
would have left and returned to my rooms for a quiet smoke and for calm
reflection.  But my duty required my presence there; hence I remained,
strolling slowly around the great crowded salon with its myriad lights
and profuse floral decorations, until I suddenly encountered the
wizen-faced, toothless old Baronne de Chalencon, whose salon was one of
the most popular in Paris, and with whom I was on excellent terms.

"Ah! my dear M'sieur Ingram!" she cried, holding forth her thin, bony
hand laden with jewels.  "You look tired.  Why?  No one here to-night
who interests you--eh?"

"No one save yourself, Baronne," I responded, bending over her hand.

"Flatterer!" she laughed.  "If I were forty years younger I might accept
that as a compliment.  But at my age--well, it is really cruel of you."

"Intelligence is more interesting to a diplomat than a pretty face," I
responded quickly.  "And there is certainly no more intelligent woman in
all Paris than the Baronne de Chalencon."

She bowed stiffly, and her wrinkled face, which bore visible traces of
poudre orchidee and touches of the hare's-foot, puckered up into a
simpering smile.

"Well, and what else?" she asked.  "These speeches you have apparently
prepared for some pretty woman you expected to meet here to-night, but,
since she has not kept the appointment, you are practising them upon
me."

"No," I said, "I really protest against that, Baronne.  A woman is never
too old for a man to pay her compliments."

We had strolled into a cool ante-room, and were sitting together upon
one of the many seats placed beneath clumps of palms and flowers, the
only light being from a hundred tiny electric lamps hung overhead in the
trees.  The perfect arrangement of those ante-rooms of the Salle des
Fetes on the nights of the official receptions is always noteworthy, and
after the heat, music, and babel of tongues in the grand salon it was
cool, quiet, and refreshing there.

By holding her regular salon, where everybody who was anybody made it a
point to be seen, the Baronne had acquired in Paris a unique position.
Her fine house in the Avenue des Champs Elysees was the centre of a
smart and fashionable set, and she herself made a point of being versed
in all the latest gossip and scandal of the French capital.  She
scandalised nobody, nor did she seek to throw mud at her enemies.  She
merely repeated what was whispered to her; hence a chat with her was
always interesting to one who, like myself, was paid to keep his ears
open and report from time to time the direction of the political wind.

Tournier, the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, and his wife were her
most intimate friends; hence she was frequently aware of facts which
were of considerable importance to us.  Indeed, once or twice her
friendliness for myself had caused her to drop hints which had been of
the greatest use to Lord Barmouth in the conduct of his difficult
diplomacy at that time when the boulevard journals were screaming
against England and the filthy prints were caricaturing Her Majesty,
with intent to insult.  Even the _Figaro_--the moderate organ of the
French Foreign Office--had lost its self-control in the storm of abuse
following the Fashoda incident, and had libelled and maligned "les
English."  I therefore seized the opportunity for a chat with the
wizen-faced old lady, who seemed in a particularly good-humour, and
deftly turned the conversation into the political channel.

"Now, tell me, Baronne," I said, after we had been chatting some little
time, and I had learnt more than one important fact regarding the
intentions of Tournier, "what is your opinion regarding the occupation
of Ceuta?"

She glanced at me quickly, as though surprised that I should be aware of
what she had believed to be an entire secret.

"Of Ceuta?" she echoed.  "And what do you at your Embassy know regarding
it?"

"We've heard a good deal," I laughed.

"No doubt you've heard a good deal that is untrue," the clever old lady
replied, her powdered face again puckering into a smile.  "Do you want
to know my honest opinion?" she added.

"Yes, I do."

"Well," she went on, "I attach very little importance to the rumours of
a projected sale or lease of Ceuta to us.  I might tell you in
confidence," she went on, dropping her voice, "that from some words I
overheard at the garden-party at de Wolkenstein's I have come to a firm
conclusion that, although during the next few years important changes
will be made upon the map of the world, Ceuta will remain Spanish.  My
country will never menace yours in the Mediterranean at that point.  A
Ministry might be found in Madrid to consider the question of its
disposal, but the Spanish people would rise in revolution before they
would consent.  Spain is very poor, but very proud.  Having lost so many
of her foreign possessions, she will hold more strongly than ever to
Ceuta.  There you have the whole situation in a nutshell."

"Then the report that it is actually sold to France is untrue?"  I asked
eagerly.

"A mere report I believe it to be."

"But Spain's financial indebtedness to France might prove an element of
danger when Europe justifies Lord Beaconsfield's prediction and rushes
into war over Morocco?"

"Ah, my dear M'sieur Ingram, I do not agree with the prediction of your
great statesman," the old lady said vehemently.  "It is not in that
direction in which lies the danger of war, but at the other end of the
Mediterranean."

Somehow I suspected her of a deliberate intention to mislead me in this
matter.  She was a shrewd woman, who only disclosed her secrets when it
was to her own interests or the interests of her friends at the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs to do so.  In Paris there is a vast network of French
intrigue, and it behoves the diplomatist always to be wary lest he
should fall into the pitfalls so cunningly prepared for him.  The
dividing line between truth and untruth is always so very difficult to
define in modern diplomacy.  It is when the European situation seems
most secure that the match is sufficiently near to fire the mine.
Fortunate it is that the public, quick to accept anything that appears
in the daily journals, can be placed in a sense of false security by
articles inspired by one or other of the embassies interested.  If it
were not so, European panics would certainly be of frequent occurrence.

My Chief sauntered by, chatting with his close personal friend, Prince
Olsoufieff, the Russian Ambassador, who looked a truly striking figure
in his white uniform, with the Cross of St. Andrew glittering at his
throat.  The latter, as he passed, exclaimed confidentially in Russian
to my Chief, who understood that language, having been first Secretary
of Embassy in Petersburg earlier in his career:

"Da, ya po-ni-mai-u.  Ya sam napishu."  ("Yes, I understand.  I will
write for you myself.")

Keen antagonists in diplomacy though they very often were, yet in
private life a firm friendship existed between the pair--a friendship
dating from the days when the one had been British Attache in Petersburg
and the other had occupied a position in the Russian Ministry of Foreign
Affairs--that large grey building facing the Winter Palace.

"The lion and the bear strolling together," laughed the toothless old
Baronne, after they had passed.  "Olsoufieff is a charming man, but he
never accepts my invitations.  I cannot tell why.  I don't fancy he
considers me his friend."

"Sibyl was at your reception the other evening," I remarked suddenly.
"She told me she met a man who was a stranger in Paris.  His name, I
think she said, was Wolf--Rodolphe Wolf.  Who is he?"

"He was introduced by de Wolkenstein, the Austrian Ambassador," she
replied quickly.  "I did not know him."

"Have you never met him before?"  I asked, looking sharply into her
eyes.

"Once, I think, but I am not certain," she said, with a palpable effort
to evade my question.

I smiled.

"Come, madame," I said good-humouredly, "you know Rodolphe Wolf quite as
well as I do.  When you last met, his name was not Wolf.  Is not that
so?"

"Well," she answered, "now that you put it in that manner I may as well
admit that your suggestion is correct."

"And what is the object of his sudden visit to Paris?"

"I cannot make out," she replied in a more confidential tone.  "As I
tell you, de Wolkenstein introduced him, but, as m'sieur knows, I am
very quick to detect a face that I have once seen, and I recognised him
in an instant."

"Sibyl told me that he had a long chat with her, and she described him
as a most charming fellow."

"Ah, no doubt!  I suspected him and watched.  It was evident that he
came to my salon in order to meet her."

"To meet Sibyl!  Why?"

"That I cannot tell."

"But I think, Baronne, we may be both agreed upon one point."

"And that is?"

"That the man who now calls himself Rodolphe Wolf is here in Paris with
some secret motive."

"I am entirely in accord, m'sieur--quite.  Some steps must at once be
taken to ascertain that man's motives."

"It seems curious that he should have been introduced for the purpose of
meeting Sibyl.  What information did he want from her?"

"How can we tell?  You know better than myself whether she ever knows
any secrets of the Embassy."

"She knows nothing,--of that I am absolutely convinced," I responded.
"Her father is devoted to her; but, nevertheless, he is one of those
strict diplomatists who do not believe in trusting women with secrets."

"Yet Wolf had a distinct object in making a good impression upon her,"
she said reflectively.

