Wallace Intervenes E-Book

Alexander Wilson

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Wallace of the Secret Service
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 439

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Sir Leonard Wallace, Chief of the Secret Service, sends one of his agents to Germany to obtain vital information from the Baroness von Reudath. Foster is told to feign infatuation with her, but the lines between reality and pretence soon blur as a result of his growing affection for the baroness. Before long, Foster becomes prey to the insane jealousy of the tyrannical Marshal von Strom: Foster suddenly disappears and the baroness is charged with treason - the punishment for which is death. Can Wallace use his cunning to foil von Strom's treacherous plans and rescue the distressed lovers before it's too late?

Leseprobe

Wallace Intervenes

ALEXANDER WILSON

CONTENTS

Title Page1. Foster Gets His Chance2. The Baroness von Reudath3. Amid The Rhododendrons4. Tête-À-Tête with the Baroness5. Hungarian Nights6. Summoned to Berlin7. Foster Buys Perfume8. A Surprise for the Baroness9. His Excellency The Supreme Marshal of State10. Certified Insane11. The Baroness Speaks Her Mind12. Charged with Treason13. Remorse14. The Revelations of the Baroness15. Witnesses for the Prosecution16. A Travesty of a Trial17. Two in a Lorry18. The Failure of Hanni19. The Marshal Receives Unwelcome Visitors20. To be Executed at Sunrise21. A Trunk of Priceless Value22. The Borrowed Aeroplane23. Blessed Are The Matchmakers!About the AuthorBy Alexander WilsonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Foster Gets His Chance

A young man sat moodily in the comfortable depths of an easy chair of dark green leather, and gazed round him, from time to time, with an air of complete boredom. A newspaper and a couple of magazines lay on the floor at his feet, a tankard half-full of beer was on a table at his elbow. The large room, of which he was the only occupant, had the appearance of a flat in a West End Club. Sporting prints and pictures adorned the walls, which were distempered dark green, a colour which predominated, for the carpet, as well as the numerous armchairs, were also of that shade. At one end was a great bookcase packed tight with volumes; at the other a buffet. Several writing tables were placed at various intervals against the two remaining walls, in one of which was a large fireplace, now hidden by a screen, while each easy chair possessed as companion a small round table complete with ashtrays and matches. Undeniably a man’s room, it was snug and restful. There was one peculiarity about it, however; it possessed no windows, being lighted day and night by several powerful though softly shaded electric globes. It was in fact underground, the basement of the drab building in Whitehall which, although so uninteresting to look at, is the home and headquarters of the British Secret Service. The rest room, generally known as the messroom, is reserved, as a rule, for the senior members of the department, but no objection is raised to its use by the half-dozen or so young fellows eager to make good in the exacting profession to which they have been appointed. Their selection, after the most exhaustive investigation into their antecedents and accomplishments, was considered all that was necessary to permit them the entry by the men whom Sir Leonard Wallace called his experts. They possessed their own room, but it was a small, not over-comfortable flat at the top of the building, and refreshments could not be obtained there.

Bernard Foster was one of the juniors engaged in the process of winning his spurs. The son of a famous soldier, he had passed from Shrewsbury School to Sandhurst, thence to the Guards. An extraordinary aptitude for languages, a daredevil temperament, and a spirit of adventure, however, had gained the interest of the Chief of the Secret Service, who had served under Foster’s father while in the Army, and knew the son well. Bernard was presented with an opportunity of which he eagerly availed himself. Yet for eighteen months now he had been occupied in minor and routine matters. He knew he was being carefully observed all the time, his ability and disposition judged from a fresh angle – Sir Leonard Wallace took no chances with his assistants; he did not put them in charge of any important undertakings until he was certain that mentally, physically and morally they were suitable for the big things. So much depends on the Secret Service man. He must learn absolutely that his own honour, his life, count for nothing. He must be prepared to face desperate odds, danger, death, with the realisation that there is no reward except the abstract one which goes with success in the service of the country he loves. Failure and exposure invariably mean complete obliteration; he can expect no help from the authorities; no help can be accorded him. Governments cannot recognise secret agents. A little carelessness, a lack of forethought, an impulsive word or action, may cause disaster. Where the welfare and honour of Great Britain is likely to be intimately concerned, Sir Leonard, of necessity, is extremely careful in his choice of the man or men to act. In consequence there is bound to be a hard and uninteresting period of probation before a young officer can expect to be delegated to the important roles with their difficult, perilous but highly adventurous aura.

Foster realised this; nevertheless, he longed for the time to come when he would be adjudged fit to take his place in the great game with men like Shannon, Cousins, Carter, Cartwright, and Hill, who, with Maddison and, of course, Major Brien, the deputy chief, formed Sir Leonard Wallace’s little band of cracks. He had begun to fear that he was somehow not quite fulfilling expectations of him. Only that morning Willingdon, who had been appointed to the Intelligence Department at practically the same time as he, had been chosen for a mission of great importance. It was true that Willingdon had graduated to the Secret Service from the special Branch of New Scotland Yard, and had proved his capabilities on more than one occasion, but there were others. Downing, Cunningham and Reynolds had all been entrusted with work of a more exacting nature than any Foster had been instructed to undertake. It was no wonder he felt a trifle moody, therefore, when the thought would persist that he had failed in some manner to win the entire confidence of his chief.

