coat, which he proceeded to help the detective into, ‘a sort of instinctive feeling this last day or two, that I have been watched and followed, so that I am using a car to convey me from place to place: they can’t follow that, without attracting some notice.’ He dipped his hand into the pocket and brought out a pair of motoring goggles. He laughed somewhat shamefacedly as he adjusted them. ‘This is the only disguise I ever adopt, and I might say, Sir Philip,’ he added with some regret, ‘that this is the first time during my twenty-five years of service that I have ever played the fool like a stage detective.’
After Falmouth’s departure the Foreign Minister returned to his desk.
He hated being alone: it frightened him. That there were two score detectives within call did not dispel the feeling of loneliness. The terror of the Four was ever with him, and this had so worked upon his nerves that the slightest noise irritated him. He played with the penholder that lay on the desk. He scribbled inconsequently on the blotting-pad before him, and was annoyed to find that the scribbling had taken the form of numbers of figure 4.
Was the Bill worth it? Was the sacrifice called for? Was the measure of such importance as to justify the risk? These things he asked himself again and again, and then immediately, What sacrifice? What risk?
‘I am taking the consequence too much for granted,’ he muttered, throwing aside the pen, and half turning from the writing-table. ‘There is no certainty that they will keep their words; bah! it is impossible that they should – ’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Hullo, Superintendent,’ said the Foreign Minister as the knocker entered. ‘Back again already!’
The detective, vigorously brushing the dust from his moustache with a handkerchief, drew an official-looking blue envelope from his pocket.
‘I thought I had better leave this in your care,’ he said, dropping his voice; ‘it occurred to me just after I had left; accidents happen, you know.’
The Minister took the document.
‘What is it? ‘he asked.
‘It is something which would mean absolute disaster for me if by chance itwas foundin my possession,’said the detective,turning to go.
‘What am I to do with it?’
‘You would greatly oblige me by putting it in your desk until I return’; and the detective stepped into the anteroom, closed the door behind him and, acknowledging the salute of the plain-clothes officer who guarded the outer door, passed to the motor-car that awaited him.
Sir Philip looked at the envelope with a puzzled frown.
It bore the superscription, ‘Confidential’ and the address, ‘Department A, CID, Scotland Yard’.
‘Some confidential report,’ thought Sir Philip, and an angry doubt as to the possibility of it containing particulars of the police arrangements for his safety filled his mind. He had hit by accident upon the truth had he but known. The envelope contained those particulars.
He placed the letter in a drawer of his desk and drew some papers towards him.
They were copies of the Bill for the passage of which he was daring so much.
It was not a long document. The clauses were few in number, the objects, briefly described in the preamble, were tersely defined. There was no fear of this Bill failing to pass on the morrow. The Government’s majority was assured. Men had been brought back to town, stragglers had been whipped in, prayers and threats alike had assisted in concentrating the rapidly dwindling strength of the administration on this one effort of legislation; and what the frantic entreaties of the Whips had failed to secure, curiosity had accomplished, for members of both parties were hurrying to town to be present at a scene which might perhaps be history, and, as many feared, tragedy.
As Sir Philip conned the paper he mechanically formed in his mind the line of attack – for, tragedy or no, the Bill struck at too many interests in the House to
After Falmouth’s departure the Foreign Minister returned to his desk.
He hated being alone: it frightened him. That there were two score detectives within call did not dispel the feeling of loneliness. The terror of the Four was ever with him, and this had so worked upon his nerves that the slightest noise irritated him. He played with the penholder that lay on the desk. He scribbled inconsequently on the blotting-pad before him, and was annoyed to find that the scribbling had taken the form of numbers of figure 4.
Was the Bill worth it? Was the sacrifice called for? Was the measure of such importance as to justify the risk? These things he asked himself again and again, and then immediately, What sacrifice? What risk?
‘I am taking the consequence too much for granted,’ he muttered, throwing aside the pen, and half turning from the writing-table. ‘There is no certainty that they will keep their words; bah! it is impossible that they should – ’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Hullo, Superintendent,’ said the Foreign Minister as the knocker entered. ‘Back again already!’
The detective, vigorously brushing the dust from his moustache with a handkerchief, drew an official-looking blue envelope from his pocket.
‘I thought I had better leave this in your care,’ he said, dropping his voice; ‘it occurred to me just after I had left; accidents happen, you know.’
The Minister took the document.
‘What is it? ‘he asked.
‘It is something which would mean absolute disaster for me if by chance itwas foundin my possession,’said the detective,turning to go.
‘What am I to do with it?’
‘You would greatly oblige me by putting it in your desk until I return’; and the detective stepped into the anteroom, closed the door behind him and, acknowledging the salute of the plain-clothes officer who guarded the outer door, passed to the motor-car that awaited him.
Sir Philip looked at the envelope with a puzzled frown.
It bore the superscription, ‘Confidential’ and the address, ‘Department A, CID, Scotland Yard’.
‘Some confidential report,’ thought Sir Philip, and an angry doubt as to the possibility of it containing particulars of the police arrangements for his safety filled his mind. He had hit by accident upon the truth had he but known. The envelope contained those particulars.
He placed the letter in a drawer of his desk and drew some papers towards him.
They were copies of the Bill for the passage of which he was daring so much.
It was not a long document. The clauses were few in number, the objects, briefly described in the preamble, were tersely defined. There was no fear of this Bill failing to pass on the morrow. The Government’s majority was assured. Men had been brought back to town, stragglers had been whipped in, prayers and threats alike had assisted in concentrating the rapidly dwindling strength of the administration on this one effort of legislation; and what the frantic entreaties of the Whips had failed to secure, curiosity had accomplished, for members of both parties were hurrying to town to be present at a scene which might perhaps be history, and, as many feared, tragedy.
As Sir Philip conned the paper he mechanically formed in his mind the line of attack – for, tragedy or no, the Bill struck at too many interests in the House to
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