“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably beback in Berlin within the week,” the secretary was saying. “Whenyou get there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised atthe welcome you will receive. I happen to know what is thought inthe highest quarters of your work in this country.” He was a hugeman, the secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashionof speech which had been his main asset in his political career.
Von Bork laughed.
“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A moredocile, simple folk could not be imagined.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the other thoughtfully. “Theyhave strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is thatsurface simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger.
One’s first impression is that they are entirely soft. Then onecomes suddenly upon something very hard, and you know that youhave reached the limit and must adapt yourself to the fact. Theyhave, for example, their insular conventions which simply must beobserved.”
“Meaning ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von Bork sighedas one who had suffered much.
“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As anexample I may quote one of my own worst blunders—I can affordto talk of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to beaware of my successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited toa week-end gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister.
The conversation was amazingly indiscreet.”
Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly.
“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the information toBerlin. Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handedin these matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed thathe was aware of what had been said. This, of course, took the trailstraight up to me. You’ve no idea the harm that it did me. Therewas nothing soft about our British hosts on that occasion, I canassure you. I was two years living it down. Now you, with thissporting pose of yours—”
“No, no, don’t call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This isquite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it.”
“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them,you hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game,your four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heardthat you go the length of boxing with the young officers. What isthe result? Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ‘good old sport’
‘quite a decent fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club,knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the timethis quiet country house of yours is the centre of half the mischiefin England, and the sporting squire the most astute secret-serviceman in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork—genius!”
“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim that my fouryears in this country have not been unproductive. I’ve never shownyou my little store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”
The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. VonBork pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch ofthe electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky formwhich followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain overthe latticed window. Only when all these precautions had beentaken and tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face to hisguest.
“Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my wife and thehousehold left yesterday for Flushing they took the less importantwith them. I must, of course, claim the protection of the embassyfor the others.”
“Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite.
There will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course,it is just possible that we may not have to go. England may leaveFrance to her fate. We are sure that there is no binding treatybetween them.”
“And Belgium?”
“Yes, and Belgium, too.”
Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t see how that could be. Thereis a definite treaty there. She could never recover from such ahumiliation.”
“She would at least have peace for the moment.”
“But her honor?”
“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is amediaeval conception. Besides England is not ready. It is aninconceivable thing, but even our special war tax of fifty million,which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we hadadvertised it on the front page of the Times, has not roused thesepeople from their slumbers. Here and there one hears a question.
It is my business to find an answer. Here and there also there isan irritation. It is my business to soothe it. But I can assure youthat so far as the essentials go—the storage of munitions, thepreparation for submarine attack, the arrangements for makinghigh explosives—nothing is prepared. How, then, can Englandcome in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil’s brewof Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what tokeep her thoughts at home.”
“She must think of her future.”
“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future wehave our own very definite plans about England, and that yourinformation will be very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow withMr. John Bull. If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is tomorrowwe shall be more ready still. I should think they would bewiser to fight with allies than without them, but that is their ownaffair. This week is their week of destiny. But you were speaking ofyour papers.” He sat in the armchair with the light shining uponhis broad bald head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar.
The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung inthe future corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brassboundsafe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain,and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swungopen the heavy door.
“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.