He drained his tankard, and, rising to his feet, stood stretching himself. Bernard Foster was about the last person a casual observer would have imagined to be connected with the Intelligence Service. A little over six feet in height, he was lean with the healthy leanness of the physically fit athlete. A perfectly cut grey lounge suit rather suggested than hid the rippling muscles beneath. He had been a brilliant hurdler at school and Sandhurst had broken the records at the Royal Military College for the hundred yards and pole-vault and had equalled that of the two-twenty. In addition he was a very fine cricketer. Fair-haired and pale, he possessed a pair of sleepy blue eyes that gave him an air of bland innocence, an almost priceless asset in a man of his calling. A small, fair moustache adorning his upper lip helped to add to his ingenuous appearance, while a monocle which he frequently wore caused him to look thoroughly and completely guileless.

He was wondering what he should do to kill the time that was hanging so heavily on his hands, when a voice behind caused him to swing round. Confronting him was a small man with an extraordinarily wrinkled face and the figure of a boy. Everybody at headquarters was exceedingly fond of Gerald Cousins, perhaps Sir Leonard’s most brilliant assistant. Foster almost went to the extent of hero-worship. He had learnt a great deal from the little man, who was always ready to place the benefit of his experience at the disposal of those keen enough to profit from it. The clouds left Foster’s face immediately, a broad, cheerful smile replacing the gloom which had previously reigned there.

‘By Jove! I’m glad to see you,’ he exclaimed involuntarily. ‘I’ve been feeling as blue as Oxford after the boat race.’

‘Ah!’ ejaculated Cousins; ‘a joke methinks.’ He placed his head on one side rather in the manner of a bird, and studied the young man towering above him. ‘What’s making you feel blue?’

‘I’m eating out my heart for a job of work worthwhile. I have an uneasy feeling that the chief doesn’t think I’m good enough or something. It’s eighteen months since I joined the staff, and I’ve only been given jobs that any fool could have done.’

‘There are some things,’ returned Cousins, his eyes twinkling, ‘which only fools could do. But cheer up, my lad. Haven’t you learnt yet that the chief nurses those of whom he expects the most? At any rate, your time has come. I am just down from a conference with Sir Leonard and Major Brien, and my instructions are to send you up in ten minutes’ time.’

Foster’s eyes were no longer sleepy-looking. Open now to their widest extent, they positively blazed with excitement.

‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What am I expected to do?’

‘You’ll be told by the chief. What have you been drinking – beer? Something light in the way of wine appeals to me most this sunny June morning. Where is Gibbons?’

‘I don’t know. He went out after drawing my beer for me. But, Jerry, can’t you give me a hint? I’m in a state of – of—’

‘Electrification,’ supplied the other. ‘I can see that. Never mind, you have only seven minutes, thirty-three seconds to wait. Gibbons!’ he shouted.

A deep voice responded and, in a few seconds, a broad-shouldered, grey-haired man, whose luxuriant moustache and bushy eyebrows still remained their natural brown, hurried into the room carrying several bottles in his arms. He was an ex-sergeant of Artillery who, with a retired policeman, both of exemplary characters, looked after the fitful comfort of the men of the Secret Service.

‘I’ve been getting up some wine, sir,’ he explained apologetically.

‘You must have known I was coming,’ commented Cousins. ‘“Come, let us drink the Vintner’s good health. ’Tis the cask, not the coffer, that holds the true wealth.” How about forsaking beer for a glass of Moselle, Foster?’

The ex-guardsman shook his head.

‘I want nothing more just now, thanks,’ he responded. Cousins’ face creased into a broad smile until every wrinkle seemed to contain a happy little grin of its own.

‘“There is a tide in the affairs of man,”’ he quoted, ‘“which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.” Go to it Foster, and good fortune go with you.’

Feeling a sense of thrill throughout his whole being, Foster ascended to the floor whereon was situated the office of Sir Leonard Wallace. He stood for some moments outside the door attempting to gain complete control of himself, for the summons and Cousins’ remark that his time had come had filled him with such exultation that he was rather afraid he might make a fool of himself in his delight. However, nothing was more unlikely. The Secret Service training teaches a man to hide completely his feelings if necessary, and Foster had learnt his lesson very well. There was no sound from within the room, which was hardly to be wondered at, as it was soundproof. He knocked loudly. Almost at once the door was opened by Major Brien, who greeted him with a friendly by smile, and bade him enter. Sir Leonard Wallace sat at his desk, his favourite briar held firmly between his strong white teeth. His steel-grey eyes bored deeply into those of Foster as that young man approached. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Sir Leonard nodded his head slightly, and smiled.

‘Cousins has told you that I have decided to give you a job of very great importance?’ he stated rather than asked.

‘Not exactly, sir,’ was the reply. ‘He told me you wished to see me, and certainly gave me to understand that the time I have been longing for has come at last.’

‘You are keen to show us what you can really do?’

‘Keen sir!’ repeated Foster. ‘I have thought of nothing else since I joined the service.’

‘Very well, your chance has come. Sit down.’

