Mr. Fentolin's tone was gently sympathetic. He changed the subject a moment or two later, however.

"Nero fiddles to-night," he said, "while Rome burns. There are hundreds in our position, yet it certainly seems queer that we should be sitting here so quietly when the whole country is in such a state of excitement.

I see the press this morning is preaching an immediate declaration of war."

"Against whom?" Mrs. Fentolin asked.

Mr. Fentolin smiled.

"That does seem to be rather the trouble," he admitted. "Russia, Austria, Germany, Italy, and France are all a.s.sisting at a Conference to which no English representative has been bidden. In a sense, of course, that is equivalent to an act of hostility from all these countries towards England. The question is whether we have or have not a secret understanding with France, and if so, how far she will be bound by it.

There is a rumour that when Monsieur Desch.e.l.les was asked formally whom he represented, that he replied--'France and Great Britain.' There may be something in it. It is hard to see how any English statesman could have left unguarded the Mediterranean, with all that it means, trusting simply to the faith of a country with whom we have no binding agreement.

On the other hand, there is the mobilisation of the fleet. If France is really faithful, one wonders if there was need for such an extreme step."

"I am out of touch with political affairs," Hamel declared. "I have been away from England for so long."

"I, on the other hand," Mr. Fentolin continued, his eyes glittering a little, "have made the study of the political situation in Europe my hobby for years. I have sent to me the leading newspapers of Berlin, Rome, Paris, St. Petersburg, and Vienna. For two hours every day I read them, side by side. It is curious sometimes to note the common understanding which seems to exist between the Powers not bound by any formal alliance. For years war seemed a very unlikely thing, and now," he added, leaning forward in his chair, "I p.r.o.nounce it almost a certainty."

Hamel looked at his host a little curiously. Mr. Fentolin's gentleness of expression seemed to have departed. His face was hard, his eyes agleam. He had almost the look of a bird of prey. For some reason, the thought of war seemed to be a joy to him. Perhaps he read something of Hamel's wonder in his expression, for with a shrug of the shoulders he dismissed the subject.

"Well," he concluded, "all these things lie on the knees of the G.o.ds. I dare say you wonder, Mr. Hamel, why a poor useless creature like myself should take the slightest interest in pa.s.sing events? It is just the fascination of the looker-on. I want your opinion about that champagne.

Florence dear, you must join us. We will drink to Mr. Hamel's health. We will perhaps couple that toast in our minds with the sentiment which I am sure is not very far from your thoughts, Florence."

Hamel raised his gla.s.s and bowed to his host and hostess. He was not wholly at his ease. It seemed to him that he was being watched with a queer persistence by both of them. Mrs. Fentolin continued to talk and laugh with a gaiety which was too obviously forced. Mr. Fentolin posed for a while as the benevolent listener. He mildly applauded his sister-in-law's stories, and encouraged Hamel in the recital of some of his reminiscences. Suddenly the door was opened. Miss Price appeared.

She walked smoothly across the room and stood by Mr. Fentolin's side.

Stooping down, she whispered in his ear. He pushed his chair back a little from the table. His face was dark with anger.

"I said not before ten to-night," he muttered.

Again she spoke in his ear, so softly that the sound of her voice itself scarcely travelled even as far as where Hamel was sitting. Mr. Fentolin looked steadfastly for a moment at his sister-in-law and from her to Hamel. Then he backed his chair away front the table.

"I shall have to ask to be excused for three minutes," he said. "I must speak upon the telephone. It is a call from some one who declares that they have important news."

He turned the steering-wheel of his chair, and with Miss Price by his side pa.s.sed across the dining-room, out of the Oasis of rose-shaded lights into the shadows, and through the open door. From there he turned his head before he disappeared, as though to watch his guest. Mrs.

Fentolin was busy fondling one of her dogs, which she had raised to her lap, and Hamel was watching her with a tolerant smile.

"Koto, you little idiot, why can't you sit up like your sister? Was its tail in the way, then! Mr. Hamel," she whispered under her breath, so softly that he barely caught the words, although he was only a few feet away, "don't look at me. I feel as though we were being watched all the time. You can destroy that piece of paper in your pocket. All that it says is 'Leave here immediately after dinner.'"

Hamel sipped his wine in a nonchalant fashion. His fingers had strayed over the silky coat of the little dog, which she had held out as though for his inspection.

"How can I?" he asked. "What excuse can I make?"

