LITMIR.BIZ

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it conformed in its smooth backward brushing to the fashion of the times. Success had agreed with him and he seemed to have gained in dignity and confidence.

      “The treaty has been washed out,” he repeated meditatively.

      “The War Office of Italy has abandoned its scheme,” Fawley confided. “I dare say you know that already. If they had made their alliance with Krust and the monarchists, as at one time seemed probable, they would have remained a vassal State for another thirty years. A merciful Providence—I ask your forgiveness for a somewhat slang phrase—put them on a winner. They distrusted Von Salzenburg, and Krust and Berati were never on good terms.”

      “There was some other happening, though?” Behrling asked, his voice hardening.

      “There was never any intention of keeping you in the dark,” Fawley assured him, “but naturally they did not want the Press to get hold of it. France issued a private challenge to Italy and Italy accepted it. What happened will always remain a chapter of secret history, but it was a very wonderful chapter. France and Italy have shaken hands. There will be no war.”

      “Between France and Italy?”

      “There will be no war at all.”

      Behrling sat motionless in his chair. The lines of thought were deeply engraved on his face. He drummed with his fist upon the table. His eyes never left his visitor’s. They seemed trying to bore their way into the back of his mind.

      “Germany has yet to speak,” he reminded Fawley at last.

      “There is no one who knows better than you yourself,” the latter said calmly, “that Germany cannot go to war without the alliance of another nation.”

      “A million of the finest young men any race has ever produced—”

      Fawley, who was rarely impetuous in conversation, interrupted almost savagely.

      “The most reckless military fanatic who ever breathed, Herr Behrling, would never dare to sacrifice the whole youth of his country in an unequal struggle to gain—God knows what. You are without munitions, a sufficiency of guns; you have not even rifles, you have not the food to support an army, you have not an established commissariat, you have no navy to follow your movements at sea. You cannot make war, Herr Behrling.”

      Behrling’s face was dark with passion.

      “Who are you who come here to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he demanded furiously. “You appear first as an envoy of Italy. You are an American who bargains in Downing Street. You were at the Quai d’Orsay a week ago. Whose agent are you? For whom do you work?”

      “The time has come for me to answer that question,” Fawley replied. “I am glad that you have asked it. I work for no nation. I work for what people have called a dream but which is soon to become reality. I work for the peace of civilised countries and for the peace of Europe.”

      “You take your instructions from some one,” Behrling insisted.

      “From no one. Nor do I give instructions. I am here, though, to tell you why there will be no war, if you care to listen.”

      “There have been rumours of a pact,” Behrling remarked cynically. “Pacts I am sick of. They start with acclamation. When the terms are announced, enthusiasm dwindles. In a month or two they are just a pile of parchment.”

      “The pact I am speaking of has survived all those troubles.”

      Behrling squared his shoulders.

      “Well, tell me about it,” he invited with resignation. “I warn you I am no sympathetic listener. I am sick of promises and treaties. The bayonet is the only real olive branch.”

      “You will have to forget those crisp little journalistic epigrams if you stay where you are, Behrling,” his visitor said firmly.

      Behrling was furious. He rose to his feet and pointed towards the door. Fawley shook his head.

      “Too late, my friend,” he declared. “The pact I am offering you is one already signed at Washington by the President of the United States, at Windsor by the King of England and the Prime Minister. It has been signed by the President of France and the Premier. It has been signed by the King of Italy and Berati’s master. It only remains to have your signature and Hindenburg’s.”

      “Signed?” Behrling repeated incredulously.

      “Absolutely. It is the simplest of all pacts that has ever been recorded. The secondary tabulated formula of minor conditions will be issued shortly, but they will none of them affect the main point. America, England, France and Italy have entered into a compact that under no circumstances will they go to war. It is to be a five-power pact. You are the man for whose signature we are waiting now and the thing is finished.”

      “Under no circumstances are we to go to war,” Behrling muttered, in dazed fashion.

      “Well, you see you cannot go to war,” Fawley pointed out with a smile, “if there is no one to go to war with.”

      Behrling waved his hand towards the east window with a sweeping gesture and his companion nodded understandingly.

      “Quite so,” he admitted. “There is Soviet Russia, but Soviet Russia came into the world spouting peace. With America and the four civilised nations of Europe united, she will scarcely blacken the pages of history by attempting a bellicose attitude. If she did, there is a special clause which would mean for her economic destruction.”

      Behrling rose from his place and walked restlessly up and down the room. His pride was hurt, his dreams of the future dimmed. The promises he had made his people were to become then impossible. He swung around and faced Fawley.

      “Look here,” he said. “This pact of yours. Well enough for England to sign it—she has all that she needs. Well enough for France—she bled the world in 1919. Well enough for Italy, who could not even conquer Austria and is laden with spoils. What about us? Stripped of everything. The pact comes to us at an evil moment. Peace is great. Peace is a finer condition than warfare. I grant you that, but peace should come at the right moment. It is the wrong moment for Germany.”

      “Others besides you,” Fawley acknowledged, “have seen the matter from that point of view, Behrling. England and America have both discussed it with sympathy. I bring you a great offer—an offer which you can announce as the result of your own policy—a great triumph to salve the humiliation of the country. In consideration of your signing the pact, England will restore to you your colonies.”

      Behrling resumed his perambulations of the room. His heart was lighter. This man with the quiet voice and the indescribable sense of power spoke the truth. War was an impossibility. Here was something to send the people crazy with delight, to make them forget the poison of Versailles. Behrling knew as well as any German how, apart from their intrinsic value, the thought of foreign possessions had always thrilled his country-people. The Polish Corridor—nothing. A matter of arrangement. But the colonies back again! The jewels set once more in her crown and he—Behrling—the man to proclaim this great happening as the result of his own diplomacy. He resumed his seat.

      “Major Fawley,” he said, “I suppose in all history there has never been a case of an unknown ambassador like yourself speaking with a voice of such colossal authority. You are known to the world only as an American Secret Service agent who became a free lance and betrayed the country for which he worked.”

      “In her own interests,” his visitor reminded him, “and in the interests of the world. That is true. But I do not ask you to take my word. It is not I who will bring you the treaty or lead you to it. You will find it at the English Ambassador’s or the American Embassy, I am not sure which. Five minutes will tell us. You can sign it to-day. You can lunch with Martin Green, the American Ambassador, where you will probably meet Lord Inglewood, the Englishman. You can sign it to-day and issue your proclamation to the German people this afternoon. You will have the largest crowd that Germany has ever known shouting outside your residence to-night. The coming of peace to the world, after

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