Foster sat in the chair indicated, but declined the cigarette offered him. He was far too interested and inwardly excited to bother about smoking. Brien drew an armchair up to the other side of the great desk; threw himself into it. The manner of the two, particularly that of Sir Leonard, might have greatly disappointed a man who had not had Foster’s opportunities of observing them. There was no indication in the demeanour of Wallace that he was concerned with anything but the most casual and unimportant matter. His unruffled, easy-going, unexcitable temperament, his air of complete nonchalance, had at one time deceived Foster as it had done so many others, but he had learnt, like those who worked with the chief, to recognise the dynamic driving force behind the calm manner, the brilliant brain, the working of which was cloaked by that lazy, attractive smile. Sir Leonard tapped out the ashes of his pipe into a handy ashtray, sat back in his chair, and regarded Foster.

‘You get on very well with the ladies, don’t you?’ he asked surprisingly.

The young man started. Despite his efforts, his pale face coloured a trifle.

‘I – I suppose I do, sir,’ he returned slowly, ‘but I have never really considered the question.’

‘Well, I have,’ commented the chief dryly. ‘I have noticed that you attract them. Don’t think you have been spied upon for any ulterior purpose. It is all part of the observation it is necessary to make of men who join the service, in order that I shall have full knowledge of them and how they are likely to fit in. You get along very well with young girls. I am wondering if you are likely to appear as attractive to a lady, who, though young and handsome, is also a widow and an experienced woman of the world. But that will be up to you, Foster. You will have to go out of your way to make yourself attractive to her, though that does not matter so much as the necessity for you to appear utterly infatuated with her. Ever been in love?’

‘Several times, sir.’

Wallace and Brien laughed.

‘Then you’ll know how to appear in love again,’ observed the former, ‘but for goodness’ sake don’t let the real thing worm its way in. The lady in question is decidedly handsome, as I have already mentioned; in fact,’ he glanced at Brien, ‘she’s reputed to be beautiful, isn’t she?’

His second-in-command nodded.

‘I believe so,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t seen her, but she is certainly spoken of as one of the most beautiful women in Germany.’

‘Who is she, sir?’ ventured Foster.

‘The Baroness von Reudath,’ Sir Leonard told him. ‘Now listen carefully to me, Foster. I have been watching your work and weighing you up for a long time, and am quite satisfied that you have the making of a very good Secret Service man in you. Quite candidly, though, I did not anticipate starting you off on independent work with an affair of such great importance. It happens, however, that the German secret police are very much on the qui vive these days. Every man who enters Germany is compelled to undergo a rigid scrutiny and investigation into his antecedents. Under the circumstances, Major Brien and I came to the conclusion that we would be taking a greater risk in entrusting the present project to one of the experienced, tried men than to you. Germany’s espionage department is excellent. It is quite likely men like Shannon, Cousins, Carter, and perhaps Hill and Cartwright, who have been forced into the unwanted limelight on occasions, are known. They can all disguise themselves well enough to defy detection, I know, and their credentials can be made entirely fool-proof. Still there is always the unexpected element to contend with, no matter what precautions may be taken. Something unforeseen may arise which would cause betrayal. Once that had happened our plans would be ruined. It would become next to impossible for any of our agents to get a footing in the household with which we are concerned. You know quite well the drastic measures concerning everything and everybody the Gestapo is apt to take once it smells a rat.’

Wallace paused, and Foster smiled slightly. He was quite au fait with events in Germany and the methods of the secret police.

‘Now in your case,’ resumed the chief, ‘no possibility can arise of your connection with us being either suspected or discovered. It was because I anticipated that such a necessity as this might occur that I have kept you wrapped in cotton wool for so long, so to speak. Mind you, as I previously stated, I did not foresee that an affair of such great importance would be your first big job, but there it is. I rely on you, and it is up to you to make good. On my suggestion you resigned your commission in the Guards like many another wealthy young man. You have earned the name of an idle man about Town, go to all the functions, and generally comport yourself as hundreds of others. No one, I am presuming, suspects your connection with this department?’

His grey eyes bored deeply into those of the man he questioned. Foster shook his head at once.

‘Not a soul, sir,’ he declared firmly, ‘not even my mother and my sister. The guv’nor knew, of course. It was through him, I believe, that I came to your notice.’

‘Not exactly,’ smiled Wallace. ‘I had been observing you for some time before he spoke. However, to resume: Whether His Excellency, The Supreme Marshal of State, von Strom, is himself in love with Baroness von Reudath or is merely very friendly with her, I do not know. It is certain, however, that they are on excellent terms, and that she is very much in his confidence. A report received yesterday from Gottfried in Berlin indicates that the Chancellor himself is also known to place some of his problems before her.’ Sir Leonard smiled slightly. ‘It is not necessary for me to explain how Gottfried obtained his information. I will tell you this much, though; the baroness possesses two companions. One is an English girl who was born and has lived most of her life in Germany – her name is Rosemary Meredith – the other is a German, Dora Reinwald. Miss Meredith happened to be at school with the baroness in Hanover. The war more or less ruined her father, and she was forced to seek her own livelihood when she grew old enough. Gottfried knew her well. It was partially through him and partially through Baroness von Reudath’s own affection for her that she obtained the post she now holds. You will gather that she is one of us. You must have nothing to do with her; that is, if you succeed in becoming on intimate enough calling terms with the baroness. Any communication between you may only cause harm to overtake one or both. You will work entirely separately – she has her orders, you are now receiving yours. Of course I don’t mean ignore her altogether. Simply behave towards her in the casual manner usual when meeting the paid companion of a friend.

