Read Ebook: Her Majesty's Minister by Le Queux William

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Ebook has 2464 lines and 97493 words, and 50 pages

"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.

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.

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