"No doubt.  As soon as she returned she began to talk of him."

And next instant I recollected the strange effect the news of his
arrival in Paris had had upon Yolande, and the curiously tragic event
which had subsequently occurred.  All was puzzling--all inscrutable.

A silence fell between us.  I was revolving in my mind whether I should
ask this wizen-faced old leader of Society a further question.  With
sudden resolve I turned to her again and asked:

"O Baronne, I had quite forgotten.  Do you chance to know the Countess
de Foville, of Brussels?  They have a chateau down in the Ardennes, and
move in the best set in Belgium?"

"De Foville?  De Foville?" she repeated.  "What, do you mean the mother
of that little witch Yolande?"

"Yes.  But why do you call her a witch?"  I demanded, with feigned
laughter.

"Why?" cried the old woman, the expression of her face growing dark with
displeasure.  "Well, I do not know whether she is a friend of yours, but
all I can tell you is that should she be, the best course for you to
pursue is to cut her acquaintance."

"What do you mean?"  I gasped.

"I mean exactly what I have said."

"But I don't understand," I cried.  "Be more frank with me," I implored.

"No," she answered in that hard voice, by which I knew that mention of
Yolande's name had displeased her.  "Remember that we are friends, and
that sometimes we have interests in common.  Therefore, take this piece
of advice from an old woman who knows."

"Knows what?"

"Knows that your friendship with the pretty Yolande is dangerous--
extremely dangerous."

CHAPTER TEN.

CONFESSION.

Next day, when the manservant asked me into the tiny boudoir in the Rue
de Courcelles, I found Yolande, in a pretty tea-gown of cream silk
adorned with lace and ribbons, seated in an armchair in an attitude of
weariness.  The sun-shutters were closed, as on the previous day, for
the heat in Paris that July was insufferable, and in the dim light her
wan figure looked very fair and fragile.  The qualities which imparted
to her a distinct individuality were the beautiful combination of the
pastoral with the elegant--of simplicity with elevation--of spirit with
sweetness.

She gave vent to a cry of gladness as I entered, rose, and stretching
out her hands in welcome, drew a seat for me close to her.  I looked at
her standing before me in her warm, breathing, human loveliness.

"You are better, Yolande?  Ah! how glad I am!"  I commenced.  "Last
night I believed that you were dead."

"And if I had died would it really have mattered so very much to you?"
she asked in a low, intense voice.  "You have forgotten me for three
whole years until now."

"I know--I know!"  I cried.  "Forgive me."

"I have already forgiven," she said, allowing her hand still to remain
in mine.  "But I have been thinking to-day--thinking ever so much."

Her voice was weak and faltering, and I saw that she was not herself.

"Thinking of what?"

"Of you.  I have been wondering whether, if I had died, you would have
sometimes remembered me?"

"Remembered you?"  I said earnestly.  "Why, of course, dearest.  Why do
you speak in such a melancholy tone?"

"Because--well, because I am unhappy, Gerald!" she cried, bursting into
sudden tears.  "Ah! you do not know how I suffer--you can never know!"

I bent and stroked her hair, that beautiful red-gold hair that I had so
often heard admired in the great salons in Brussels.  It had been bound
but lightly by her maid, and was secured by a blue ribbon.  She had
apologised for receiving me thus, but declared that her head ached, and
it was easier so.  Doctor Deane had called twice that morning, and had
pronounced her entirely out of danger.

"But why are you suffering?"  I asked, caressing her and striving to
charm away her tears.  "Cannot you confide in me?"

She shook her head in despair, and her body was shaken by a convulsive
sob.

"Surely there is confidence between us?"  I urged.  "Do you not remember
that day long ago when we walked one evening in the sunset hand-in-hand,
as was our wont, along the river-path towards La Roche?  Do you not
remember how you told me that in future you would have no single secret
from me?"

"Yes," she answered hoarsely, with an effort, "I recollect."

"Then you intend to break your promise to me?"  I whispered earnestly.
"Surely you will not do this, Yolande?  You will not hide from me the
cause of all this bitterness of yours?"  She was silent.  Her breast,
beneath its lace, rose quickly and fell again.  Her tear-filled eyes
were fixed upon the carpet.

"I would not break my promise," she said at last, clasping my hand
convulsively and lifting her eyes to mine; "but, alas! it is now
imperative."

"Why imperative?"

"I must suffer alone," she responded gloomily, shaking her head.  Her
countenance was as pale as her gown, and she shivered as though she were
cold, although the noonday heat was suffocating.

"Because you refuse to tell me anything or allow me to assist you?"  I
said.  "This is not in accordance with the promise made and sealed by
your lips on that evening long ago."

"Nor have your actions been in accordance with your own promise," she
said slowly and distinctly.

"To what do you refer?"

"You told me that you loved me, Gerald," she said in a deep voice,
suddenly grown calm.  "You swore by all you held most sacred that I was
all the world to you, and that no one should come between us.  Yet past
events have shown that you have forgotten those words of yours on the
day when we idled in the Bois beneath the trees.  You, too, remember
that day, do you not--the day when our lips met for the first time, and
we both believed our path would in future be strewn with flowers?  Ah!"
she sighed, "and what an awakening life has been to me since then!"

"We parted because of your refusal to satisfy me as to the real state of
your feelings towards the man who was my enemy," I said rather warmly.

"But was it justifiable?" she asked in a tone of deep reproach and
mingled sweetness.  Her blue eyes looked full upon me--those eyes that
had held me in such fascination in the golden days of youth.  "Has any
single fact which you have since discovered verified your suspicions?
Tell me truthfully;" and she leaned towards me in an attitude of deepest
earnestness.

"No," I answered honestly, "I cannot say that my suspicions have ever
been verified."

"And because of that you have returned to me when it is too late."

"Too late!"  I cried.  "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I have said.  You have come back to me when it is too
late."

"You speak in enigmas, Yolande.  Why not be more explicit?"

Her pale lips trembled, her eyes were brimming with tears, her chilly
hand quivered in mine.  She did not speak for some moments, but at last
said in a low, tremulous voice half choked by emotion:

"Once you loved me, Gerald,--of that I feel confident; and I
reciprocated your affection, God knows!  Our love was, perhaps, curious,
inasmuch as you were English and I was of a different creed and held
different ideas from those which you considered right.  It is always the
same with a man and woman of different nationality--there must be a
give-and-take principle between them.  Between us, however, there was
perfect confidence until, by a strange combination of circumstances--by
a stroke of the sword of Fate--that incident occurred which led to our
estrangement."

She paused, her blanched lips shut tight.  "Well?"  I asked, "I am all
attention.  Why is it too late now for me to make reparation for the
past?"

I loved her with all my soul.  I was heedless of those words of the old
Baronne, of Anderson's suspicions, and Kaye's denunciation.  Even if she
were a spy, I adored her.  The fire of that old love had swept upon me,
and I could not hold back, even though her touch might be as that of a
leper and her lips venomous.

"Reparation is impossible," she answered hoarsely.  "Is not that
sufficient?"

"No, it is not sufficient," I answered clearly.  "I will not be put off
by such an answer."

"It were better," she cried--"better that I had died yesterday than
suffer like this.  You rescued me from death only to torture me."

Her words aroused within me a distinct suspicion that her strange
illness had been brought to pass because, using some mysterious means,
she had made an attempt against her own life.  I believed that she had
suffered, and was still suffering, from the effects of some poison, the
exact nature of which neither Deane nor Trepard could as yet determine.

"I do not seek to torture you, dearest," I protested.  "Far from it.  I
merely want to know the truth, in order that I may share your
unhappiness, as your betrothed ought to do."

"But you are not my betrothed."

"I was once."

"But not now.  You taunt me with breaking that promise which I made
three years ago, yet you yourself it was who played me false--who left
me for your prim, strait-laced English miss!"

In an instant the truth was plain.  She was aware that I had transferred
my affections to Edith!  Someone had told her--no doubt with a good many
embellishments, or perhaps some scandalous story.  In the salons through
which we of the diplomatic circle are compelled to move, women's tongues
are ever at work match-making and mischief-making.  On the Continent
love and politics run always hand-in-hand.  That is the reason why the
most notorious of the demi-monde in Paris, in Vienna, and in Berlin are
the secret agents of their respective Governments; and many are the
honest men innocently denounced through jealousy and kindred causes.  A
false declaration of one or other of these unscrupulous spies has before
now caused the downfall of a Ministry or the disgrace of a noble and
patriotic politician.

