LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Fawley assented.

      “I was to ask you to entertain Major Fawley for that time, sir,” the man went on, turning to Malcolm.

      “You and I will do the entertaining together, Philpott,” the secretary replied, with a smile.

      “Dry Martinis, sir?” the man asked.

      “A couple each and strong,” Malcolm specified. “This has been a wearing day. And bring some more cigarettes, Philpott.”

      “This sounds like good news,” Fawley remarked, installing himself in an armchair. “The cocktails, I mean. Any late news from Berlin?”

      “We had a message through half an hour ago,” Malcolm confided. “The city is still in a turmoil but Behrling seems to have got them going. I think the Chief hit it on the nail at the luncheon to-day when he remarked that he could not make up his mind whether a weak and disrupted Germany for a time or a strong and united country gave us the best hope of peace.”

      Fawley sipped his cocktail appreciatively. He made no comment on the other’s remarks. Just at the moment he had nothing to say about Germany, even to the secretary of the British Prime Minister.

      “Good show at the American Embassy last night,” he observed.

      “I didn’t go,” Malcolm regretted. “The Chief just now is too restless for me to get away anywhere and feel comfortable. I cannot help feeling that there is something of terrific importance in the air, of which even I know nothing.”

      The two men smoked on for a minute or two in silence. Then Fawley asked his host a question.

      “Are those fellows outside waiting to ride home with me?”

      “I’m afraid so,” Malcolm assented. “You see, the Chief gave special orders to M.I.2. and they brought Scotland Yard into it. We know how you hate it, but the Chief is just as obstinate, and it seems you must be kept alive at all hazards for the next week or so.”

      “They didn’t stop a mad Italian having a go at me last night,” Fawley grumbled. “Got my brother instead. Not much harm done, I’m glad to say. What sort of an Italian colony is yours here?”

      “No idea,” Malcolm confessed. “This sort of work that you go in for is right outside my line. From what I have heard, though, I believe they are a pretty tough lot. Not as bad as in your country, though.”

      “They don’t need to be,” Fawley smiled. “As a rule, I find it pretty easy to slip about but it seems I am not popular in Rome just now.”

      “These fellows to-night didn’t annoy you in any way, I hope?” Malcolm asked.

      “Not in the least. I dare say, as a matter of fact, they were very useful. I don’t take much notice of threats as a rule but I had word on the telephone that they were laying for me.”

      “Official?”

      “I think not. I think it was a private warning.”

      The butler reopened the door.

      “The Prime Minister is down, sir,” he announced. “If you will allow me, I will show you the way to the small dining room.”

      “See you later,” Malcolm observed.

      “I hope so,” Fawley answered. “By the by, I sha’n’t be sorry to have you keep those fellows to-night, Malcolm. First time in my life I’ve felt resigned to having nursemaids in attendance but there is a spot of trouble about.”

      Malcolm’s forehead wrinkled in surprise. He had known Fawley several years but this was the first time he had ever heard him utter any apprehension of the sort.

      “I’ll pass word along to the sergeant,” he promised. “They would not have been going in any case, though, until they had seen you safely home.”

      Fawley had the rare honour of dining alone with the Prime Minister. As between two men of the world, their conversation could scarcely be called brilliant but, when dinner was over and at the host’s orders coffee and port simultaneously placed upon the table, the Prime Minister unburdened himself.

      “You are a man of experience, Fawley,” he began. “You would call things on the Continent pretty critical, wouldn’t you?”

      “Never more so,” Fawley assented. “If any one of five men whom Italy sent out to the frontier had got back to Rome alive, there would have been war at the present moment.”

      The Prime Minister was allowing himself a glass of port and he sipped it thoughtfully.

      “It’s a funny thing,” he went on. “We have ambassadors in every country of Europe and never, by any chance, do they make any reports to us which are of the slightest interest. When anything goes wrong, they are the most surprised men in the world. They seem always the last to foresee danger.”

      “You must remember,” Fawley pointed out, “they are not allowed a Secret Service department. The last person to hear of trouble as a rule is, as you say, the ambassador to the country concerned. What can you do about it, though?”

      “Not much, I’m afraid,” the other sighed. “Take our friend at Rome. It was only last night we had a long rigmarole from the Embassy there. Lord Rollins said he had never been more deeply impressed with the earnest desire of a certain great man for European peace. All the time we know that Berati has the draft of a treaty ready for the signature of whichever party in Germany comes out on top.”

      “Berati very nearly made a mistake there,” Fawley remarked. “Still, I don’t know that he was to be blamed. There were a few hours when I was in Berlin when the chances were all in favour of a monarchy. Von Salzenburg and his puppet played the game badly or they would have won, all right.”

      “Shall I tell you why I sent for you to-night?” the Prime Minister asked abruptly.

      “I wish you would,” was the very truthful and earnest response.

      “You have your finger upon the situation in Germany and in Rome. You are not so well informed about the Quai d’Orsay, perhaps, but you know something about that. You know that war is simmering. Can you think of any means by which trouble can be postponed for, say, one week?”

      “You mean,” Fawley said, “keep things as they are for a week?”

      “Yes.”

      “And after that week?”

      “Rawson is on his way over. He is coming on the new fast liner and there is a question of sending a plane to meet him. You know what this means, Fawley.”

      “My God!”

      There was a brief and curious silence. Fawley, the man of unchanging expression, the man whose thoughts no one could ever divine, was suddenly agitated. The light of the visionary so often somnolent in his eyes was back again. His face was transfigured. He was like a prophet who has suddenly been given a glimpse of the heaven he has preached… The Prime Minister was a man of impulses. He leaned over and laid his hand in friendly fashion for a moment on the other’s shoulder.

      “I know what this must mean to you, Fawley,” he said. “The long and short of it is—so far as I could gather—the President is coming in. He is going to adopt your scheme. What we have to do now is to keep things going until Rawson arrives.”

      “How much of this can be told to—say—three men in Europe?” Fawley asked.

      “I have thought of that,” the Prime Minister replied. “You know that I am not an optimist—I have been coupled with the Gloomy Dean before now—yet I tell you that from a single word the President let fall this evening, they have made up their minds. America is going to make a great sacrifice. She is going to depart from her principles. She is going to join hands with us. It will be the launching of your scheme, Fawley…Don’t think that your labours are over, though. It is up to you to stop trouble until Rawson arrives. On that day we shall communicate simultaneously

Скачать книгу