"Invent one," she insisted swiftly. "Leave here before ten o'clock.

Don't let anything keep you. And destroy that piece of paper in your pocket, if you can--now."

"But, Mrs. Fentolin--" he began.

She caught up one of her absurd little pets and held it to her mouth.

"Meekins is in the doorway," she whispered.

"Don't argue with me, please. You are in danger you know nothing about.

Pa.s.s me the cigarettes."

She leaned back in her chair, smoking quickly. She held one of the dogs on her knee and talked rubbish to it. Hamel watched her, leaning back in his carved oak chair, and he found it hard to keep the pity from his eyes. The woman was playing a part, playing it with desperate and pitiful earnestness, a part which seemed the more tragical because of the soft splendour of their surroundings. From the shadowy walls, huge, dimly-seen pictures hung about them, a strange and yet impressive background. Their small round dining-table, with its rare cut gla.s.s, its perfect appointments, its bowls of pink roses, was like a spot of wonderful colour in the great room. Two men servants stood at the sideboard a few yards away, a triumph of negativeness. The butler, who had been absent for a moment, stood now silently waiting behind his master's place. Hamel was oppressed, during those few minutes of waiting, by a curious sense of unreality, as though he were taking part in some strange tableau. There was something unreal about his surroundings and his own presence there; something unreal in the atmosphere, charged as it seemed to be with some omen of impending happenings; something unreal in that whispered warning, those few hoa.r.s.ely uttered words which had stolen to his hearing across the cl.u.s.ters of drooping roses; the absurd babble of the woman, who sat there with tragic things under the powder with which her face was daubed.

"Koto must learn to sit upon his tail--like that. No, not another grape till he sits up. There, then!"

She was leaning forward with a grape between her teeth, towards the tiny animal who was trying in vain to balance his absurdly shaped little body upon the tablecloth. Hamel, without looking around, knew quite well what was happening. Soon he heard the click of the chair. Mr. Fentolin was back in his place. His skin seemed paler and more parchment-like than ever. His eyes glittered.

"It seems," he announced quietly, as he raised his wine-gla.s.s to his lips with the air of one needing support, "that we entertained an angel unawares here. This Mr. Dunster is lost for the second time. A very important personage he turns out to be."

"You mean the American whom Gerald brought home after the accident?"

Mrs. Fentolin asked carelessly.

Mr. Fentolin replied. "He insisted upon continuing his journey before he was strong enough. I warned him of what might happen. He has evidently been take ill somewhere. It seems that he was on his way to The Hague."

"Do you mean that he has disappeared altogether this time?" Hamel asked.

Mr. Fentolin shook his head.

"No, he has found his way to The Hague safely enough. He is lying there at a hotel in the city, but he is unconscious. There is some talk about his having been robbed on the way. At any rate, they are tracing his movements backwards. We are to be honoured with a visit from one of Scotland Yard's detectives, to reconstruct his journey from here. Our quiet little corner of the world is becoming quite notorious. Florence dear, you are tired. I can see it in your eyes. Your headache continues, I am sure. We will not be selfish. Mr. Hamel and I are going to have a long evening in the library. Let me recommend a phenacetin and bed."

She rose at once to her feet, with a dog under either arm.

"I'll take the phenacetin," she promised, "but I hate going to bed early. Shall I see you again, I wonder, Mr. Hamel?"

"Not this evening, I fear," he answered. "I am going to ask Mr. Fentolin to excuse me early."

She pa.s.sed out of the room. Hamel escorted her as far as the door and then returned. Mr. Fentolin was sitting quite still in his chair. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. He looked up quickly as Hamel resumed his seat.

"You are not in earnest, I hope, Mr. Hamel," he said, "when you tell me that you must leave early? I have been antic.i.p.ating a long evening. My library is filled with books on South America which I want to discuss with you."

"Another evening, if you don't mind," Hamel begged. "To-night I must ask you to excuse my hurrying away."

Mr. Fentolin looked up from underneath his eyelids. His glance was quick and penetrating.

"Why this haste?"

Hamel shrugged his shoulders.

"To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I had an idea while I was reading an article on cantilever bridges this morning. I want to work it out."

Mr. Fentolin glanced behind him. The door of the dining-room was closed.

The servants had disappeared. Meekins alone, looking more like a prize fighter than ever in his somber evening clothes, had taken the place of the butler behind his master's chair.

"We shall see," Mr. Fentolin said quietly.