"I know to whom you refer," I said, with bowed head, after a moment's
pause.  "It is currently reported that I love her.  I have loved her.  I
do not seek to deny it.  When a man sustains such a blow as I sustained
before we parted, he often rushes to another woman for consolation.  The
influence of that second woman often prevents him from going to the bad
altogether.  It has been so in my case."

"And you love her now?" she cried, the fire of fierce jealousy in her
eyes.  "You cannot deny it!"

"I do deny it," I cried.  "True, until yesterday I held her in esteem,
even in affection; but it is not so now.  All my love for you, Yolande,
has returned to me.  Our parting has rendered you dearer and sweeter to
me than ever."

"I cannot believe it," she exclaimed falteringly.

"I swear that it is so.  In all my life, although am compelled to treat
women with courtesy and sometimes to affect flirtation, because of my
profession as a diplomatist, I have loved only one woman--yourself;" and
I raised her chilly hand to my lips, kissing it fervently.

Mine was no mere caprice at that moment.  With an all-consuming passion
I loved her, and was prepared on her account to make any sacrifice she
demanded.  Let the reader remember what had already been told me, and
reflect that, like many another man, I loved madly, and was heedless of
any consequences that might follow.  In this particular I was not alone.
Thousands before me had been allured to their ruin by a woman's eyes,
just as thousands of brave women's hearts have been broken and their
lives wrecked by men's false oaths of fidelity.  I have heard wiseacres
say that the woman only suffers in such cases; the man never.  Whether
that rule proves always true will be shown in this strange story of my
own love.

She drew her hand away slowly, but forcibly, saying:

"You cannot love two women.  Already you have shown a preference for a
wife of your own people."

"It is all over between us," I protested.  "Mine was a mere passing
fancy, engendered, I think, by the loneliness I suffered when I lost
you."

"Ah," (she smiled sadly), "that is all very well!  A woman, when once
played false by the man she loves and trusts, is never the
same--_never_!"

"Then am I to understand, Yolande, that you refuse to pardon me, or to
accept my affection?"

"I have already pardoned you," she faltered; "but to accept the love you
once withdrew from me without just reason is, I regret to say,
impossible."

"You speak coldly, as though you were refusing a mere invitation to
dinner, or something of no greater importance," I protested.  "I offer
you my whole heart, my love--nay, my life;" and I held her hand again,
looking straight into those wonderful eyes, now so calm, so serious,
that my gaze wavered before them.

Slowly she shook her head, and her trembling breast rose and fell again.

"Ours was a foolish infatuation," she answered with an effort.  "It is
best that we should both of us forget."

"Forget!"  I cried.  "But I can never forget you, Yolande.  You are my
love.  You are all the world to me."

Her eyes were grave, and I saw that tears stood in them.

"No," she protested quietly; "do not say that.  I cannot be any more to
you than other women whom you meet daily.  Besides, I know well that in
the diplomatic service marriage is a serious drawback to any save an
ambassador."

"When a man is in love as I am with you, dearest, he throws all thoughts
of his career to the winds; personal interests are naught where true
love is concerned."

"You must not--nay, you shall not--wreck your future on my account," she
declared in a low, intense voice.  "It is not just either to yourself or
to the Englishwoman who loves you."

"Why do you taunt me with that, Yolande?"  I asked reproachfully.  "I do
not love her.  I have never truly loved her.  I was lonely after you had
gone out of my life, and she was amusing,--that was all."

"And now you find me equally amusing--eh?" she remarked, with just a
touch of bitter sarcasm.

"Why should you be jealous of her?"  I asked.  "You might just as well
be jealous of Sibyl, Lord Barmouth's daughter."

"With the latter you are certainly on terms of most intimate
friendship," she answered with a smile.  "I really wonder that I did not
object to her in the days long ago."

"Ah!"  I laughed, "you certainly had no cause.  It is true that we have
been good friends ever since the day when she arrived home from the
convent-school at Bruges, a prim young miss with her hair tied up with
ribbon.  Thrown constantly together, as we were, I became her male
confidant and intimate friend; hence my licence to give her counsel in
many matters and sometimes to criticise those actions of which I don't
approve."

"Then if that is so, you care a little for her--just a little?  Now
admit it."

"I don't admit anything of the kind," I answered frankly.  "For five
years we have been constantly together; and times without number, at
Lady Barmouth's request, I have acted as her escort here and there,
until she looks upon me as a kind of necessary appendage who has a right
to chaff her about her flirtations and annoy her by judicious sarcasm.
I don't entertain one single spark of love for her.  In brief, she has
developed into an essentially smart girl, in the true sense of the word,
and by reason of our constant companionship knows that to attempt a
flirtation with me would result in a most dismal failure.  I accused her
once, not long ago, of having designs upon my heart, whereupon she
replied that to accomplish such a thing would be about as easy as to win
the affection of the bronze Neptune in the garden-fountain of the
Embassy."


"You have been seen together a great deal of late?"

"Who told you so?"

"A friend who knows you both."  Then she added: "From my information I
hear that last season you danced so much with her and were so constantly
at her side that people were talking of a match between you."

"Ridiculous!"  I exclaimed.  "Of course gossips are always too ready to
jump to ill-formed conclusions.  As one of the staff of the Embassy, and
her most intimate male friend, it was only courtesy to take her beneath
my care.  When she had no other partner and wanted to dance, then she
sometimes asked me.  I think she did it to annoy me, for she knew that I
was never fond of dancing."

"Do you remember the Countess of Flanders' balls at Brussels--how we
danced together?" she remarked.

"Remember them!"  I echoed.  "They were in the golden days when
everything seemed to our eyes couleur de rose--the days when our love
was perfect."

She sighed again, but no word escaped her.  She was, I knew, reflecting
upon those blissful days and nights when we met here and there at all
hours and at all the best houses in Brussels, dining, lunching, dancing,
and gossiping--together always.

"Will you not resolve to forget the past, Yolande?"  I asked fervently,
taking her hand in mine again.  "Come, tell me that you will--that you
will not hold me aloof like this?  I cannot bear it--indeed I can't, for
I love you;" and I bent until my lips touched her finger-tips.

"I cannot!" she cried at last, with an effort rising and firmly
withdrawing her hand from my grasp.

"You cannot?  Why?"  I demanded, taken somewhat aback by her sudden
attitude of determination.

"I will not allow you to ruin yourself, Gerald, on my account," she
declared in a very low but calm voice.

"But why should my love for you prove my ruin?"  I cried madly.  "The
truth is that you do not love me.  Why not admit it at once?"

"You are in error," she hastened to protest.  "I do love you.  I love
you to-day with the same fond affection as I entertained for you until
that day--fatal to me--when you turned your back upon me and left me.
But, alas! we can never now be the same to one another as we were then."
She paused for a moment to regain breath; then, pale-faced, with eyes
filled with tears, she gripped my arm frantically, crying: "Gerald, my
love, hear me!  These are my last words, but I pronounce them--I make
confession--so that you may understand the barrier that now lies between
us."

"Well," I said, "speak--tell me!"

"Ah!" she cried hoarsely, covering her face with her hands, "you wring
this confession from me.  I am the most unhappy girl in all the world.
Would that I were dead that it was all ended!  If I did not love you,
Gerald, I should deceive you, and leave you to discover the truth after
our marriage.  But I cannot--I cannot!  Even though we shall part to-day
for ever, I have resolved to be frank with you because I still have one
single spark of honesty left within my heart!"

"I don't understand," I exclaimed.  "Tell me."

"Then listen," she said in a hard, unnatural voice, after a few moments
of hesitation.  "When we were lovers in the old days I was, as you know,
a pure, honest, upright woman, with thoughts only for my God and for
yourself.  But I am that no longer.  I am unworthy your love, Gerald.  I
am unfit to be your wife, and can never be--never!" and she threw
herself upon the couch near by and burst into a flood of tears, while I
stood there rigid as a statue.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

DEANE SPEAKS HIS MIND.

