“But how can you account for giving back to me a blank sheet of paper in an envelope secured by a forged seal?” he asked, regarding me with undisguised suspicion. “You do not admit even taking it from your pocket, neither have you any suspicion of the friend with whom you lunched. I should like to hear his independent version.”
“That is impossible,” I answered.
“Why?” he asked, pricking up his ears and scenting a mystery.
“Because he is dead.”
At that moment our conversation was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the bell of the telegraph instrument near us, and an instant later the telegraphist in charge entered, and seated himself at the table.
Click, click, click—click—click began the needle, and next moment the clerk, turning to the Earl, exclaimed—
“An important message from St. Petersburg, your Lordship.”
“Read it as it comes through,” the Earl replied breathlessly, walking towards the instrument and bending eagerly over it.
Then, as the rapid metallic click again broke the silence, the clerk, in monotonous tones, exclaimed—
“From Lobetski, St. Petersburg, via Hamburg. To Earl of Warnham.—A proclamation signed by the Tzar declaring war against England has just been received at the Foreign Office, but it is as yet kept secret. It will probably be posted in the streets this evening. Greatest activity prevails at the War Office and Admiralty. Regiments in the military districts of Charkoff, Odessa, Warsaw and Kieff have received orders to complete their cadres of officers to war strength, recalling to the colours all officers on the retired list and on leave. This is a preliminary step to the complete mobilisation of the Russian forces. All cipher messages now refused.”
The Earl, with frantic effort, grasped at the edge of the table, then staggered unevenly, and sank back into a chair, rigid and speechless.
Chapter Five.
Lord Warnham’s Admission.
“Anything further?” inquired the great statesman in a low, mechanical tone, his gaze fixed straight before him as he sat.
“Nothing further, your Lordship,” answered the telegraphist.
The Earl of Warnham sighed deeply, his thin hands twitching with a nervous excitement he strove in vain to suppress.
“Ask if Lord Maybury is in town,” he said hoarsely, suddenly rousing himself.
Again the instrument clicked, and a few moments later the telegraphist, turning to the Foreign Minister, said—
“The Premier is in town, your Lordship.”
The Earl glanced at his watch a few seconds in silence, then exclaimed—
“Tell Gaysford to inform Lord Maybury at once of the contents of this last dispatch from St. Petersburg, and say that I will meet the Premier at 5:30 at the Foreign Office.” The telegraphist touched the key, and in a few moments the Minister’s orders were obeyed. Then, taking a sheet of note-paper and a pencil, he wrote in a private cipher a telegram, which he addressed to Her Majesty at Osborne. This, too, the clerk dispatched at once over the wire, followed by urgent messages to members of the Cabinet Council and to Lord Kingsbury, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, asking them to meet informally at six o’clock that evening at the Foreign Office.
When all these messages had been transmitted with a rapidity that was astonishing, the telegraphist turned in his chair and asked—
“Anything more, your lordship?”
“Nothing for the present,” he answered. “Leave us.” Then, when he had gone, the Earl rose slowly, and with bent head, and hands clasped behind his back, he strode up and down the library in silent contemplation. Suddenly he halted before me where I stood, and abruptly asked—
“What did you say was the name of that friend who lunched with you yesterday?”
“Ogle,” I answered. “Dudley Ogle.”
“And his profession?”
“He had none. His father left him with enough to live upon comfortably.”
“Who was his father?” he inquired, with a sharp look of doubt.
“A landowner.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
The Earl slightly raised his shaggy grey brows, then continued—
“How long have you known this friend?”
“Several years.”
“You told me that he has died since yesterday,” his lordship said. “Is not that a rather curious fact—if true?”
“True!” I cried. “You apparently doubt me. A telegram to the police at Staines will confirm my statement.”
“Yes, I never disguise my doubts, Deedes,” the Earl snapped, fixing his grey eyes upon mine. “I suspect very strongly that you have sold the secret to our enemies; you have, to put it plainly, betrayed your country.”
“I deny it!” I replied, with fierce anger. “I care not for any of your alleged proofs. True, the man who was with me during the whole time I was absent is dead. Nevertheless I am prepared to meet and refute all the accusations you may bring against me.”
“Well, we shall see. We shall see,” he answered dryly, snapping his fingers, and again commencing to pace the great library from end to end with steps a trifle more hurried than before. “We have—nay, I, personally have been the victim of dastardly spies, but I will not rest until I clear up the mystery and bring upon the guilty one the punishment he deserves. Think,” he cried. “Think what this means! England’s prestige is ruined, her power is challenged; and ere long the great armies of Russia and France will be swarming upon our shores. In the fights at sea and the fights on land with modern armaments the results must be too terrible to contemplate. The disaster that we must face will, I fear, be crushing and complete. I am not, I have never been, one of those over-confident idiots who believe our island impregnable; but am old-fashioned enough to incline towards Napoleon’s opinion. We are apt to rely upon our naval strength, a strength that may, or may not, be up to the standard of power we believe. If it is a rotten reed, what remains? England must be trodden beneath the iron heel of the invader, and the Russian eagle will float beside the tricolour in Whitehall.”
“But can diplomacy do nothing to avert the catastrophe?” I suggested.
“Not when it is defeated by the devilish machinations of spies,” he replied meaningly, flashing a glance at me, the fierceness of which I did not fail to observe.
“But Russia dare not take the initiative,” I blurted forth.
“Permit me, sir, to express my own opinion upon our relations with St. Petersburg,” he roared. “I tell you that for years Russia has held herself in readiness to attack us at the moment when she received sufficient provocation, and for that very object she contracted an alliance with France. The Tzar’s recent visit to England was a mere farce to disarm suspicion, a proceeding in which, thank Heaven! I refused to play any part whatever. The blow that I have long anticipated, and have sought to ward off all these long years of my administration as Premier and as Foreign Secretary, has fallen. To-day is the most sorry day that England has ever known. The death-knell of