The Under-Secretary

And yet, after all, he was a fool to run such risks, he told himself. To fear to offend the susceptibilities of his guests was all very well, but with the many confidential documents in his possession he ought in all conscience to be more careful.

As the evening was biting cold and the keen north-east wind had caught his face while driving, in the warmth his cheeks were burning hot. Muriel, practised flirt that she was, believed their redness to be due to an inward turmoil caused by her presence. Hence she presumed to coquet with him, laughing, joking, chaffing in a manner which displayed her conversational, mobility to perfection. He, on his part, allowed her to proceed, eager to divine her motive.

“We go south at the end of January,” she said at last, in answer to his question. “Sir Henry thinks of taking a villa at Beaulieu this season. Last year we were in Nice, but found it too crowded and noisy at Carnival.”

“Beaulieu is charming,” he said. “More especially that part known as La Petite Afrique.”

“That’s where the villa is situated – facing the sea. One of those four white villas in the little bay.”

“The most charming spot on the whole Riviera. By the way,” he added, “one of my old friends is already in Cannes, Colonel Murray-Kerr. Do you happen to know him? He was military attach at Vienna, Rome and Paris until he retired.”

A curious expression passed over her countenance as he mentioned the name. But it vanished instantly, as, glancing up, she looked at him with the frank look that was so characteristic.

“No. I don’t think we have ever met. Murray-Kerr? No. The name is not familiar. He was in the diplomatic service, you say?”

“Yes, for about fifteen years. I had hoped he would have been one of the party here, but he slipped away a week ago, attracted, as usual in winter, by the charms of Cannes.”

“He gambles at Monte Carlo, I suppose?”

“I think not. He’s, nowadays, one of the old fogies of the Junior United Service, and thinks of nothing but the lustre of his patent-leather boots and the chance of shooting with friends. But he’s so well-known in town, I felt sure that you must have met him,” added Dudley meaningly.

“One meets so many people,” she replied carelessly, “and so many are not introduced by name, that it is difficult to recollect. We haven’t the least knowledge of the names of people we’ve known by sight for months. And I’m awfully bad at recollecting names. I always remember faces, but can’t furnish them with names. The position is often extremely awkward and ludicrous.”

The false note in her explanation did not escape his sensitive hearing. Her sudden glances of surprise and annoyance when he had mentioned the colonel’s name had roused suspicion in his mind, and he felt convinced that she was well acquainted with the man who had warned him against her in such mysterious terms.

“If I remember aright,” he said, “the colonel once mentioned you.”

“Mentioned me?” she exclaimed with undisguised surprise, and not without an expression of alarm. In an instant, however, she recovered her self-possession. “Did he say any nice things of me?”

“Of course,” he laughed. “Could he say otherwise?”

“Ah! I don’t know. He might if he was not acquainted with me.”

“Then he is acquainted with you?” exclaimed Dudley quickly.

“No, why – how silly! I really do not know your friend. Indeed, I have never heard of him. It seems that if what you tell me is correct I have an unknown admirer.”

Dudley smiled. He was reflecting upon the colonel’s warning, and her replies to his questions made it all the more plain that she was denying knowledge of a man with whom she was well acquainted.

“Did he say when he had met me?” she asked.

“I don’t really recollect. The conversation took place while several other persons were talking loudly, and many of his words were lost to me.”

“He discussed my merits before we met at the duchess’s, I presume?”

“Yes. As I had not at that time the honour of your acquaintance, I took but little heed of the conversation.”

She looked at him with a covert glance, and with her fingers turned one of her rings round and round in a quick, nervous way. What, she was wondering, had Colonel Murray-Kerr said about her? The fact that she had been discussed by him was to her extremely disconcerting.

“Well,” she exclaimed a moment later, with a forced laugh, “as long as your friend did not speak ill of me, I suppose I ought not to complain of having my personal points openly discussed! Most smart women court the publicity of a smoking-room discussion.”

“Yes,” he replied in a hard voice, wondering whether her words were directed against Claudia, “unfortunately they do. But there are smart women and smart women. I trust, Miss Mortimer, that you have no desire to develop into one of the latter.”