‘Baroness von Reudath arrives in London tomorrow. She will be entertained a great deal by the many friends she has here during her stay of a week or ten days. The day after tomorrow Lady Ashington gives a reception at which she will be present. You will receive a card, and Mrs Manvers-Buller, who has known the baroness almost as long as she has known you, will present you to her. With you it will be a case of love at first sight. For the rest of the baroness’ stay in this country you will never be very far from her, but don’t overdo it. If you gain her interest in you, then go wherever she goes until you have succeeded in becoming thoroughly intimate with her and – in her confidence. If she will have nothing to do with you, we must try other means of finding out what I want to know or else rely entirely on Rosemary Meredith. Presuming that you will succeed in becoming very friendly with the baroness, you will eventually go with her or follow her to Berlin. There you will get in touch with Gottfried, who will convey any future orders to you. As he is the Berlin manager of Lalére et Cie, what more natural than that you should go to him to purchase perfumes for your inamorata? Whatever you learn from the baroness concerning the three things I shall presently enumerate, no matter how trivial it may seem, and even though reported as a rumour, don’t fail to inform Gottfried. But be very careful how you obtain your information. Sophie von Reudath is an exceedingly clever as well as a beautiful woman, and, if you once raise her suspicions against you, you will be done. If she speaks to you of these things, show little or no interest, appear to have one thought in your mind only and that your infatuation for her. Circumstances must guide you in your method of obtaining your facts without causing distrust. She may possibly talk of them to you, though it’s most unlikely; you may overhear or see something, however, that will tell you a lot. In any case your job will require infinite patience, tact, and ingenuity. I recognise that I am staking a lot on giving a young, inexperienced man like you such a task, but you are the right type for the part I have cast you to play. It is certain your connection with the Secret Service is unknown and unsuspected; above all, I fancy I have discovered in you certain qualities which should prove of great value under the present circumstances. You have your chance, Foster; take it!’

The young man swallowed convulsively. He had never anticipated anything like this, and for a moment he found himself bereft of words. Eventually, however, he succeeded in murmuring huskily:

‘Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.’ His blue eyes met the grey ones of his chief with a look full of confidence.

‘I am sure you won’t,’ smiled Wallace. ‘Remember: if you are in any difficulties in Berlin, go and purchase perfume at the Lalére agency in the Unter den Linden and consult Gottfried. But never, under any circumstances, go to him if you feel you are in danger or suspected. No doubt of the bona fides of Gottfried or Lalére and Company must be raised. To all seeming, throughout the world, Lalére’s is merely a famous and popular perfume firm. In Berlin Gottfried is one of the Prussians of the old school – a strong, fanatical devotee of the cult of Deutschland über alles. Nothing must occur to weaken or endanger his position in Germany. You must lose your life rather than imperil Lalére’s. Understand that perfectly?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Foster firmly and at once.

‘You will not be entirely alone. Once you are established in your friendship with the baroness, I will take steps to see that someone is nearby to help you in the event of trouble. But that someone will not be Gottfried. Now all that remains is to tell you what it is I hope you will succeed in learning from or through the baroness. The Marshal has formed and carefully drawn up secret military plans. It is believed that the final scheme was discussed and agreed upon at a private meeting in the residence of the baroness. The Chancellor and the Minister for Propaganda were the only others present. It is not known if the baroness actually took part in the discussion. I am anxious – very anxious – to know what those secret military plans are. The second item concerns a very deadly gas which is reported to have been invented by a German scientist named Hans Mohrenwitz, the third is a wireless ray invented by another scientist named Joachim Bräu, which is said to have the effect of putting aircraft out of action. I want details of the gas and the ray, every item of information concerning them you can gather, in fact. You may think I am setting you a herculean task, Foster, but I am only asking you to find out what the baroness knows. If she knows nothing, we must go elsewhere. That’s all – for the present.’ He held out his hand, which Foster gripped with great warmth. ‘Good luck, Bernard,’ was said in a tone of deep sincerity. Major Brien also shook hands and wished the young man good luck. Foster turned towards the door, with an unaccustomed though very happy lump in his throat. He had almost reached it when Sir Leonard called: ‘You’re twenty-six, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the ex-guardsman.

‘So is she,’ murmured Wallace. ‘What a delightful age for a romance!’

