Chapter Twelve. An Important Dispatch.

Half an hour later I stood at the door of the small post-office in the Lobby, after discussing the situation with that most cheery and courteous of officials, Mr Pike, the postmaster, who had left me for a moment to give some instructions to his subordinates. My mind was filled by gloomy thoughts, as I reflected that all this national terror and excitement had been produced by the dastardly and almost miraculous ingenuity of some unknown person.

But was he unknown? Was it not more than probable that the person to whom all this was due was Dudley Ogle, the man who lay lifeless without a single sorrowing friend to follow his body to the grave? Sometimes I felt entirely convinced of this: at others I doubted it. If Ella spoke the truth, as it now appeared, then it was plain that Dudley had been the victim of a terribly cruel and crafty conspiracy that culminated in his death. Might not this be so, I argued within myself. Yet the words and actions of Ella were all so remarkable, so veiled by an impenetrable mystery, that any endeavour to elucidate her reasons only puzzled me the more, driving me almost to the verge of madness.

Truth to tell, I loved her with a fond, passionate love, and had, only after months of trepidation and uncertainty, succeeded in obtaining her declaration that she reciprocated my affection, and her promise to be my wife. Yet within a month of my new-born life in happiness supreme, all these untoward events had, alas! occurred, stifling my joy, replacing confidence by doubt, and driving me to despair.

While I stood there alone, Lord Warnham hastily approached the post-office window with a telegram, and, seeing me, exclaimed,—

“Ah! I want you, Deedes. An hour ago I sent telegrams everywhere for you. Come with me to my room.”

He handed in his telegram, and together we went along the corridors to his own private room, where, in an armchair, with some papers in his hand, sat the Marquis of Maybury, Prime Minister of England. We had met before many times when the burly, elderly peer had been a guest at Warnham Hall, and on many occasions I had acted as his secretary when he had been alone.

“Well, Deedes,” he exclaimed gravely, looking up suddenly from the papers, “Lord Warnham has explained to me the mysterious theft of the secret convention, and I am anxious to see you regarding it.”

The Foreign Minister seated himself at his table in silence, with folded arms, as the world-renowned statesman proceeded to question me closely regarding the events of that memorable day when the document had been so ingeniously stolen.

“Have you not the slightest clue to the culprit, even now?” Lord Maybury asked at last, stroking his full grey beard. “Remember that England’s honour and her future depends absolutely upon the issue of this serious complication. If you can furnish us with any information, it is just possible that diplomacy may do something, even at the eleventh hour. You see we have lost the original of the convention, and this, if produced in Petersburg, is sufficient evidence against us to upset all our protestations.”

“I have told Lord Warnham all I know,” I answered calmly. “To him I have explained my suspicions.”

“That this friend of yours called Ogle, who died mysteriously on that very same day, was the actual spy,” he observed. “Some of the facts certainly point to such a conclusion; but, now tell me, did Ogle enter your room at the Foreign Office on that day?”

“Certainly not,” I replied. “No one is allowed in my room except the clerks.”

“Could he have seen the envelope sticking out of your pocket?”

“No,” I answered. “I am confident he could not, because, on placing it in my pocket, a deep one, I took precaution to notice whether it were visible.”

“Then, if such is the case, I maintain that Ogle could not possibly have known what designation you had written upon the envelope,” the Premier observed; adding, “Did you meet anyone you knew during your walk to the Ship, or while you were in Ogle’s company?”

“No one whatever,” I said.

“I know the Ship. At which table did you sit?”

“At the first table on the left, in the inner room beyond the bar. I sat in the corner, with my back to a high partition. Therefore, the envelope could not possibly have been extracted from my pocket without my knowledge.”

“Then I should like to hear your theory of the affair,” said the Prime Minister, his dark, penetrating eyes fixed upon me.

“It is so remarkable,” I answered, “that I am utterly unable to form any idea how the theft was accomplished.”

“You believe, however, that Ogle was a spy?”

“At present, yes,” I said. “And further, I have grave suspicions that he was murdered.”

“Ah, that was alleged at the inquest,” his Lordship observed. “At present the police are sparing no effort to determine the cause of his death, and to find out who manufactured the duplicate of Lord Warnham’s seal.”

“The seal I picked up from among the contents of Ogle’s pockets was not the identical one used to secure the dummy envelope,” I said quickly.