“Certainly not,” she answered in all earnestness.

Half rising, she put her hand into her dress pocket, ostensibly to obtain her handkerchief, but in reality to place there a small piece of paper which she had crushed into her palm and held concealed when Dudley entered.

Her deft movement as she hid the paper was so swift that it entirely escaped his notice, while at the same moment Claudia, accompanied by two of the male guests, came into the library, thus putting an end to their tête-à-tête.

Dudley, still standing before the burning logs, continued chatting to Sir Henry’s ward, but, owing to the arrival of his other guests, it was no longer possible to keep the conversation in the same channel.

As he sat at dinner he could not prevent his eyes from wandering across to Muriel and from allowing strange thoughts to flit through his mind. At what had the colonel hinted in that very room months ago, when he had warned him to beware of her? He knew Murray-Kerr to be an easy-going cosmopolitan, whose acquaintance with diplomatic Europe was perhaps more extensive than that of any other living man, yet what possible object could he have had in urging him to be careful when he met that innocent-looking woman scarcely out of her teens?

Why Claudia had invited a woman who might become her rival in his affections was another enigma which was puzzling. There was some distinct object in this policy, but its real nature he was quite unable to fathom.

That night there was, as usual, a dance in the old banqueting hall, the high-roofed chamber that had long ago echoed to the boisterous merrymaking of those armoured knights whose coats of mail now stood round, and whose tattered banners hung above. Until half a century back, the old stone flooring, worn hollow by the tramp of generations of retainers, still existed, but Dudley’s grandfather had had an oak flooring placed over it, and it now served as the ballroom, even though at one end was the enormous hearth, where an ox could be roasted whole, while the wooden benches, at which the banqueters used to hold revel, served as seats for those who did not dance.

Few of the guests, however, refrained from the waltzing, so delightful were the attendant circumstances. Once during the evening Dudley found himself taking a turn with Claudia.

“I’ve wanted to speak to you for nearly an hour past,” she whispered to him, so low that none could overhear. “Some man, apparently an undesirable person, has called to see you.”

“To see me – at this hour? Why, it’s past midnight!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

“He will not give any details regarding his business,” she went on. “He only expressed a desire that none of the guests should be aware of his presence, and that he might have an interview alone with you.”

“A rather curious request at this time of night,” her companion observed. She noticed that he had turned pale, and that the hand holding hers perceptibly trembled. Their glances met, and he saw in her dark and brilliant eyes the love-look of old that was so unmistakable. Upon her countenance there was a look of concern, and this he strove at once to dispel by saying airily:

“I suppose it is some one who wants assistance or something. Where is he?”

“In your secretary’s room. I had him shown there, in order that his wish regarding the secrecy of his visit should be respected.”

“Then you have seen him?”

“Yes. You were not to be found at the moment, so, hearing the message he had given the servant, I saw him myself. He’s middle-aged, and rather shabbily dressed. From the state of his clothes I should think that he’s walked over from Shrewsbury. He told me that the matter on which he desired to see you was of the greatest urgency, and apologised for calling at such an hour.”

“Well,” he answered, “I suppose I’d better go and see the fellow, whoever he is. He may be some political crank or other. There are so many about.”

“Yes,” Claudia urged; “if I were you I’d go at once, and get rid of him. It appears that Riggs told him you could not be seen until the morning, but he absolutely refused to be sent away.”

“Very well, I’ll go and see who he is,” replied the Under-Secretary, only remaining calm by dint of the most strenuous effort. Then, leading his partner to a seat, he bowed, took leave of her, and slipped away from the ball through several arched doors and down the two long corridors until he came to a door at the end.

He was in the east wing of the castle, a part to which the visitors did not penetrate, for to do so it was necessary to cross the kitchen.

Before the closed door he paused, held his breath, and placed his hand instinctively upon his heart, as though to still its beating. He dared not advance farther.

Who, he wondered, was his visitor? Could it be that the blow which he had expected for so long had at length fallen?

Chapter Eighteen.

