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The Right Honourable John Hebblethwaite, M.P., since he had become a Cabinet Minister and had even been mentioned as the possible candidate for supreme office, had lost a great deal of that breezy, almost boisterous effusion of manner which in his younger days had first endeared him to his constituents. He received Norgate, however, with marked and hearty cordiality, and took his arm as he led him to the little table which he had reserved in a corner of the dining-room. The friendship between the entirely self-made politician and Norgate, who was the nephew of a duke, and whose aristocratic connections were multifarious and far-reaching, was in its way a genuine one. There were times when Hebblethwaite had made use of his younger friend to further his own undoubted social ambitions. On the other hand, since he had become a power in politics, he had always been ready to return in kind such offices. The note which he had received from Norgate that day was, however, the first appeal which had ever been made to him.

“I have been away for a week-end’s golf,” Hebblethwaite explained, as they took their places at the table. “There comes a time when figures pall, and snapping away in debate seems to stick in one’s throat. I telephoned directly I got your note. Fortunately, I wasn’t doing anything this evening. We won’t play about. I know you don’t want to see me to talk about the weather, and I know something’s up, or Leveson wouldn’t have written to me, and you wouldn’t be back from Berlin. Let’s have the whole story with the soup and fish, and we’ll try and hit upon a way to put things right before we reach the liqueurs.”

“I’ve lots to say to you,” Norgate admitted simply. “I’ll begin with the personal side of it. Here’s just a brief narration of exactly what happened to me in the most fashionable restaurant of Berlin last Thursday night.”

Norgate told his story. His friend listened with the absorbed attention of a man who possesses complete powers of concentration.

“Rotten business,” he remarked, when it was finished. “I suppose you’ve told old—I mean you’ve told them the story at the Foreign Office?”

“Had it all out this morning,” Norgate replied.

“I know exactly what our friend told you,” Mr. Hebblethwaite continued, with a gleam of humour in his eyes. “He reminded you that the first duty of a diplomat—of a young diplomat especially—is to keep on friendly terms with the governing members of the country to which he is accredited. How’s that, eh?”

“Pretty nearly word for word,” Norgate admitted. “It’s the sort of platitude I could watch framing in his mind before I was half-way through what I had to say. What they don’t seem to take sufficient account of in that museum of mummied brains and parchment tongues—forgive me, Hebblethwaite, but it isn’t your department—is that the Prince’s behaviour to me is such as no Englishman, subscribing to any code of honour, could possibly tolerate. I will admit, if you like, that the Kaiser’s attitude may render it advisable for me to be transferred from Berlin. I do not admit that I am not at once eligible for a position of similar importance in another capital.”

“No one would doubt it,” John Hebblethwaite grumbled, “except those particular fools we have to deal with. I suppose they didn’t see it in the same light.”

“They did not,” Norgate admitted.

“We’ve a tough proposition to tackle,” Hebblethwaite confessed cheerfully, “but I am with you, Norgate, and to my mind one of the pleasures of being possessed of a certain amount of power is to help one’s friends when you believe in the justice of their cause. If you leave things with me, I’ll tackle them to-morrow morning.”

“That’s awfully good of you, Hebblethwaite,” Norgate declared gratefully, “and just what I expected. We’ll leave that matter altogether just now, if we may. My own little grievance is there, and I wanted to explain exactly how it came about. Apart from that altogether, there is something far more important which I have to say to you.”

Hebblethwaite knitted his brows. He was clearly puzzled.

“Still personal, eh?” he enquired.

Norgate shook his head.

“It is something of vastly more importance,” he said, “than any question affecting my welfare. I am almost afraid to begin for fear I shall miss any chance, for fear I may not seem convincing enough.”

“We’ll have the champagne opened at once, then,” Mr. Hebblethwaite declared. “Perhaps that will loosen your tongue. I can see that this is going to be a busy meal. Charles, if that bottle of Pommery 1904 is iced just to the degree I like it, let it be served, if you please, in the large sized glasses. Now, Norgate.”

“What I am going to relate to you,” Norgate began, leaning across the table and speaking very earnestly, “is a little incident which happened to me on my way back from Berlin. I had as a fellow passenger a person whom I am convinced is high up in the German Secret Service Intelligence Department.”

“All that!” Mr. Hebblethwaite murmured. “Go ahead, Norgate. I like the commencement of your story. I almost feel that I am moving through the pages of a diplomatic romance. All that I am praying is that your fellow passenger was a foreign lady—a princess, if possible—with wonderful eyes, fascinating manners, and of a generous disposition.”

“Then I am afraid you will be disappointed,” Norgate continued drily. “The personage in question was a man whose name was Selingman. He told me that he was a manufacturer of crockery and that he came often to England to see his customers. He called himself a peace-loving German, and he professed the utmost good-will towards our country and our national policy. At the commencement of our conversation, I managed to impress him with the idea that I spoke no German. At one of the stations on the line he was joined by a Belgian, his agent, as he told me, in Brussels for the sale of his crockery. I overheard this agent, whose name was Meyer, recount to his principal his recent operations. He offered him an exact plan of the forts of Liege. I heard him instructed to procure a list of the wealthy inhabitants of Ghent and the rateable value of the city, and I heard him commissioned to purchase land in the neighbourhood of Antwerp for a secret purpose.”

Mr. Hebblethwaite’s eyebrows became slowly upraised. The twinkle in his eyes remained, however.

“My!” he exclaimed softly. “We’re getting on with the romance all right!”

“During the momentary absence of this fellow and his agent from the carriage,” Norgate proceeded, “I possessed myself of a slip of paper which had become detached from the packet of documents they had been examining. It consisted of a list of names mostly of people resident in the United Kingdom, purporting to be Selingman’s agents. I venture to believe that this list is a precise record of the principal German spies in this country.”

“German spies!” Mr. Hebblethwaite murmured. “Whew!”

He sipped his champagne.

“That list,” Norgate went on, “is in my pocket. I may add that although I was careful to keep up the fiction of not understanding German, and although I informed Herr Selingman that I had seen the paper in question blow out of the window, he nevertheless gave me that night a drugged whisky and soda, and during the time I slept he must have been through every one of my possessions. I found my few letters and papers turned upside down, and even my pockets had been ransacked.”

“Where was the paper, then?” Mr. Hebblethwaite enquired.

“In an inner pocket of my pyjamas,” Norgate explained. “I had them made with a sort of belt inside, at the time I was a king’s messenger.”