CHAPTER TWO

The Baroness von Reudath

Foster duly received his card for Lady Ashington’s reception, and proceeded to the house in Belgrave Square wondering what the immediate future held in store for him. He was not blind to the fact that the path he would have to tread might prove to be one of desperate peril. Hitherto he had not been engaged on any enterprise overshadowed by much danger. Now, alone, unaided, he was expected to carry out a task that would quite likely involve him in trouble not only with the German secret police but with the Marshal of State himself. He certainly had been given his chance – a glorious chance – and he intended grasping it with both hands. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that he felt a trifle worried. Ever since he left school he had been thrown constantly in the society of girls, most of them his sister’s friends. He had got on very well with them; had more than once imagined himself in love, only to find out that there was a disease that frequently gripped young men called infatuation. This fact was pointed out to him by the girls themselves, who being very modern in their ideas, were extremely sensible. Now he was asked to become infatuated, or at least pretend to be infatuated, with an experienced, worldly-wise woman. The questions that bothered him were: Could he do it, and gain her interest and sympathy? Could he succeed without her seeing through the deception? He recognised the wisdom of Sir Leonard in selecting him for the part. He knew himself to be good-looking and attractive to members of the opposite sex – there was no nonsensical or mock modesty in the composition of Foster – in addition his circle of friends was acquainted with his amorous affairs, and would, therefore, not be surprised at another. It would be rather distasteful to make love to a woman with the purpose of worming important secrets from her, but a Secret Service man cannot regard his feelings or those of others when duty bids otherwise. Unpleasant functions make part of the price one has to pay for serving one’s country in such a capacity. The disturbing thought occurred to him that he might find the young baroness distinctly attractive and, despite all his efforts to the contrary, actually fall in love with her. He had no illusions on the score that he was impressionable. To betray the woman one loved seemed a desperately low-down thing to do. He resolved to be on his guard from the very first, and avoid falling in love with her if he possibly could. But what difference would that make? It was his business to get her to fall in love with him, or at least become fond of him, wasn’t it? As low-down to disclose the secrets of a woman who had conceived an affection for one, and therefore trusted one, as to betray the woman one loved; more so in fact. Such reflections caused a little frown to appear on his ingenuous face; he shrugged his shoulders rather painfully. Perhaps for the first time he was realising something of the unsavoury side of Secret Service life. His instincts rebelled against accomplishing anything by underhanded means, but it never occurred to him to attempt to back out; he would go through with his job to the bitter end no matter what it cost him personally. As a Secret Service man he had no right to personal feelings, and perhaps he comforted himself with the thought that nothing can be underhand that is performed in the service of country.

He arrived at Lady Ashington’s stately home to find himself in the midst of some very famous people. His host and hostess greeted him charmingly, saying a few words to him before turning to welcome other guests, and leaving him free to wander about at will. He found several acquaintances, and entered into conversation with them, but all the time his eyes were searching, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman with whom he was to become infatuated. He saw no one quite resembling the description he had been given, and he did not mention her to any of his friends. Sooner or later, he knew, Mrs Manvers-Buller would arrive and pilot him to the baroness. She had appeared once from out of the throng, had smiled and nodded, but had passed on, which suggested that the baroness had not yet come or the time was not ripe for the introduction. Foster was a little intrigued by the position occupied by Mrs Manvers-Buller in the affair. He knew that she was a great friend of Sir Leonard and Lady Wallace, but he did not know that she had more than once been of much assistance to the Chief of the Secret Service; that she was, in fact, a kind of honorary member of the department. A great traveller, with an intimate knowledge of and acquaintance with some of the greatest diplomats in the world, she had, on occasion, passed on most valuable information to Wallace acquired during her peregrinations abroad. She possessed a tremendous, almost fanatical devotion to Great Britain and the Crown. If she had not occupied her very important position in society, and was not more useful to him as she was, it is likely that Sir Leonard would have offered her permanent employment in the Secret Service. He had known her since she was a girl at school with his sister. She had married the Honourable James Manvers-Buller, a man considerably older than herself, and it was through him that she had obtained her flair for diplomacy and international intrigue. He had been the first secretary of the embassy in Paris when he had died, just as he was about to be appointed to a higher post.

Foster saw Lady Wallace sitting with an elderly peer, and approached to pay his respects, not of course as one of her husband’s young men, but as a friend of the family. She kept him in conversation for some time, her beauty sending a thrill through his receptive heart. He had known her for many years, but time made no difference. Whenever he saw her, the same feeling of worship possessed him. He was not unique in that respect. The charm and beauty of Lady Wallace makes slaves of all who know her. It is a tribute to her sterling character that women worship her with the same sincerity as do men. Sir Leonard is wont to declare that the greatest puzzle of his life is, and always will be, what she saw in him to cause her to love and marry him, but then the man who thinks least of Sir Leonard Wallace is notably Sir Leonard Wallace himself. Foster stayed talking to her as long as he dared, only tearing himself away when the baleful looks of the elderly peer told him that the latter considered him de trop. He departed in search of refreshment with some cronies of his, and it was while at the buffet that Mrs Manvers-Buller came to him. She chose the moment well. Surrounding him were nearly a dozen young men and girls, most of them engaged in twitting him about the air of boredom he had thought fit to adopt. Into the circle stepped Mrs Manvers-Buller, a small, bright-eyed, vivacious woman, leaning on the arm of an attendant cavalier.

‘Did I hear someone say that our Bernard is bored?’ she demanded.

A regular chorus gave an answer in the affirmative, and Foster grinned sheepishly.

‘I never feel very happy at these affairs,’ he confessed.

‘Well, shall I show you how?’ she asked. She turned to the man at her side, one of the under-secretaries of the government, spoken of as a cabinet minister of the near future. ‘It would only be a kindness on our part to bring happiness into his young life. Don’t you agree, Bunny?’

Several of the girls standing by laughed. The fact that Mrs Manvers-Buller addressed an important Member of Parliament as ‘Bunny’ struck them as amusing. The under-secretary did not view it in the same light. There was no doubt but that he felt his importance, and considered it undignified to be called by such a name, particularly before a crowd of young, irresponsible people.

‘Why did you call Mr Erskine “Bunny”?’ asked one smiling girl.