Introduces an Interesting Person

He hesitated for a moment; then, setting his jaws hard in sudden resolution, he turned the door-handle and entered.

Within, the long, low-ceilinged room was furnished as a kind of office. From an armchair near the fireless grate rose the spare figure of a grey-haired, grey-eyed, haggard-faced man of a type which might be described as shabby-genteel, a man who had without doubt seen better days. His features were refined, but his cheeks were sunken until the bones of the face showed plainly beneath the skin, and his hair and moustache, though grey, had prematurely lost their original colour. His tall, slim figure was straight, and he bowed to Chisholm with the easy manner of a gentleman. His overcoat of shabby grey Irish frieze was open, displaying a coat and vest much the worse for wear, while his upturned trousers were sodden by the melting snow.

“I understand that you wish, to see me,” Chisholm began, glancing at the fellow keenly, and not half liking his appearance. “This is a rather unusual hour for a visit, is it not?”

“Yes,” the man replied. “For the lateness of the hour I must apologise, but my trains did not fit, and I was compelled to walk from Shrewsbury.” He spoke in a refined voice, and his bearing was not that of a person who intended to ask assistance. Dudley possessed a quick insight into character, and could sum up a man as sharply and correctly as a lawyer with a wide experience of criminals.

“And what may your business be with me?” asked the master of Wroxeter.

The man glanced suspiciously at the door by which Dudley had entered, and asked:

“Are we alone? Do you think there can possibly be any eavesdroppers?”

“Certainly not. But I cannot understand why your business should be of such a purely private character. You are entirely unknown to me, and I understand that you refused to give a card.” He uttered the last words with a slight touch of sarcasm, for the man’s appearance was not such as would warrant the casual observer in believing him to be possessed of that mark of gentility.

“Of course I am unknown to you, Mr Chisholm. But although unknown to you in person, I am probably known to you by name.” As he spoke, he selected from his rather shabby pocket-book a folded paper, which he handed to Dudley. “This credential will, I think, satisfy you.”

Dudley took it, glanced at it, and started quickly. Then he fixed his eyes upon his visitor in boundless surprise. The man before him smiled faintly at the impression which the sight of that document had caused. The paper was headed with the British arms in scarlet, and contained only three lines written over a signature he knew well – the signature of the Prime Minister of England.

“And you are really Captain Cator?” exclaimed the Under-Secretary, looking at him in amazement, and handing him back his credential.

“Yes, Archibald Cator, chief of Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” said the shrunken-faced man. “We have had correspondence on more than one occasion, but have never met, for the simple reason that I am seldom in England. Now you will at once recognise why I refused a card, and also why I wished my visit to you to remain a secret.”

“Of course, of course,” answered Dudley. “I had no suspicion of your identity, and – well, if you will permit me to say so, your personal appearance at this moment is scarcely that which might be expected of Captain Archibald Cator, military attach in Rome.”

“Exactly! But I have been paying a call earlier in the day, and shabbiness was a necessity,” he explained with a laugh. “Besides, I tramped all the way from Shrewsbury and – ”

“And you are wet and cold. You’ll have a stiff whiskey and soda.” Dudley pressed the bell and, when Riggs appeared, gave the necessary order.

“You won’t return to-night, of course,” suggested Chisholm. “I’ll tell them to get a room ready for you.”

“Thanks for your hospitality, but my return is absolutely imperative. There is a train from Shrewsbury to town at 4:25 in the morning. I must leave by that.”

Both men sank into chairs opposite each other in the chill, rather gloomy, room. The mysterious visitor who had called at that extraordinary hour was one of the most trusted and faithful servants at the disposal of the Foreign Office. Although nominally holding the appointment of military attach at the Embassy in Rome, he was in reality the chief of the British Secret Service on the Continent, a man whose career had been replete with extraordinary adventures, to whose marvellous tact, ready ingenuity, and careful methods of investigation, England was indebted for many of the diplomatic coups she had made during the past dozen years or so.