An hour later I was seated in my room at the Embassy staring blankly at
the blotting-pad before me, utterly perplexed and bewildered.  I loved
Yolande--nay, she was my idol; nevertheless she had firmly refused to
allow me to resume my place at her side.  At one moment it seemed to me
as though she had actually made a sacrifice for my sake; yet at another
I could not help regarding both her and her mother with distinct
suspicion.  My love's strange words were in themselves a sufficient
self-condemnation.  Her service as a political agent had been secured by
one or other of the Powers--France, I suspected; and, to put it plainly,
she was a spy!

This knowledge had come upon me like a thunderbolt.  Of all the women I
had known and least suspected of endeavouring to learn the secrets of
our diplomacy, Yolande was certainly the chief.  The events which had
culminated in her accepting this odious office were veiled in mystery.
Why had she done this?  Who had tempted her or forced her to it?

Those tears of hers, when she had made confession, were the tears of a
woman in the depths of despair and degradation, and I, loving her so
fondly, could not but allow my heart to go forth in sympathy.  There was
an affinity between us that I knew might some day prove fatal.

But we had parted.  She had announced her intention of leaving Paris,
accompanied by her mother, on the morrow, and had begged and implored
that I would never seek her again.

"I shall take care to evade you," she had said.  "To-day we meet for the
last time.  We must each go our own way and strive our hardest to
forget."

Ah! to forget would, I knew, be impossible.  When a man has loved as
ardently and intensely as I loved Yolande, memories cling to him and are
carried to the grave.  You, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten
days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance,
with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a passing thought to that fair
one who in youth's golden days was your all in all.  The sound of a
song, the momentary perfume from a woman's chiffons as she passes, the
sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those
hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and
seemed to have been made for you alone.  You recollect her sweet smile,
her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her
kisses.  The tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged
with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has
fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is
already dead.  The most charming reflection permitted to man is the
memory of a half-forgotten love.

I had been a fool.  This bitter truth was forced upon me as I sat there
ruminating.  I had cast aside that patience and discretion which I, as a
diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated
marriage with a woman who had been denounced by Kaye as a secret agent.
My own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as I reflected I began to
wonder how it was that I should have so completely lost my self-control.
True, indeed, it is that love is blind.

I drew forth a sheet of note-paper and penned her a long, fervent
letter, expressing a hope that some day we might meet again, and
declaring that my affection for her would last for ever.  What mad words
I wrote I almost forget.  All I know is that even then I could not hold
back, so deep and intense was my love for her, so completely did she
hold me beneath the spell of her beauty.  I tried to put the letter
aside for calmer reflection, but could not.  My pen ran on, recording
the eloquence of my heart.  Then, scaling it, I addressed it, rang for
the messenger of the Embassy, and gave him instructions to take it to
her.

"There is no answer, m'sieur?" the man inquired.

"None," I answered.

Then the door closed again, and I was alone.

Yes, I saw now how great and all-consuming was my love for this woman
who was a spy, and who had actually confessed herself worthless.  Fate
had indeed played me a sorry trick at this, the greatest crisis of my
life.

Some ten minutes later Harding entered, saying: "Doctor Deane has
called, and wishes to see you, sir."

I at once gave orders for his admission, and in a few moments he came
across the thick pile carpet with hand outstretched.

"Hulloa, Ingram, old chap!" he cried, glancing at me in quick surprise,
"what's the matter?  You don't look yourself."

"Oh, nothing," I answered with ill-feigned carelessness.  "A bit
worried, that's all."

"Worried over mademoiselle--eh?" he asked, fixing me with his keen eyes.

I nodded in the affirmative.

"Ah, I guessed as much," he replied, with a sigh, placing his hat on the
table and flinging himself into a chair.  "Mind if I smoke?  I've been
busy all day, and am dying for a weed."

"Smoke?  Why, of course," I answered, pushing my cigars and some matches
before him.

I took one also, thinking that it might soothe my nerves, and when we
had lit up he leaned back in his chair, and, looking at me curiously
through the smoke, asked at last:

"What has occurred between you?  Mademoiselle is leaving Paris
to-morrow."

"How did you know?"

"I called half an hour ago, and found both her and the Countess making
preparations for a hasty departure.  Have you quarrelled again?"

"No, there is no quarrel between us," I answered gravely.  "On the
contrary, there is a perfect understanding."

An incredulous smile crossed his features.  "Well," he said, "I don't
know, after all, what right I have to interfere in your private affairs
at all, old chap, but if I might be allowed to make an observation I
should say that there is some very extraordinary mystery surrounding
both the Countess and her daughter."

"You don't like the Countess?"

"No, I don't.  I conceived a violent prejudice against her on the first
occasion that I saw her.  That prejudice has already ripened into--well,
I was about to say hatred."

"Why?"

"Well, I called upon them this afternoon with an object, and found the
Countess determined to place impediments in my way."

"What was your object?"

"I wished to satisfy myself of a certain fact."

"Of what fact?"  I inquired with quick suspicion.  "Of the cause of her
daughter's sudden attack last night."

"And what did you find?"  I asked eagerly.

"I discovered a rather curious circumstance," he said.  "You will
remember telling me that when you searched the room you found she had
written a letter almost immediately before her mysterious attack.  Well,
when I had a look round that room later I saw the letter sealed in its
envelope and addressed to the Baroness Maillac, at Grands Sablons, lying
in the little letter-rack, and took possession of it, in the faint hope
that it might direct me to some clue as to the cause of her curious
condition.  You will remember, too, the curious, unaccountable mark upon
her lip.  I wished to see that mark again.  I examined it, but against
the wish of the Countess, who appeared to regard me with considerable
animosity."

"What was in the letter?  You opened it, of course?"

"Yes, I opened it, but the note inside was of no interest whatever.
Nevertheless, I had my suspicions, and have proved them to be well
grounded."

"What have you proved?"

"Briefly this: the mark upon mademoiselle's lip caused me to suspect
poisoning; yet it was apparent that she had not attempted suicide, but
that the poison, whatever its nature, had entered the tiny crack in the
lip by accident.  I therefore came to the conclusion that her lip had
come into contact with some baneful substance immediately prior to her
attack, and when you mentioned the writing of the letter it appeared to
me that the gum upon the envelope might be the channel by which the
poison was conveyed to the mouth.  The greater part of the night I spent
in dissolving the gum and making experiments with the solutions thus
obtained."

"And what did you discover?"

"I discovered the presence of a most powerful specific irritant poison.
I used Mitscherlich's method of detection, and although I cannot yet
actually determine the poison with which the gum on the envelope had
been impregnated, I proved its terrible effect by experiments.  A rabbit
inoculated with a single drop of the solution died, in fourteen seconds,
of complete paralysis of the muscles, while a drop placed on a piece of
meat and given to a cat proved fatal within one minute."


"Then there was poison on the envelope?"  I gasped, astounded.

"Yes, but only upon that particular envelope.  While left alone in the
room awaiting mademoiselle, I secured four other of the same envelopes
from the stationary rack on her escritoire.  These I took home at once,
made solutions, and tested them upon rabbits without effect.  This
proved that one envelope alone was poisoned."

"Then she was actually poisoned?"  I said, surprised at his ingenuity
and careful investigation.

"Undoubtedly so.  The most curious feature is the mysterious character
of the poison.  At first I suspected strychnia; but as that attacks the
sensitive portion of the spinal nervous system, and the symptoms were so
totally different, I was compelled to abandon that theory, as also
another I formed--namely, that the paralysis of the motor nerves might
be due to curare.  After some hours of study and experiment, however, I
found that the poison was one extremely difficult of detection when
absorbed into the system--that its symptoms were none of those
ordinarily attributed to irritant poisons by Tanner and the other
toxicologists--that it was a poison not commonly known, if, indeed,
known at all."

"Then you think that Yolande was the victim of a deliberate attempt upon
her life?"

"Of that I am absolutely convinced.  Having taken possession of the
letter, I could not well mention it or make inquiries regarding it.  I
thought it would be best to leave such inquiries to you, who are her
intimate friend.  I went there to-day in order to satisfy myself
regarding the mark on the lip, and also to secure some of the other
envelopes.  Both of these objects I fortunately accomplished, and have
succeeded in establishing the fact that she was poisoned in a most
ingenious and secret manner by some person who is evidently no novice in
the use of that most deadly and mysterious substance."

"But whom do you suspect?"

He blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and, with his eyes fixed upon
the panelled ceiling, answered:

"Ah! that's the enigma."

"Well," I said, after a pause, "you seem so hostile towards the
Countess, I'm wondering if you suspect her?"

"I can't very well, even though there are several curious circumstances
which seem to point in that direction.  The great fact in favour of her
innocence is that she sent for you.  Therefore I should like to obtain
more direct evidence before actually condemning her.  Some of the
circumstances are distinctly suspicious, even damning, yet others go far
to prove the exact contrary."

"But I can't see what object she could have in getting rid of her
daughter," I observed, much puzzled by this extraordinary theory.

"Unless she feared some awkward revelations which Yolande might make in
a moment of desperation.  To me there is still a good deal of mystery
surrounding both mother and daughter."

"I quite agree, Dick.  But do you think it possible that a mother could
deliberately attempt to kill her daughter by such dastardly means?  I
don't."

"Such a thing is not unknown in the annals of crime," he answered,
knocking the ash slowly from his cigar.  "You see, it is practically
plain that Yolande is in possession of some secret, and has grown
nervous and melancholy.  Of the nature of that secret we have no idea.
If it were disclosed it might seriously affect the Countess; hence it
would be to the latter's advantage if her daughter's lips were sealed."

"But, my dear fellow, I know the Countess well.  She's one of the most
charming of women, and utterly devoted to Yolande.  Your suggestion
seems incredible."

"How incredible it appears to you is of no import, my dear Ingram," he
answered calmly.  "You asked me to investigate the strange affair for
you, and I've done so to the best of my ability.  I found that the young
lady had been poisoned, in a most secret and ingenious manner, by
someone well acquainted with the use of the unknown drug.  That the
envelope was carefully prepared is quite plain, but by whom it is
impossible to say--"

"Not by her mother," I declared, interrupting him.  "I can't believe
that."

"It is for you to discover that.  You can ask her a little later about
the letter, without giving her any clue to the fact that I have secured
it.  She must remain under the impression that the letter was duly
posted by one of the servants."

"But she is leaving Paris," I said.

"You can see her this evening and make the necessary inquiries, surely?"

"No," I responded.  "I shall not see her again."

"Then it is true, as I've already suggested, that you've quarrelled?"

"No," I declared, "we have agreed to part again--that's all."

He was silent for a moment, contemplating the end of his cigar.  Then he
observed:

"Well, if I may be permitted to say so, old fellow, I think you've
chosen a very wise course.  You, in your official position, ought not to
be mixed up with any mystery of this sort."

"I know, Dick--I know quite well," I responded hastily.  "You, however,
do not love a woman as I love Yolande."

"Love be hanged!" he cried, laughing.  "Love is like the influenza--
painful while it lasts, but easily forgotten."

"This matter is too serious for joking," I said, a trifle annoyed by his
flippancy.

"Ah, I've heard that story once or twice before!  It is astonishing what
a difference a month makes in the course of the malady.  Take my tip,
old chap, and think no more of her.  Depend upon it, your charming
Yolande with the pretty hair, that used to be admired so much in
Brussels, is not worth the position of wife to a good fellow like you."

"That's all very well," I sighed.  "I know I was a fool to have called
upon her, but I was compelled."

"What compelled you?"

"A circumstance over which I had no control," I answered, for I did not
intend to explain to him the accusation made against her by Kaye.

"And you at once fell in love with her again?  Ah! such meetings are
always extremely dangerous."

"Yes; that is only too true.  I know I have been foolish, and now must
suffer."

"Rubbish!" he cried.  "Why, my dear fellow, Edith loves you, and is
perfectly devoted to you.  She is charming, pretty, smart, with all the
qualities necessary for the wife of a successful diplomatist.  Some day,
when you get your promotion, you will be gazetted minister to one or
other of the South American Republics, and with her as your wife you'll
be perfectly happy."

"You seem to have already carved out my future for me, Dick."

"I've only prophesied the ordinary course of things."

"I shall, I feel certain, never marry Edith," I answered, shaking my
head.  "It is entirely out of the question."

"Well, we shall see.  A man hardly ever marries his first love, you
know.  There always seems an evil fortune connected with first loves."

"How coldly philosophical you are, Dick!  Is it because you've never
been in love?"

"Never been in love?" he echoed.  "Why, my dear old fellow, I've been in
love a hundred times, but it's never been sufficiently serious to cause
me to pop the question.  I'm quite catholic in my tastes, you see.  I'm
fond of women as a sex."

What he said was perfectly true.  He was a popular favourite among the
English colony in Paris, and was an inveterate diner-out.  Indeed, his
well-set-up figure was constantly to be seen at all smart gatherings,
and I had overheard many a dainty Parisienne whisper nice things about
him behind her fan.

"You'll find a pair of eyes fascinating you one of these days, never
fear," I said.  "Then it will be my turn to smile."

"Smile away, old chap; you'll never offend me.  We are too old friends
for that."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE ENGLISH TEA-SHOP.

There was a rap at the door, and Harding entered with a telegram
addressed to me.  I tore open the flimsy blue paper, and saw that it was
in cipher from Berlin.  The sender, I knew, was Kaye.

"What's up?" my friend asked.  "Some affair of State?"

"Yes," I answered mechanically, as I went across to the safe, and took
out the decipher-book which gave the key to the cipher used by members
of the secret service.  By its aid I had quickly transcribed the
message, which read:

"_Suspicions regarding Yolande de Foville proved beyond doubt.  She is a
French agent employed indirectly by the Quai d'Orsay.  Am returning
to-night.  In the meantime instruct Osborne to keep strict observation
upon her movements_.

"_K_."

"Anything serious?" asked Deane, watching my face.

I held my breath, and managed to recover my self-possession.

"No," I answered, "nothing of any grave importance.  I sit here to deal
with a strange variety of public business, ranging from despatches from
home down to vice-consul's worries."

"We are not at war yet," he laughed, "and we trust to you diplomatists
to keep us out of it."

I smiled, rather sadly I think.  Little did my friend dream how near we
actually were to hostilities with France.  But in the school of
diplomacy the first lesson taught is that of absolute secrecy; hence I
told him nothing.  To be patient, to preserve silence, to be able to
give to an untruth the exact appearance of the truth, and to act a lie
so as to deceive those with the most acute intelligence on earth, are
qualifications absolutely necessary--together, of course, with the
stipulated private income of four hundred a year--for the success of the
rising diplomatist.

"We are trying to keep England out of war," I said.  "Indeed, that is
the principal object of our existence.  Were it not for the efforts of
Lord Barmouth, we should have been at war with the Republic long ago.
Why, scarcely a week passes but the political situation changes, and we
find ourselves, just as the French also find themselves, sitting on the
edge of the proverbial volcano.  Then, by careful adjustment and
marvellous tact and finesse, matters are arranged, and once more the
ships of State sail together again into smooth waters.  Only ourselves,
in this Embassy, are really alive to the heavy responsibilities resting
on the shoulders of our trusted Chief.  Many a sleepless night he passes
in his own room opposite, I can assure you."

"And yet he is always merry and good-humoured, as though he hadn't a
single care in the world."

"Ah, that is owing to his long training as a diplomatist.  He shows no
outward sign of anxiety, for that would betray weakness or vacillation
of policy.  An ambassador's face should never be an index to his
thoughts."

He tossed his cigar-end away and rose, asking: "Where are you feeding
to-night?  Can you dine with me at Ledoyen's--or at the Cafe de Paris,
if you prefer it?"

"Sorry I can't, old chap," I responded.  "The Chief and I have a dinner
engagement at the Austrian Embassy.  I'd much rather be with you; for,
as you know, I'm tired to death of official functions."

"You're bound to attend them, I suppose?"

"Yes, worse luck," I replied.  "To be a diplomatist one must, like a
Lord Mayor, possess an ostrich's digestion."

"Well, good-bye, old chap.  Sorry, you can't come," he said, smiling.
"But do buck up!  I don't want to have you as a patient, you know.  Take
my advice, and just forget your pretty charmer.  She's leaving
to-morrow, and there's no reason on earth why you should meet again."

"But about that letter?"  I suggested.  "We surely ought to clear up the
mystery?"

"Let it pass," he urged.  "Don't call there again, but simply forget
her.  Remember, you have Edith."