‘He used to twitch his ears delightfully when he was a schoolboy,’ explained Mrs Manvers-Buller. ‘The performance thrilled my young heart, and I christened him Bunny. Won’t you give a demonstration, Michael?’ She turned to the frowning MP.

‘Were you not talking of – er – bringing happiness into the life of Foster?’ he asked hastily, amid further laughter.

‘Oh, so I was,’ cried the little woman. She slipped her disengaged arm into that of Foster. ‘Come along, Bernard,’ she commanded, ‘we’ll introduce you to Sophie von Reudath. She’ll be a change from these bright, unsophisticated young things.’

‘He’ll fall in love with her,’ jeered one of Foster’s companions.

‘So much the better,’ pronounced Mrs Manvers Buller. ‘Sophie likes to be loved – I think it’s time she found another husband.’

‘Oh, I say,’ protested Foster. ‘Isn’t this rather like leading a lamb to the slaughter?’

‘You won’t consider it slaughter when you see her,’ was the response.

As they crossed the crowded room, the under-secretary leant down until his lips were very close to Mrs Manvers-Buller’s ear.

‘Do you think this is – er – judicious?’ he whispered. ‘Foster is rather impressionable, and the baroness is known to be a very warm friend of the—’

‘Bunny,’ interrupted the little woman, ‘you have an evil mind.’

They found the Baroness von Reudath holding a little court in an alcove. Sitting on either side of her were two cabinet ministers, another stood close by; various other important people, men and women, stood or sat in the vicinity. Foster started to draw back, but Mrs Manvers-Buller had no intention of letting him go. She was a privileged person, and into the circle she stepped, to be greeted by the baroness with a little cry of delight.

‘My friend,’ exclaimed the latter in perfect English which had hardly any trace of a foreign accent, ‘I thought you had deserted me.’

‘Why this relief to see me, Sophie?’ demanded the outspoken little woman. ‘Have these intriguing statesmen, knowing you are persona grata with the powers that be in Germany, been attempting to pump you?’

‘Pump me! What is that?’ asked the baroness.

Laughing protests came from the ministers. They felt no sense of resentment against Mrs Manvers-Buller. Everybody liked her; apart from which it was generally recognised that she was a very valuable little lady. In addition, they felt that perhaps it had been a trifle unsporting to get the baroness to talk about conditions in Germany, especially when she was visiting England on a holiday. Foster studied the Baroness von Reudath with a great deal of interest. At first sight of her he had had difficulty in suppressing a gasp of sheer admiration. She was certainly beautiful; more beautiful that he had imagined. Her corn-coloured hair was brushed back from a high, flawless forehead, and caught up artistically at the nape of her neck. She was no stranger to the use of cosmetics, but obviously applied them sparingly. Delicately pencilled eyebrows surmounted a pair of frank blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes. Her nose was small and well-shaped, her mouth could not have been better conceived by an artist, her ears, from each of which hung a valuable pearl, were shell-like in their daintiness. She possessed a pure, creamy complexion. Altogether a woman any man might be proud to—Foster pulled himself up abruptly. There he was – thinking of her already as something to be loved, forgetting that she was the confidante of perhaps the most dangerous man in Europe, a woman who was probably the holder of secrets that might at any time mean war. There was something else besides beauty in her face. The broad forehead, the determined little chin, the almost arrogant tilt of her head proclaimed intelligence, strength, character. Altogether a glamorous personality. Foster began to fear that he was already more than half in love with her. He felt that he liked best about her the frankness of her eyes. She was as straight as a die, he thought, the last person in the world to betray any secret that had been confided to her care. He reflected that his task had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions, and for more reasons than one.

Mrs Manvers-Buller shooed away the statesmen as though they were so many sheep, declaring that Baroness von Reudath did not want to be bothered by a lot of hoary-headed old sinners, when young men were longing to enter the realms of beauty and romance with her. They went meekly, one or two chuckling, one or two sighing, perhaps regretting their lost youth.

‘Really, Elsa, you are too terrible,’ declared the baroness, her eyes twinkling merrily, ‘you make one feel hot and cold all over.’

‘I am glad you feel something,’ retorted her friend with mock severity. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself casting your spell on the venerable seigneurs who fondly imagine they are ruling England.’

‘But if they do not rule,’ laughed the baroness, ‘who does?’

‘The newspapers, my dear. But let me present to you a very bored young man who declared that he is never happy at an affair like this.’

The Baroness von Reudath had already cast approving eyes on the tall, well-set-up figure of Bernard Foster, whose faultless evening attire showed off his lean, athletic form to perfection. The introductions were effected.

‘If you are not happy why do you come?’ queried the baroness.

‘God knows,’ remarked Mrs Manvers-Buller, answering for him. ‘The young men, far more than the girls, obey the dictates of society like a litter of puppies running after their mother. If you ask them why, they will make some fatuous remark about its being the thing to do. They turn up in top hats, stiff collars, and morning coats to attend the Eton and Harrow cricket match even in the hottest weather. I say attend, because nobody goes there to see the play – they’d be fools, if they did, for there isn’t any worth talking about. If it were the fashion to bathe naked in the Serpentine in the middle of winter, they would do it, simply because it would be the thing to do.’