In the diplomatic circle, and in the British colony in Rome, every one knew Archie Cator, for he was popular everywhere, and a welcome visitor at the houses of the English and the wealthier Italians alike. It was often hinted that in the Foreign Office at home he possessed influential friends, for whenever he wished for leave he had only to wire to London to obtain a grant of absence. The supposition was that in summer he went to his pretty villa at Ardenza, on the Tuscan shore near Leghorn, there to enjoy the sea-breezes, or in winter over to Cairo or Algiers. None knew, save, of course, Her Majesty’s Ambassador, that these frequent periods of leave were spent in flying visits to one or other of the capitals of Europe to direct the operations of the band of confidential agents under him, or that the attach so popular with the ladies was in reality the Prince of Spies.

Spying is against an Englishman’s notion of fair-play, but to such an extent have the other great Powers carried the operation of their various Intelligence Departments that to the Foreign Office the secret service has become a most necessary adjunct. Were it not for its operations, and the early intelligence it obtains, England would often be left out of the diplomatic game, and British interests would suffer to an extent that would soon become alarming, even to that puerile person, the Little Englander. Officially no person connected with the Secret Service is recognised, except its chief, and he, in order to cloak his real position, was at that moment holding the post of attaché in Rome, where he had but little to do, since Italy was the Power most friendly towards England.

Stories without number of the captain’s prowess, of his absolute fearlessness, and of his marvellous ingenuity as a spy in the interests of his country, had already reached Chisholm. They were whispered within a certain circle at the Foreign Office when from time to time a copy of a secret document, or a piece of remarkable intelligence reached headquarters from Paris, Berlin, or Petersburg. They knew that it came from Archie Cator, the wiry, middle-aged attach who idled in the salons of the Eternal City, drove in the Corso, and, especially as he was an easy-going bachelor, found remarkable favour in the eyes of the ladies.

He lived two lives. In the one he was a diplomatist, smart, polished, courtly – the perfect model of all a British attach should be. In the other he was a shrewd, crafty spy, possessed of a tact unequalled by any detective officer at Scotland Yard, a brain fertile in invention and subterfuge, and nerves of iron. In Rome, in Paris and in Petersburg, only the ambassadors knew the secret of his real office. He transacted his business direct with them and with the chief in London, Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Indeed, British diplomatic policy was often based upon his reports and suggestions. The utmost care was always exercised to conceal his real office from the staffs of the various Embassies. They only knew him as Archie Cator from Rome, the man with a friend high up in the Foreign Office who got him short leave whenever he chose to take it.

The money annually voted by Parliament for secret service was entirely at his disposal, and the only account he rendered was to the chief himself. The department was a costly one, for often he was compelled to bribe heavily through his agents, men specially selected for the work of spying; and as these numbered nearly forty, distributed in the various capitals, the expenditure was by no means light. With such a director, for whose methods, indeed, the staff at Scotland Yard had the highest admiration, the successes were many. To Cator’s untiring energy, skilful perception, and exhaustless ingenuity in worming out secrets, our diplomatic success in various matters, despite the conspiracies formed against us by certain of the Powers, was entirely due. The Foreign Secretary himself had, it was whispered, once remarked at a Cabinet meeting that if England possessed half a dozen Cators she would need no ambassadors. The marquess trusted him implicitly, relying as much upon his judgment as upon that of the oldest and most practised representative of Her Majesty at any of the European courts.

If the truth were told, the secret of England’s dominant influence in Central Africa was entirely due to the discovery of a diplomatic intrigue in Berlin by the omnipotent Cator, who, at risk of his life, secured a certain document which placed our Foreign Office in a position to dictate to the Powers. It was a master-stroke, and as a partial return for it the popular, cigarette-smoking attach in Rome, found one morning upon his table an autograph letter of thanks from Her Majesty’s Prime Minister. When occupying his position as attach he was an idler about the Eternal City, an inveterate theatre-goer, and a well-known, and even ostentatious, figure in Roman society. But when at work he was patient, unobtrusive, and usually ill-dressed, moving quickly hither and thither, taking long night journeys by the various rapides, caring nothing for fatigue, and directing his corps of secret agents as a general does an army.