His words recalled to me the fact that I had received a letter from her
that morning, and that it was still in my pocket unopened.

"Yes, I know," I exclaimed rather impatiently.  "I shall, of course, try
to forget.  But I fear that I shall never succeed--never!"

"Take my advice and forget it all," he cried cheerfully, clapping me on
the back.  "Good-bye."

We clasped hands in a firm grip of friendship.  Then he walked out, and
I was left alone.

I went to the window, and looked down into the roadway.  It was a
blazing afternoon, and the streets seemed deserted.  All Paris was at
Trouville, Dieppe, or Arcachon, or drinking the more or less palatable
waters in Auvergne.  Paris in July is always more empty than is London
in that month, and it is certainly many degrees hotter, even though the
plashing fountains of the Place de la Concorde may give one a pleasant
feeling of refreshment in passing, and the trees of the boulevards shed
a welcome shade not found in the dusty streets of dear old grimy London.

As I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, it suddenly occurred to
me that I had still in my pocket the letter which I had found on
Yolande's little writing-table--the letter making an appointment for
five o'clock that day.  I glanced at my watch, and found it was already
half-past four.

Then, taking out the note, I carefully read it through, and, after a few
moments' debate within myself, determined to stroll round and ascertain
who it was who wished so particularly to speak with her.

I do not think, now that I reflect calmly, that this determination was
prompted by any feeling of jealousy, but rather by a strong desire to
discover the truth regarding her connection with the Quai d'Orsay.
Anyhow, I brushed my hair, settled my cravat, replaced the decipher-book
in the safe, and, taking my hat, strolled out into the blazing
afternoon.

Would she herself keep the appointment, I wondered?  Surely not!  She
was too busy making preparations for a hasty departure.  Nevertheless,
she might have sent a message to her mysterious correspondent regretting
her inability to be present.  Anyhow, I was determined to watch and
ascertain for myself.

The English tea-shop in the Rue Royale is known, I daresay, to a good
many of my lady readers who go shopping in the Madeleine quarter,
bargain-hunting in the Louvre, or strolling about the grand boulevards
watching Parisian life in all its many phases.  Tea such as that to
which English people are accustomed is difficult to obtain in Paris
hotels.  It usually turns out to be slightly discoloured hot water,
served in a teapot upon the spout of which hangs a more or less useless
strainer.  With the addition of sugar and milk, the beverage becomes
both weak to the eye and nauseous to the palate, while in the bill at a
first-class hotel the unfortunate visitor finds himself charged two
francs for "one tea simple."  The English shop in the Rue Royale, known
to the Englishman in Paris as the "Bun-shop," is like Henry's, or the
American bar at the Chatham, where presides the ubiquitous Johnnie with
the small moustache, one of the institutions of the English colony.  It
is a rendezvous for the ladies, just as the Chatham bar is crowded at
four o'clock by Englishmen resident in the gay capital, with a
sprinkling of those misguided and decadent Paris youths who term
themselves Orleanists and play at political conspiracy.

The "Bun-shop" is generally full from four to five, be it summer or
winter.  In the season it is patronised largely by chic Parisiennes and
their male encumbrances, generally laden with small parcels; while in
summer the British tourists in their blouses and short tailor-made
skirts, which serve alike for the boulevards and the Alps, seem to scent
it out and make it their habitual house of call.

When I strolled in, the crowd at the little tables mostly hailed from
those essentially British hotels in the Rue Caumartin.  Being a
Britisher, I naturally hesitate to criticise the get-up of the tourist
to Paris.  But it is always a matter of speculation to those of us who
live abroad why our compatriot, who would not be seen in a golf-cap in
the Strand or Piccadilly, invariably sports one when he patronises the
boulevards, and conducts himself, when in what he calls "gay Paree," in
a fashion which often makes one think that he has left his manners
behind in England together with his silk hat.  The fair-faced English
girl in cotton blouse and straw hat is always a common object in the
"Bun-shop," and on this afternoon she was predominant, and the chatter
in English was general.

I found one of the little tables free, and, discovering an illustrated
paper, sat with it before me, making an examination of each little group
visible from my seat.  Not a single person, however, excited my
suspicion.  Apparently no one was waiting, save a girl in black, a
Parisienne evidently, who, being joined presently by a gentleman,
finished her tea and went forth.

The clock showed it to be already five, and as I sat sipping my cup and
feigning to read the _Graphic_, I became more and more convinced that
Yolande, finding herself unable to keep the appointment, had sent an
excuse.

About me sounded the gossip which one always hears among the feminine
tourists in Paris: the criticisms of the Louvre museum, the eulogies of
the "lovely things" in the Rue de la Paix, and the delight at wonderful
bargains obtained at the Bon Marche.  It is always the same.  The tide
of tourists is never-ceasing; and the impression which Paris makes upon
the Englishman or Englishwoman is always exactly similar.  Those who
spend a fortnight in the City of Pleasure always believe life there to
be a round of gaiety punctuated by fetes de nuit with Moulin Rouge
attractions.  These idolaters should live a year in Paris, when they
would soon discover that the French capital quickly becomes far more
monotonous than their own much-abused London.

The hands of the clock moved very slowly, and by degrees I got through
the whole of the cup-marked illustrated literature of the establishment.
Many of the merry gossips had risen and departed, and at half-past five
only two little groups remained.

At length a smart victoria stopped before the door, and a dark, rather
handsome, middle-aged, elegantly dressed woman descended, and, entering,
took a seat.  Her style was not English, that was certain; and by the
fact that she took lemon with her tea I judged her to be Russian,
although she addressed the waiter with an accent purely Parisian.  Her
footman stood at the door with the carriage-rug over his arm.  From the
inquisitive expression of her face I judged it to be the first time she
had visited the tea-shop.

Could she be waiting for Yolande?  I made a close examination of her
face, and saw that although she was just a trifle made-up, as are most
Parisiennes, she was nevertheless good-looking.  She sipped her tea
leisurely, nibbled a biscuit, and was readjusting her veil by twisting
it beneath her chin, when suddenly the silhouette of a figure appeared
in the open doorway.

I glanced up quickly over the top of my piper, and in an instant
recognised the new-comer, who looked very smart in his well-cut
frock-coat, silk hat, and light grey suede gloves.  He hesitated for an
instant on the threshold and glanced swiftly around.  No sooner had his
eyes fallen upon the woman sitting there than he turned instantly, went
out, and was next moment lost to sight.

The man who had stood in the doorway during that brief moment, and who
had apparently retreated owing to the presence of the woman whose
carriage was awaiting her, was none other than the individual whose
arrival in Paris was so inexplicable--the man known as Rodolphe Wolf.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE SPY'S REPORT.

So swiftly did the figure disappear from the doorway of the patisserie
that I doubt whether the elegant woman there seated had been aware of
his presence.  She was sitting with her face half turned from the door,
and, unless by means of the mirror, she could not possibly have
witnessed his sudden hesitation and disappearance.  That he intended
entering there, and had been prevented by her presence, was manifest.
He had no desire to be seen by her, that was quite evident.

Again it seemed as though Yolande's mysterious correspondent was
actually this man, whose presence in Paris had caused her so much
anxiety.

A sudden impulse led me to go forth and keep watch upon his movements,
and as I passed out I took note of the fine equipage, and saw that upon
the harness was a duke's coronet, beneath which was a cipher so
intricate that I could not unravel it.  The woman within was evidently
some notability, but a foreigner; otherwise I should have recognised
her, knowing as I did, by sight, all smart Paris.  Her attitude, seated
at that little table sipping her tea and lemon, was so calm that I felt
assured she was not there for the purpose of meeting Yolande, but only
for rest and a cup of that refreshing decoction so dear to the feminine
palate.  Nevertheless, I was puzzled to know who she was, and why her
presence had had such a terrifying effect upon the man who had come and
fled like a shadow.

