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

“Look here, young fellow,” Hebblethwaite protested, “do you know that you are talking to a Cabinet Minister?”

“To a very possible Prime Minister,” Norgate replied, “but I am going to tell you what I think, all the same. I’m fed up with you all. I bring you some certain and sure information, proving conclusively that Germany is maintaining an extraordinary system of espionage over here, and you tell me to mind my own business. I tell you, Hebblethwaite, you and your Party are thundering good legislators, but you’ll ruin the country before you’ve finished. I’ve had enough. It seems to me we thoroughly deserve the shaking up we’re going to get. I am going to turn German spy myself and work for the other side.”

“You do, if there’s anything in it,” Hebblethwaite retorted, with a grin. “I promise we won’t arrest you. You shall hop around the country at your own sweet will, preach Teutonic doctrines, and pave the way for the coming of the conquerors. You’ll have to keep away from our arsenals and our flying places, because our Service men are so prejudiced. Short of that you can do what you like.”

Norgate finished his cigar in silence. Then he threw the end into the fireplace, finished his whisky and soda, and rose.

“Hebblethwaite,” he said, “this is the second time you’ve treated me like this. I shall give you another chance. There’s just one way I may be of use, and I am going to take it on. If I get into trouble about it, it will be your fault, but next time I come and talk with you, you’ll have to listen to me if I shove the words down your throat. Good night!”

“Good night, Norgate,” Hebblethwaite replied pleasantly. “What you want is a week or two’s change somewhere, to get this anti-Teuton fever out of your veins. I think we’ll send you to Tokyo and let you have a turn with the geishas in the cherry groves.”

“I wouldn’t go out for your Government, anyway,” Norgate declared. “I’ve given you fair warning. I am going in on the other side. I’m fed up with the England you fellows represent.”

“Nice breezy sort of chap you are for a pal!” Hebblethwaite grumbled. “Well, get along with you, then. Come and look me up when you’re in a better humour.”

“I shall probably find you in a worse one,” Norgate retorted. “Good night!”

* * * * *

It was one o’clock when Norgate let himself into his rooms. To his surprise, the electric lights were burning in his sitting-room. He entered a little abruptly and stopped short upon the threshold. A slim figure in dark travelling clothes, with veil pushed back, was lying curled up on his sofa. She stirred a little at his coming, opened her eyes, and looked at him.

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Throughout those weeks and months of tangled, lurid sensations, of amazing happenings which were yet to come, Norgate never once forgot that illuminative rush of fierce yet sweet feelings which suddenly thrilled his pulses. He understood in that moment the intolerable depression of the last few days. He realised the absolute advent of the one experience hitherto missing from his life. The very intensity of his feelings kept him silent, kept him unresponsive to her impetuous but unspoken welcome. Her arms dropped to her side, her lips for a moment quivered. Her voice, notwithstanding her efforts to control it, shook a little. She was no longer the brilliant young Court beauty of Vienna. She was a tired and disappointed girl.

“You are surprised—I should not have come here! It was such a foolish impulse.”

She caught up her gloves feverishly, but Norgate’s moment of stupefaction had passed. He clasped her hands.

“Forgive me,” he begged. “It is really you—Anna!”

His words were almost incoherent, but his tone was convincing. Her fears passed away.

“You don’t wonder that I was a little surprised, do you?” he exclaimed. “You were not only the last person whom I was thinking of, but you were certainly the last person whom I expected to see in London or to welcome here.”

“But why?” she asked. “I told you that I came often to this country.”

“I remember,” Norgate admitted. “Yet I never ventured to hope—”

“Of course I should not have come here,” she interrupted. “It was absurd of me, and at such an hour! And yet I am staying only a few hundred yards away. The temptation to-night was irresistible. I felt as one sometimes does in this queer, enormous city—lonely. I telephoned, and your servant, who answered me, said that you were expected back at any moment. Then I came myself.”

“You cannot imagine that I am not glad to see you,” he said earnestly.

“I want to believe that you are glad,” she answered. “I have been restless ever since you left. Tell me at once, what did they say to you here?”

“I am practically shelved,” he told her bitterly. “In twelve months’ time, perhaps, I may be offered something in America or Asia—countries where diplomacy languishes. In a word, your mighty autocrat has spoken the word, and I am sacrificed.”

She moved towards the window.

“I am stifled!” she exclaimed. “Open it wide, please.”

He threw it open. They looked out eastwards. The roar of the night was passing. Here and there were great black spaces. On the Thames a sky-sign or two remained. The blue, opalescent glare from the Gaiety dome still shone. The curving lights which spanned the bridges and fringed the Embankment still glittered. The air, even here, high up as they were on the seventh story of the building, seemed heavy and lifeless.

“There is a storm coming,” she said. “I have felt it for days.”

She stood looking out, pale, her large eyes strained as though seeking to read something which eluded her in the clouds or the shadows which hung over the city. She had rather the air of a frightened but eager child. She rested her fingers upon his arm, not exactly affectionately, but as though she felt the need of some protection.

“Do you know,” she whispered, “the feeling of this storm has been in my heart for days. I am afraid—afraid for all of us!”

“Afraid of what?” he asked gently.

“Afraid,” she went on, “because it seems to me that I can hear, at times like this, when one is alone, the sound of what one of your writers called footsteps amongst the hills, footsteps falling upon wool, muffled yet somehow ominous. There is trouble coming. I know it. I am sure of it.”

“In this country they do not think so,” he reminded her. “Most of our great statesmen of today have come to the conclusion that there will be no more war.”

“You have no great statesmen,” she answered simply. “You have plenty of men who would make very fine local administrators, but you have no statesmen, or you would have provided for what is coming.”

There was a curious conviction in her words, a sense of one speaking who has seen the truth.

“Tell me,” he asked, “is there anything that you know of—”

“Ah! but that I may not tell you,” she interrupted, turning away from the window. “Of myself just now I say nothing—only of you. I am here for a day or two. It is through me that you have suffered this humiliation. I wanted to know just how far it went. Is there anything I can do?”

“What could any one do?” he asked. “I am the victim of circumstances.”

“But for a whole year!” she exclaimed. “You are not like so many young Englishmen. You do not wish to spend your time playing polo and golf, and shooting. You must do something. What are you going to do with that year?”

He moved across the room and took a cigarette from a box.

“Give me something to drink, please,” she begged.

He opened a cupboard in his sideboard and gave her some soda-water. She had still the air of waiting for his reply.