“I am fully aware of all the facts,” he answered rather coldly. “My desire is to find out something fresh. Even the police seem utterly baffled. Who is this young woman, Ella Laing, who at the inquest alleged murder?”

“The daughter of Mrs Laing, of Pont Street.”

“Do you know her intimately?”

“She is engaged to be married to me,” I replied.

“It is apparent that she was very friendly with this Ogle. Surely you can induce her to tell you something about him.”

“She knows but little more than what I already know. He lived with me at Shepperton, and had few secrets from me.”

“Did you ever suspect him to be a spy?”

“Not for one moment. He had plenty of money of his own, and was in no sense an adventurer.”

“Well,” exclaimed the Premier, turning to his colleague at last. “It is extraordinary—most extraordinary.”

Lord Warnham nodded acquiescence, and said, “Yes, there is a deep and extraordinary mystery somewhere: a mystery we must, for the sake of our own honour, penetrate and elucidate.”

“I entirely agree,” answered the other. “We have been victimised by clever spies.”

“And all owing to Deedes’s culpable negligence,” added Lord Warnham, testily, glancing at me.

“No, I am inclined to differ,” exclaimed the Premier. He had never acted very generously towards me, and I was surprised that he should at this moment take up the cudgels on my behalf. “To me it appears, as far as the facts go, that Deedes has been victimised in the same manner as ourselves.”

“But if he had exercised due caution this terrible catastrophe could never have occurred,” the Foreign Minister cried impatiently, tapping the table with his pen in emphasis of his words.

“A little more than mere caution, or even shrewdness, is required to defeat the efforts of the Tzar’s spies,” the Premier said quietly. “In my opinion, Deedes, although in a measure under suspicion, cannot be actually condemned. Remember, among Ogle’s correspondence he discovered evidence of an undoubted attempt to forge his handwriting.”

“We have no corroboration that he really did find that actually among the dead man’s possessions,” exclaimed Lord Warnham quickly. “I have myself seen the detective who accompanied him to Shepperton, and he tells me that no sheets of paper of that character were discovered. He—”

“I found them while he was engaged in an adjoining room,” I interrupted. “I did not mention it to him, preferring to bring the evidence straight to you.”

“It is just possible that Deedes’s version is correct,” observed the Premier. “Personally, I must say, Warnham, that I cannot see any ground for the dismissal of a hitherto trustworthy servant of Her Majesty upon this extraordinary evidence. I have always found Deedes upright, loyal and patriotic, and coming as he does of a well-known family of diplomats, I really do not suspect him of having played his country false.”

“I am obliged for your Lordship’s words,” I exclaimed fervently. “I assure you that your merciful view is entirely correct. I am innocent, and at this moment am utterly at a loss to account for any of the amazing events of the past few days.”

Lord Warnham was silent in thought for a few moments, then, turning his sphinx-like face to me, he said, in a tone rather more conciliatory than before, “Very well. As it is Lord Maybury’s wish, I will reinstate you in the Service; but remember, I have no confidence in you.”

“Then you still suspect me of being a spy?” I cried reproachfully. “I am to remain under suspicion!”

“Exactly,” he answered dryly. “Until the truth is ascertained I, at least, shall believe you had something to do with the theft of that secret convention. Even the telegram sent from the Strand Post-Office to St Petersburg is in your handwriting—”

“Forged!” I interposed. “Have you not already seen the careful attempts made to copy the formation of my letters and figures?”

“The greatest calligraphic expert of the day has pronounced the telegram to be undoubtedly in your own hand, while the counter-clerk who took in the message and received payment for it, has seen you surreptitiously, and recognised you by the shape of the silk hat you habitually wear.”

Here was an astounding case of mistaken identity. I had never entered the post-office near Exeter Hall for six months at least.

“I should like to meet that clerk face to face,” I burst forth. “He tells a distinct falsehood when he says he recognises me. I did not go into the Strand at all on that day.” Then a thought suddenly occurred to me when I reflected upon the shape of my hat, and I added, “I admit that my hat is of a rather unusual shape,” taking it up and exhibiting it to them. “But when I bought this in Piccadilly two months ago Ogle was with me, and he purchased one exactly similar.”

“Again the evidence is against the dead man,” the Premier said, turning to Lord Warnham. “Where is his hat?” he inquired of me sharply.