Knowledge is power. Hence England is compelled to hold her place in the diplomatic intrigues of the world by the employment of secret agents. There are many doors to be unlocked, and to men like Cator, England does not grudge golden keys.

Riggs had brought the whiskey and soda, and the man whose career would have perhaps made the finest romance ever written, had drained a tumblerful thirstily, with a laugh and a word of excuse that “the way had been long, and the wind cold.”

When they were alone again, he twisted the rather stubby ends of his grey moustache, and with his eyes fixed upon the Under-Secretary said:

“I should not have disturbed you at this hour, Mr Chisholm, were not the matter one of extreme urgency.”

Dudley sat eager and anxious, wondering what could have brought this man to England. A grave and horrible suspicion had seized him that the truth he dreaded was actually out – that the blow had fallen. No secret was safe from Cator. As he had obtained knowledge of the profoundest secrets of the various European Powers in a manner absolutely incredible, what chance was there to hide from him any information which he had set his mind to obtain. “Is the matter serious?” he asked vaguely.

“For the present I cannot tell whether it is actually as serious as it appears to be,” the other answered with a grave look. “As you are well aware, the outlook abroad at this moment is far from promising. There is more than one deep and dastardly intrigue against us. The diplomatic air on the Continent is full of rumours of antagonistic alliances against England, and even Mercier, in Paris, has actually gone the length of planning an invasion. But a fig for all the bumptious chatter of French invasions!” he said, snapping his finger and thumb. “What we have to regard at this moment is not menaces abroad, but perils at home.”

“I hardly follow you,” observed the Under-secretary.

“Well, I arrived in London from the Continent the night before last upon a confidential mission, and it is in order to obtain information from yourself that I am here to-night,” he explained. “Perhaps the fact that I have not had my clothes off for the past five days, and that I have been in four of the capitals of Europe during the same period, will be sufficient to convince you of the urgency of the matter in hand. Besides, it may account for my somewhat unrepresentable appearance,” he added with a good-humoured laugh. “But now let us get at once to the point, for I have but little time to spare if I’m to catch the early express back to London. The matter is strictly private, and all I ask, Mr Chisholm, is that what passes between us goes no further than these four walls. Recollect that my position is one of constant and extreme peril. I am the confidential agent of the Foreign Office, and you are its Parliamentary Under-secretary. Therefore, in our mutual interests, no word must escape you either in regard to my visit here, or even to the fact that I have been in England. London to-day swarms with foreign spies, and if I am recognised all my chances of being successful in the present matter must at once vanish.”

“I am all attention,” said Dudley, interested to hear something from this gatherer of the secrets of the nation. “If I can give you any assistance I shall be most ready to do so.”

“Then let me put a question to you, which please answer truthfully, for much depends upon it,” he said slowly, his eyes fixed upon the man before him as he pensively twisted his moustache. “Were you ever acquainted with a man named Lennox?”

The words fell upon Dudley Chisholm like a thunderclap. Yes, the blow had fallen! He started, then, gripping the arms of the chair, sat upright and motionless as a statue, his face blanched to the lips. He knew that the ghastly truth, so long concealed that he had believed the matter forgotten, was out. Ruin stood before him. His secret was known.

Chapter Nineteen.

A Man of Secrets Speaks

Archibald Cator’s bony face was grave, serious, sphinx-like. His personality was strange and striking.

He had detected in an instant the sudden alarm which his question had aroused within the mind of the man before him, but, pretending not to observe it, he added with a pleasant air:

“You will, of course, forgive anything which may appear to be an impertinent cross-examination, Mr Chisholm. Both of us are alike working in the interests of our country, and certain facts which I have recently unearthed are, to say the least, extremely curious. They even constitute a great danger. Do you happen to remember any one among your acquaintances named Lennox – Major Mayne Lennox?”

Mayne Lennox! Mention of that name brought before Chisholm’s eyes a grim and ghastly vision of the past – a past which he had fondly believed was long ago dead and buried. There arose the face that had haunted him so continuously, that white countenance which appeared to him in his dreams and haunted him even in the moments of his greatest triumphs, social and political.