E. Phillips Oppenheim - 21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

“Alone?”

“Alone,” Norgate admitted. “It was not for me to invite a chaperon if the lady did not choose to bring one, was it, sir? As we were finishing dinner, the Prince came in. He made a scene at our table and ordered me to leave.”

“And you?” the Ambassador asked.

“I simply treated him as I would any other young ass who forgot himself,” Norgate replied indignantly. “I naturally refused to go, and the Baroness left the place with me.”

“And you did not expect to hear of this again?”

“I honestly didn’t. I should have thought, for his own sake, that the young man would have kept his mouth shut. He was hopelessly in the wrong, and he behaved like a common young bounder.”

The Ambassador shook his head slowly.

“Mr. Norgate,” he said, “I am very sorry for you, but you are under a misapprehension shared by many young men. You believe that there is a universal standard of manners and deportment, and a universal series of customs for all nations. You have our English standard of manners in your mind, manners which range from a ploughboy to a king, and you seem to take it for granted that these are also subscribed to in other countries. In my position I do not wish to say too much, but let me tell you that in Germany they are not. If a prince here chooses to behave like a ploughboy, he is right where the ploughboy would be wrong.”

There was a moment’s silence. Norgate was looking a little dazed.

“Then you mean to defend—” he began.

“Certainly not,” the Ambassador interrupted. “I am not speaking to you as one of ourselves. I am speaking as the representative of England in Berlin. You are supposed to be studying diplomacy. You have been guilty of a colossal blunder. You have shown yourself absolutely ignorant of the ideals and customs of the country in which you are. It is perfectly correct for young Prince Karl to behave, as you put it, like a bounder. The people expect it of him. He conforms entirely to the standard accepted by the military aristocracy of Berlin. It is you who have been in the wrong—diplomatically.”

“Then you mean, sir,” Norgate protested, “that I should have taken it sitting down?”

“Most assuredly you should,” the Ambassador replied, “unless you were willing to pay the price. Your only fault—your personal fault, I mean—that I can see is that it was a little indiscreet of you to dine alone with a young woman for whom the Prince is known to have a foolish passion. Diplomatically, however, you have committed every fault possible, I am very sorry, but I think that you had better report in Downing Street as soon as possible. The train leaves, I think, at three o’clock.”

Norgate for a moment was unable to speak or move. He was struggling with a sort of blind fury.

“This is the end of me, then,” he muttered at last. “I am to be disgraced because I have come to a city of boors.”

“You are reprimanded and in a sense, no doubt, punished,” the Ambassador explained calmly, “because you have come to—shall I accept your term?—a city of boors and fail to adapt yourself. The true diplomatist adapts himself wherever he may be. My personal sympathies remain with you. I will do what I can in my report.”

Norgate had recovered himself.

“I thank you very much, sir,” he said. “I shall catch the three o’clock train.”

The Ambassador held out his hand. The interview had finished. He permitted himself to speak differently.

“I am very sorry indeed, Norgate, that this has happened,” he declared. “We all have our trials to bear in this city, and you have run up against one of them rather before your time. I wish you good luck, whatever may happen.”

Norgate clasped his Chief’s hand and left the apartment. Then he made his way to his rooms, gave his orders and sent a messenger to secure his seat in the train. Last of all he went to the telephone. He rang up the number which had become already familiar to him, almost with reluctance. He waited for the reply without any pleasurable anticipations. He was filled with a burning sense of resentment, a feeling which extended even to the innocent cause of it. Soon he heard her voice.

“That is Mr. Norgate, is it not?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I rang up to wish you good-by.”

“Good-by! But you are going away, then?”

“I am sent away—dismissed!”

He heard her little exclamation of grief. Its complete genuineness broke down a little the wall of his anger.

“And it is my fault!” she exclaimed. “If only I could do anything! Will you wait—please wait? I will go to the Palace myself.”

His expostulation was almost a shock to her.

“Baroness,” he replied, “if I permitted your intervention, I could never hold my head up in Berlin again! In any case, I could not stay here. The first thing I should do would be to quarrel with that insufferable young cad who insulted us last night. I am afraid, at the first opportunity, I should tell—”

“Hush!” she interrupted. “Oh, please hush! You must not talk like this, even over the telephone. Cannot you understand that you are not in England?”

“I am beginning to realise,” he answered gruffly, “what it means not to be in a free country. I am leaving by the three o’clock train, Baroness. Farewell!”

“But you must not go like this,” she pleaded. “Come first and see me.”

“No! It will only mean more disgrace for you. Besides—in any case, I have decided to go away without seeing you again.”

Her voice was very soft. He found himself gripping the pages of the telephone book which hung by his side.

“But is that kind? Have I sinned, Mr. Francis Norgate?”

“Of course not,” he answered, keeping his tone level, almost indifferent. “I hope that we shall meet again some day, but not in Berlin.”

There was a moment’s silence. He thought, even, that she had gone away. Then her reply came back.

“So be it,” she murmured. “Not in Berlin. Au revoir!”

Table of Contents

Faithful to his insular prejudices, Norgate, on finding that the other seat in his coupe was engaged, started out to find the train attendant with a view to changing his place. His errand, however, was in vain. The train, it seemed, was crowded. He returned to his compartment to find already installed there one of the most complete and absolute types of Germanism he had ever seen. A man in a light grey suit, the waistcoat of which had apparently abandoned its efforts to compass his girth, with a broad, pink, good-humoured face, beardless and bland, flaxen hair streaked here and there with grey, was seated in the vacant place. He had with him a portmanteau covered with a linen case, his boots were a bright shade of yellow, his tie was of white satin with a design of lavender flowers. A pair of black kid gloves lay by his side. He welcomed Norgate with the bland, broad smile of a fellow-passenger whose one desire it is to make a lifelong friend of his temporary companion.

“We have the compartment to ourselves, is it not so? You are English?”

Some queer chance founded upon his ill-humour, his disgust of Germany and all things in it, induced Norgate to tell a deliberate falsehood.

“Sorry,” he replied in English. “I don’t speak German.”

The man’s satisfaction was complete.

“But I—I speak the most wonderful English. It pleases me always to speak English. I like to do so. It is practice for me. We will talk English together, you and I. These comic papers, they do not amuse. And books in the train, they make one giddy. What I like best is a companion and a bottle of Rhine wine.”

“Personally,” Norgate confessed gruffly, “I like to sleep.”