I hurried along in the direction he had taken, down to the Place de la
Concorde.  Whether he had really detected my presence or not I was
undecided.  I believed and hoped not.  I had had a paper before my face
at the moment of his appearance, and it had seemed to me that when his
eyes fell upon the lady sipping her tea, he did not pause to make
further investigation.  I was looking for him eagerly among the hurrying
foot-passengers, when, just as I turned the corner by the grey wall of
the Ministry of Marine, I saw his thin, tall figure cross the road and
mount upon the imperiale of one of the omnibuses going towards the
Bastille.  At the same moment a second omnibus passed, travelling in the
same direction, down the Rue de Rivoli, and without hesitation I jumped
upon it, and, also mounting the imperiale, was thus able to follow him
without much risk of detection.  I kept my eyes upon his glossy silk hat
some distance ahead as we travelled along the fine, broad thoroughfare,
past the Continental, the Tuileries Gardens, the Louvre, and the quaint
old Tour St. Jacques, until both vehicles pulled up at the corner of the
wide Place de l'Hotel de Ville, where he descended.

I quickly ran down the steps, and, sauntering along with affected
carelessness, followed him across the Place and along to the Quai des
Celestins, where he suddenly halted, glanced quickly around as though
desiring to escape observation, and then entered an uninviting-looking
door of one of those rickety dwellings which are among the most ancient
and most unwholesome in Paris.  The door he entered seemed to be the
private entrance to a dingy little shop that sold fishing-tackle, wicker
eel-traps, and such-like necessities for the angler.  The manner in
which he entered was distinctly suspicious, but I congratulated myself
that, while he had not detected me, I had run him to earth.

He was a smart, rather foppish man of military appearance, though
somewhat foreign-looking; thin-faced, black-haired, with a small, black,
pointed beard, and a pair of cold grey eyes, sharp and penetrating; an
erect, rather imposing, figure, which if once seen impressed itself upon
one.  Outwardly he bore the stamp of good breeding and superiority, and
he now called himself Rodolphe Wolf.  It was strange--very strange.

I noted the house he had entered, then, turning, walked slowly along the
Rue St. Paul, and so regained the upper end of the Rue de Rivoli; and as
I strolled along my thoughts were indeed complex ones.  Sight of that
man recalled a chapter of my life which I had hoped was sealed for ever.
Of all men in the world he was the very last I should have dreamed of
meeting.  But as he had not detected me, for the present I possessed the
advantage.

That thin, superior-looking man who had strolled so airily along the
Quai, smart in his silk hat and pearl-grey gloves, and carrying his cane
with such a jaunty air, was a man whose name had once been known
throughout Europe--a man, indeed, of world-wide notoriety.  In those
days, however, he did not call himself Rodolphe Wolf.  He had changed
his name, it was true, but he could never succeed in changing his
personality.  Besides, the name he used had given me, who alone knew his
secret, a clue to his identity.  When Sibyl had mentioned the name and
described him as a chance acquaintance at the Baronne's, I felt
convinced as to the truth.  Yolande, too, seemed aware of his change of
name, for so sudden had been my announcement that he was in Paris that
she had been completely taken by surprise, and had made no attempt to
declare herself ignorant of my meaning.


At the corner of the Caserne, in the Rue de Rivoli, I sprang into a
fiacre, and told the man to drive to the Cafe de la Paix, where, seated
upon one of the little wicker chairs in the warm sunset, I drank my
mazagran and allowed my thoughts to run back to the time when this man
had played so important a part in my life.  All those strange
circumstances came back to me as vividly as though they had happened but
yesterday.  He had once been my friend, but now he was my bitterest
enemy.

Count Rodolphe d'Egloffstein-Wolfsburg, or as he now preferred to be
called, Rodolphe Wolf, was in Paris.  He had returned as though from the
grave, and was apparently living in seclusion in an exceedingly
unfashionable apartment over the fishing-tackle shop beside the Seine.
It was over two years since report had declared him to be dead, and I
had congratulated myself upon an escape from what had seemed an
inevitable disaster; yet that report was false.  He was alive, and I had
no doubt that he meant mischief.

Yet why did Yolande fear him?  This fact puzzled me.  They had been
acquainted in the old days, it was true, but what cause she had to hate
him I could not discern.  Something had passed between them of which I
had remained in ignorance.  Strange, too, that the Austrian Ambassador
should introduce him at the Baroness's reception!  With what motive?  I
wondered.  Surely he must know from the Diplomatic List that I was now
in Paris, and that at any sign of hostility on his part I should expose
him and explain the whole truth.  He was playing a dangerous game,
whatever it was; and I, too, felt myself to be in deadly peril.

I sat there trying to review the situation with calmness, but could see
no solution of the problem.  The truth was that, believing him to be
dead, I had given no heed to that sealed chapter of my history, and now
the ghastly truth had fallen upon me as a thunderbolt.  Sibyl had met
and liked him.  She had in her ignorance declared
d'Egloffstein-Wolfsburg to be a charming fellow.  There was a touch of
grim humour in the situation.

Fate seems sometimes to conspire against us.  At such times it is no use
kicking against the pricks.  The proper course is to accept misfortune
with the largest amount of good-humour possible in the circumstances,
and just to treat one's sorrows lightly until they pass.  This is, I am
aware, counsel excellent in kind, but extremely difficult to follow.  At
that moment I felt crushed beneath the weight of sudden misfortune.  All
my future seemed dark and hopeless, without a single ray of happiness.

The mystery surrounding Yolande's actions, the suspicion resting upon
the Countess of having made a dastardly attempt upon her daughter's
life, the manner in which knowledge of our secret despatch had been
obtained and our diplomatic efforts thereby checkmated, and the reason
of the sudden appearance in Paris of my most bitter enemy, formed a
problem which, maddening in its complexity, appeared to admit of no
solution.

Two men of my acquaintance came up and shook my hand in passing, but
what words I uttered I have no idea.  My thoughts were, at that hour,
when the Place de l'Opera was bathed in the crimson afterglow, far away
from the busy whirl of central Paris, away in that peaceful forest glade
where took place that incident by which I so narrowly escaped with my
life.  The whole scene came before me now.  I remembered every detail of
that night long ago.

Bah!  My cigar tasted bitter, and I flung it across the pavement into
the gutter.  Would that I could have put from me all recollection as
easily as I cast that remnant away!  Alas!  I knew that such a course
was impossible.  The ghost of the past had arisen to overshadow the
future.

Next day at noon I sat with the Ambassador in his private room
discussing the political outlook.  He had exchanged telegraphic
despatches with Downing Street during the morning, and I knew from the
deciphers which I had made that never in the course of my career as a
diplomatist had the European situation been so critical.

Try how we would in Madrid, in Berlin, and in Vienna, we could obtain
absolutely no confirmation of our suspicions that Ceuta had been sold by
Spain to France.  At the first rumours of the impending sale of this
strategic point the machinery of our secret service in the various
capitals had been set to work, and under the ubiquitous Kaye no stone
had been left unturned in order to get at the real truth of this grave
menace to England's power in the Mediterranean.

His Excellency, leaning back in his favourite cane chair, was grave and
thoughtful, for again he had declared:

"All this is owing to those confounded spies!  Here, in Paris, nothing
can be conducted fairly and above-board.  I really don't know, Ingram,
what will be the outcome."

"Do you consider the situation so very critical, then?"  I asked.

"Critical?  I certainly do.  It is more than critical.  With this
scurrilous Press against us, popular feeling so extremely antagonistic
towards England, and the difficulties in the Transvaal, only a single
spark is required to produce an explosion.  You know what that would
mean?"

"The long-predicted European war?"

He nodded, and his grey face grew greyer.  I had never seen him more
gloomy than at that moment.  While we were talking, Harding rapped at
the door and asked:

"Will Your Excellency see Mr. Grew?"

The Ambassador turned quickly, exchanged a glance with me, and answered
at once in the affirmative.  For two persons His Excellency was at all
times unengaged--for Kaye and for his trusted assistant, Samuel Grew.

A few moments later a rather under-sized, bald-headed, gentlemanly
little man entered and seated himself, at the Chief's invitation.  He
was well-dressed, round-faced, with longish grey whiskers, and in his
manner was the air of a thorough cosmopolitan, with just a trifle of the
bon viveur.

"Well, Grew," inquired His Excellency, "anything fresh?"

"I have come to report to Your Excellency upon my visit to Ceuta."

"What!" the Ambassador exclaimed in astonishment.  "Have you actually
been there and returned?"

"Certainly," the other answered, smiling.  "I can move swiftly when
necessary.  I was in Barcelona when I received my telegraphic
instructions, and set out at once."

"Well, tell us the result of your observations," urged Lord Barmouth,
instantly interested.