Sophie von Reudath’s laughter rang out in a silvery peal, while Erskine and Foster eyed each other with somewhat embarrassed looks.

‘Really, Elsa,’ began the former, ‘you do—’

‘Now don’t you pretend to be a prude, Bunny,’ interrupted the little lady. ‘I heard that you joined a nudist colony last summer.’

‘’Pon my soul! This is too much,’ cried the scandalised under-secretary. ‘Who libelled me so grossly?’

‘Nobody, my Bunny. Really, you’re too serious to live. Take me somewhere where there is champagne with ice tinkling musically in the glass.’

They wandered away together and, before long, Foster found himself alone with Sophie von Reudath. She made room for him on the lounge by her side.

‘Tell me about yourself, Mr Foster,’ she begged. ‘Are you also a Member of the Parliament?’

‘Good Lord, no,’ he returned with more force than politeness ‘I beg your pardon,’ he added hastily. ‘I did not mean to be so vehement, but I can imagine few things more futile than being a Member of Parliament.’

‘Oh, but why?’ she asked. ‘Surely an ambitious man would have his hopes centred on a position in the Cabinet, and what could be greater than to be one of those governing your country?’

‘Few can attain to such heights,’ he told her, ‘and fewer still succeed in arriving before their best days are over, and they are half-senile, doddering old men.’

She laughed.

‘Your sentiments,’ she declared, ‘are very much like those of Elsa.’

‘Well, it’s the truth,’ he persisted. ‘Young, energetic, enterprising men are kept back to a ludicrous extent in this country. The old hang on to their jobs like grim death, and are terrified lest a younger man gets a foot into the nest they have made so comfortable for themselves. It is not only the case in Parliament. The same thing applies in the big firms, even in sport.’

‘You sound as though you are bitter about these gentlemen.’

‘It is because old men who are long past their best hold the reins in this country,’ he went on, ‘that we have become such an unenterprising nation.’

‘I wonder if Britain is really so unenterprising,’ she mused.

‘Of course it is. You belong to a nation that is far more enterprising and go-ahead. I sometimes think you Germans must smile at our futility.’

‘I am not a German, my friend!’

He turned and looked at her, surprise showing in his face. She noticed that, for once in a way, his eyes had lost their customary sleepy look; decided that he was far more alert that she had supposed, and liked him the better for it.

‘Not a German!’ he repeated. ‘Why I thought—’

‘My husband was a German,’ she told him. ‘I am an Austrian – a Viennese. But you have not told me yet what profession is yours.’

‘I am a gentleman of leisure,’ he replied with a half-ashamed grin. ‘I was in the Guards, but resigned my commission. There is not much fun in soldiering in peacetime.’

‘You would like a war?’ she asked quietly.

‘Heaven forbid!’ he cried earnestly. ‘I hope there will never be another war.’

‘My feelings are exactly as yours in that matter,’ she declared. ‘Another war would be too terrible to contemplate.’

For some minutes she spoke lightly with several people who had strolled up, while Foster rose and stood impatiently waiting for them to go. His impatience was not assumed. He wanted to have her to himself in order that he could gradually allow her to see that he was becoming infatuated with her. His desire to be alone with her was not altogether from a sense of his duty. She fascinated him; he found her a very charming companion. It seemed, however, that his wishes were doomed to disappointment. No sooner did one person or party wander away than another approached. At last, when they were again alone for a few seconds, very daringly he suggested that they should seek a place free from interruption.

‘I have never met anyone quite like you, Baroness,’ he explained hastily, ‘and I should very much like to be able to talk to you without others constantly butting in. It’s horribly selfish of me, I know, and please tell me if you think I have stopped with you long enough.’

While he was speaking her eyebrows rose slightly, and he feared for a horrible moment that he had offended her. Then she smiled gloriously, and rose.

‘You shall find a quiet spot,’ she agreed, ‘but I cannot give up too much time to you, Mr Foster. I have a duty to my host and hostess which I must not neglect. Where shall we go?’

Rather surprised that she had acquiesced but decidedly elated, he led her out into the gardens, which had been decorated with innumerable little coloured electric lights and in which cane chairs and tables had been placed. Many of the guests had sought relief out there from the heat of the crowded rooms, but Foster found two chairs and a little table in a secluded position in the midst of a clump of rhododendrons. The early June moon looked placidly down from a clear sky, like a benevolent deity keeping watch and ward over puny mankind. The baroness sank into her chair, with a little sigh of pleasure; accepted a cigarette from her companion.

‘It is delightful out here,’ she decided; then, after a short pause; ‘So you have no profession. That is a great pity, Mr Foster.’

‘I suppose you think I am a waster,’ he murmured ruefully.

‘No; I do not think that. It would be foolish of me if I did. It does not require great perception to know that you have much character and many good qualities. But like many of the young men of these times you regard life from a wrong angle. You are too quiescent – I think that is the word I need. A little while ago you spoke of the men who continue to hold the power in their hands, and keep younger and more energetic men out. You like others, resent it. Yet you take no steps to alter these things.’

‘What steps could we take short of staging something like a revolution?’