“At Shepperton. I can produce it if required. Its shape is exactly like mine.”

“You had better speak to Frayling upon that point,” observed Lord Warnham. “It may prove important. At any rate, Deedes, perhaps, after all, I have been just a trifle unjust in condemning you, therefore consider yourself reinstated in the same position as before, although I must admit that my previous confidence in your integrity is, to say the least, seriously—very seriously—impaired.”

“I hope it will not remain so long,” I said. “If there is anything I can do to restore your belief in my honesty, I will do it at whatever cost.”

“There is but one thing,” he exclaimed. “Discover the identity of the spy.”

“I will regard that the one endeavour of my life,” I declared earnestly. “If the mystery is to be fathomed I will accomplish it.”

“While we’ve been talking,” the Premier interposed, “a thought has occurred to me, and for mentioning it I hope you, Deedes, will pardon me. It has struck me that if, as seems even more than likely, this man Ogle was actually a spy who had carefully cultivated your acquaintance with an ulterior motive, is it not within the range of possibility that the lady, who was also your most intimate friend, as well as his, either knew the true facts, or had a hand in the affair?”

“I can trust Ella,” I said, glancing at him resentfully. “She is no spy.”

The elderly statesman stroked his beard thoughtfully and smiled, saying, “Ah, I expected as much. I myself was young once. When a man loves a woman he is very loth to think her capable of deceit. Yet in this instance we must not overlook the fact that more than one female spy has been brought under our notice.”

“I am aware of that,” I replied, angry that he should have made such a suggestion against my well-beloved, yet remembering her strange utterances when she heard the news of impending war shouted in the street. “But I have the most implicit faith in the woman who is to be my wife.”

“Has she explained, then, the character of the secret existing between herself and Ogle?” asked Lord Warnham, raising his grey, shaggy brows. “From the evidence at the inquest it was plain, you will remember, that there was some mysterious understanding between them. Has she given you her reasons for declaring that Ogle has been murdered?”

For a moment I was silent; afterwards I was compelled to make a negative reply.

“That doesn’t appear like perfect confidence, does it?” the Foreign Minister observed, with a short, hard laugh. “Depend upon it, Deedes, she fears to tell you the truth.”

“No, she fears some other person,” I admitted. “Who it is I know not.”

“Find out, and we shall then discover the spy,” the Premier said, adding, with a touch of sympathy, after a moment’s pause, “Remember, I allege nothing against you, Deedes. Do your duty, and regardless of all consequences discover the means by which we have been tricked. Induce the woman you love to speak; nay, if she loves you, force her to do so, for a woman who truly loves a man will do anything to benefit him, otherwise she is unworthy to become his wife. Some day ere long you yourself will become a diplomat, as other members of your family have been. Now is the time to practise tact, the first requisite of successful diplomacy. Be tactful, be resourceful, be cunning, and look far into the future, and you will succeed both in clearing yourself and in explaining this, the most remarkable mystery that has occurred during the long years of my administration.”

I thanked him briefly for his advice, declaring that it should be my firm endeavour to follow it, and also thanked Lord Warnham for my re-instatement, but my words were interrupted by a loud double knock at the door, and in response to an injunction to enter, there appeared, hot and breathless, Frank Lawley, one of the Foreign Office messengers. He wore, half-concealed by his overcoat, his small enamelled greyhound suspended around his neck by a thin chain, his badge of office, and in his hand carried one of the familiar travelling dispatch-boxes.

“Good evening, your Lordships,” he exclaimed, greeting us.

“Where are you from, Lawley?” inquired Lord Warnham, eagerly.

“From Paris, your Lordship. My dispatch, under flying seal, is, I believe, most important. The Marquis of Worthorpe feared to trust it on the wire.”

In an instant both Premier and Minister sprang to their feet. While Lord Maybury broke the seals Lord Warnham whipped out his keys, opened the outer case, and then the inner red leather box, from which he drew forth a single envelope.

This he tore open, and holding beneath the softly-shaded electric lamp the sheet of note-paper that bore the heading of our Embassy in Paris, both of Her Majesty’s Ministers eagerly devoured its contents.

When they had done so they held their breath, raised their heads, and without speaking, looked at each other in abject dismay. The contents of the dispatch held them spellbound.

The window of the room was open, and the dull, distant roaring of the great, turbulent multitude broke upon our ears. The excitement outside had risen to fever heat.