"I went down to Algeciras, and crossed to the much-discussed penal
settlement by boat.  Before I could do so, I was compelled to get a
permit from the commander of the Algeciras garrison, and only then was
allowed to board the steamship, whose every nut, screw, and chain was
screaming for a little oil, whose hands stretched themselves on deck in
the sun and left the work to the captain and his engineer, while they
sang songs and smoked cigarettes.  There were very few passengers,
mostly women, who sang until the steamer cut across the Straits in the
teeth of the wind; then they ceased to sing and commenced to pray.  In
little more than two hours we were just off Ceuta--a long, straggling
Spanish town, the convict station high up on the eastern hill, with
stone-work fortifications, that would hardly endure three hours'
attention from modern guns, down to the water's edge, and beyond, to the
west, well-cultivated fields full of young wheat or barley.  Arrived on
shore, I was summoned to a shed, where a severe official in uniform
examined my papers, recorded my age and other details in a book,
returned the passport, and told me that if I wished to leave Ceuta at
any time I must go to the commandant and get his written permission to
do so.  Later on, the native who showed me the way to the Governor's
house made an explanation that was less satisfactory than he intended.
`You see, senor,' he said, `we have a great many convicts here, and they
are very like you.  I mean to say,' he went on, feeling that he had not
expressed himself happily, `that they are often dressed to look like
gentlemen.'  I then changed the conversation."

"And how about the fortifications?"  His Excellency inquired.

"I have full plans and photographs of them," answered the member of the
secret service.  "The photographs are on films, as yet undeveloped, and
I at once posted them to an address in Bale, so as to get rid of them
from my possession.  The plans, on tissue paper, I have here in my
walking-stick," he added, smiling grimly and holding up to our view his
rather battered ebony cane with a silver knob.

"Aren't you afraid of anyone prying into that?"  I asked.

"Not at all.  The knob is removable, as you see," and he unscrewed it,
revealing a small cavity with a compass set in the top.  "But no one
ever suspects the ferrule.  There is a hidden spring in it;" and,
inverting the stick, he opened the ferrule, disclosing a small cavity in
which reposed some tiny pieces of tissue closely resembling rolled
cigarette papers.

It is against the British principles of openness and fairness to employ
secret agents; but in these days, when spies abound everywhere and the
whole of Europe is a vast network of political intrigue, we cannot
afford to sit inactive and remain in contented ignorance.

"You will make a full report later, with photographs and plans, I
presume?"  His Excellency suggested.

"Yes.  But knowing the importance of the matter I came straight to make
a verbal report to Your Excellency.  I arrived in Paris only an hour
ago.  At present Ceuta does not impress the eye of the person who knows
something of England's fortified stations.  Gibraltar stands on guard
across the water, presenting nothing but a towering, bare rock,
honeycombed with hidden batteries, to which all Ceuta lies exposed.
While Gibraltar is of solid rock, the vegetation round and in Ceuta
hints at a more mixed material, and an immense amount of money would be
required to make fortifications that would fulfil all modern
requirements.  The expenditure might work wonders, for the town has the
sea on all sides, and could be completely isolated by flooding the strip
of land that fronts the Bay.  The present garrison consists of five
thousand soldiers, including a regiment of Moors, who in point of
physique are the best men in the place.  Ceuta itself is rather a pretty
town, so thoroughly Spanish that the few Moors and Arabs met in the
streets are objects of interest.  The houses are small, and often built
round the cool patios dear to southern Spain.  The balconies stretch so
far across the streets that groups of girls sit all day, except in the
hours of noon, chatting with their neighbours across the way."

"And what does your visit lead you to conclude?" inquired His
Excellency, all attention to this statement of the well-trained secret
agent.

"I am of opinion that the present condition of Ceuta need inspire no
uneasiness.  Our latest and heaviest guns completely command the town;
and if, in an hour of universal commotion, the unexpected happened, and
Spain gave up her possession, very long and expensive work would be
required to render the position tenable."

"And have you made arrangements for further information?" asked Lord
Barmouth.

"Yes.  We shall be at once informed of any fortification of Ceuta
conducted at a cost out of proportion to Spanish resources--say at the
expense and on behalf of a Power that would hope to acquire it
suddenly."

"Good," observed the Chief in a tone of approval.  "I congratulate you,
Mr. Grew, upon your smartness in this affair.  But you have not told me
whether you discovered any French agents there?"

"None.  I went in the guise of a Frenchman, with a French passport, and
searched for any compatriots, but found none whom I could suspect."

"Well," responded the Ambassador, rising, as a sign that the audience
was at an end, "it behoves us to be constantly on the alert in face of
the network of French intrigue that threatens England in the land of the
Moors, and consequently at one end of the Mediterranean."

Then the keen, bald-headed, little man, highly pleased by the Chief's
word of commendation, bowed and withdrew, taking with him the precious
walking-stick in which were concealed the plans of the Spanish
fortifications.

His Excellency sighed when the man had gone, and after a pause exclaimed
seriously:

"I can't help regarding the affair, Ingram, as something more than a
political ballon d'essai.  The silence of our friends both in the
Boulevard de Courcelles and the Rue de Lille is very ominous."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SMART PARIS.

On the following afternoon, as Lord Barmouth had some business with the
Minister of Foreign Affairs over at the Quai d'Orsay, I accompanied Lady
Barmouth and Sibyl to a rather queer function.  It was a unique
opportunity offered to visit in detail one of the most attractive
palaces in La Ville Lumiere; to while away a few hours very agreeably
with a well-chosen variety entertainment presented by some of the most
popular artists on the Paris stage; and to aid a philanthropic
enterprise, L'Oeuvre Sociale, conceived, I suppose, in a compassionate
love of humanity and carried on in a touching spirit of self-abnegation.
The palace was that of Prince Roland Bonaparte, in the Avenue d'Jena.
Through the galleries, salons, and magnificent library the crush was
enormous.  The afternoon was hot and the atmosphere stifling;
nevertheless, in the cause of charity we of the diplomatic circle must
always be en evidence, even though we would rather be away from the
crowd in the country or by the sea.

It was evident when we arrived that the visit to the hotel was one of
the great attractions of the fete, for many lady visitors, especially
the American contingent, examined and admired the handsome staircase,
with its green marble columns, its vast collection of pictures,
sculpture, bronzes, tapestries, and curiosities, the salons filled with
souvenirs of the First Empire and of the Imperial family, and the
incomparable library--that of Louis XIV--in exquisitely carved wood.

We mounted to the vestibule on the first floor, where a concert-room had
been fitted up, and there with difficulty found seats among the crowded
audience.

Aristide Bruant himself was concluding one of his popular songs of the
street:

  La moral' de c'tte oraison-la,
  C'est qu' les p'tit's fill's qu'a pas d' papa,
  Doiv'nt jamais aller a l'ecole,
  A Batignolles,

and bowed himself off amid thunders of applause.  As a Paris singer has
not to submit his lines to a paternal County Council, they are
frequently a trifle more free than those to which English audiences are
in the habit of listening.  Nevertheless, it must be remembered that
this charity function was a very smart affair, all the best-known people
remaining in Paris being present.  After Bruant, an outburst of applause
greeted the renowned Spanish dancer, La Belle Otero, who danced and
sang, followed by pastourelles of the eighteenth century, romances by
Florian and Marie Antoinette, and songs by Paulus.  Lastly, there
bounded upon the stage Eugenie Buffet, the "chanteuse des rues,"
together with her troupe.  She sang that weird song of Paris life so
popular at the cafes, called "A la Villette," commencing:

  Il avait pas encor' vingt ans,
  I' connaissait pas ses parents,
  On l'app'lait Toto Laripette,
  A la Villette.
  Il etait un peu sans facon,
  Mais c'etait un joli garcon:
  C'etait l'pus beau, c'etait l'pus chouette,
  A la Villette.

The audience had heard much of the song, but few of those present had
ever ventured into the insignificant cafe where she sang it nightly.
Consequently there was distinct novelty in it.  She sang it through, to
the accompaniment of her street musicians, until she came to the final
verse:

  La dernier' fois que je l'ai vu,
  Il avait l'torse a moitie nu,
  Et le cou pris dans la lunette,
  A la Roquette.

Then, with a sudden outb

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41000