‘It would need no revolution to force the men in power to recognise you and your rights. Supposing that all the men in this country below the age of fifty, no matter what profession is theirs, united together and demanded recognition, what would the result be? Why, my friend, the government would no longer remain in the hands of those who have grown old and weary, the army and navy would not be controlled by officers who lack energy and enterprise because age had taken its toll of them; the courts would not be presided over by judges and magistrates whose minds were no longer alert. The same thing would apply to all other professions and trades. The young would hold all predominant posts. I do not mean the too young. A man is at his best from the age of thirty until fifty – perhaps to fifty-five. After that he should be content to retire, and make way for a younger personality. After all, when one has worked hard for thirty years, one deserves to enjoy leisure. It is in my mind that there would be little unemployment if fifty-five were universally considered the retiring age. There would be no necessity for what you call the dole. The money put aside for that would be paid out in pensions to those who had worked hard and deserved it. I feel that you young men who grumble are to be blamed. You would only have to assert yourselves in unity to obtain your rights. It is not fair to scoff at the lack of enterprise in those who hold the power, when you yourselves are so much unenterprising as to permit them to do so.’

‘I suppose you are right, Baroness,’ agreed Foster, thinking at the same time that he, at least, was a member of a service – perhaps the most enterprising and successful in the world – which was entirely controlled and in the hands of comparatively young men. The oldest member of the staff was Maddison, then about forty-six. Sir Leonard Wallace himself, he knew, had recently only reached his thirty-eighth birthday. Perhaps, however, it was unfair to think of the Secret Service as a shining example of youthful enterprise, when it was a profession in which only youngish men could be expected to succeed. The hazardous nature of its demands, the strain, the difficulties could only be faced and endured by men physically and mentally in perfect condition. Foster felt a little bit ashamed at having given the baroness the impression that he had no profession. The more he learnt to know her, the more he hated deceiving her. He wondered what she would think if she discovered the truth. ‘But in your own country,’ he went on, ‘there are many men holding important positions who are well over the age of fifty-five.’

‘If you are referring to Germany,’ she returned a trifle coldly, ‘I wish you to remember that it is not my country.’

‘But—’ he commenced, and paused for a moment abashed. He wondered why she persisted in her assertion that she was not a German. ‘You do not consider,’ he queried presently, ‘that your marriage to a gentleman of German nationality made you of that race?’

She shrugged her dainty shoulders.

‘According to law – yes, but not otherwise. I am an Austrian, and very proud of it, Mr Foster, even though my poor country has been divided up and impoverished until it is almost obliterated. The heart of Austria still beats fervently and firmly, and you must not think, like so many people, that Austria and Germany are names very nearly synonymous. But to resume our discussion, you say there are many men holding important positions in Germany who are over fifty-five years of age. You are incorrect to say many. It is certain that there are fewer than in this country. Those who govern are nearly all young men.’

‘What about the President?’ he asked.

‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, and he could see the gleam of her little white teeth, as she smiled. ‘He is little but a figurehead. A great man – that was. He is content now to leave all to a younger and more virile man.’

‘The Chancellor is a great friend of yours, is he not?’ asked Foster greatly daring.

She was silent for a while.

‘Yes,’ she murmured at length ‘he and I are very good friends. He is an Austrian also,’ she added, as though in explanation.

‘But not, I think,’ he remarked quietly, ‘as fervent an Austrian as Baroness von Reudath.’

‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed. ‘He could hardly be expected to be under the circumstances.’

They were silent for some moments.

‘I wonder,’ ventured Foster at length, ‘why you have been so kind to a dull nonentity, as to sit out here with him, when there are so many interesting men and women present only too anxious to claim your attention.’

‘I do not consider you a nonentity at all Mr Foster,’ she replied, adding frankly: ‘I like you, otherwise I would not have come here with you. Perhaps also I am a little tired of talking politics and entering into the tortuous paths of diplomatic conversation. You see I am not trying to hide from you the fact, which is well known, that I have been concerned in political affairs in Germany. It would be a useless evasion, would it not? I am well aware that at the reception tonight are many who would like me to talk of Germany in the hope of learning something from me. Out here with you I am free from that, at peace, and in very pleasant company.’

‘It is nice of you to say that,’ he murmured.

‘It is nice of you,’ she corrected gently, ‘to spend your time with me when, I am sure, there are many charming girls anxious for your society.’

‘There are none here half as charming or as beautiful as you, Baroness,’ he whispered.

She laughed softly.

‘S’sh! Do not pay me such compliments – I like sincerity in my friends. Compliments without sincerity are very cheap, Mr Foster.’

‘What I said was sincere – nothing could be more so, Baroness,’ he assured her earnestly. ‘I meant every word.’

‘So …’ She was silent for a moment, and he thought to hear a little sigh. ‘I believe you,’ she murmured presently. ‘Thank you, my friend. Now we must return to the house. I am afraid we have already stayed away from the others too long.’ They rose, and she took his arm. ‘I had almost forgotten I am young also,’ she confided. ‘You have made me remember.’

‘I am glad,’ he told her with simple sincerity. ‘Presently I shall be separated from you by more important people. Before I am forced to take leave of you, may I make a request, Baroness?’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘I badly want to call on you. May I?’

She turned her face towards him and, in the moonlight and the illumination cast by the little lamps, he saw that she was smiling gloriously.

‘I shall not forgive you, if you do not,’ she vowed. ‘As perhaps you know, I am staying at the Carlton. I shall expect you tomorrow at four, Mr Foster.’