“Caution above all!  Remember you’re in training for a diplomatic career, what?  If you should lose the packet I’m going to give you, I prophesy that in twenty-four hours the world would be empty of Maxine de Renzie:  for the circumstances surrounding her in this transaction are peculiar, the most peculiar I’ve ever been entangled in, perhaps, in rather a varied experience; and they intimately concern her fiance, the Vicomte Raoul du Laurier—­”

“Raoul du Laurier!” exclaimed Ivor.  “So she’s engaged to marry him!”

“Yes.  Do you know him?”

“I have friends who do.  He’s in the French Foreign Office, though they say he’s more at home in the hunting field, or writing plays—­”

“Which don’t get produced.  Quite so.  But they will get produced some day, for I believe he’s an extremely clever fellow in his way—­in everything except the diplomatic ‘trade’ which his father would have him take up, and got him into, through Heaven knows what influence.  No; Du Laurier’s no fool, and is said to be a fine sportsman, as well as almost absurdly good-looking.  Mademoiselle Maxine has plenty of excuse for her infatuation—­for I assure you it’s nothing less.  She’d jump into the fire for this young man, and grill with a Joan of Arc smile on her face.”

This would have been pleasant hearing for Ivor, if he’d ever been really in love with Maxine; but I was obliged to admit to myself that he hadn’t, for he didn’t seem to care in the least.  On the contrary, he grew a little more cheerful.

“I can see that du Laurier’s being in the French Foreign Office might make it rather awkward for Miss de Renzie if she—­if she’s been rather too helpful to us,” he said.

“Exactly.  And thereby hangs a tale—­a sensational and even romantic tale almost complicated enough for the plot of a novel.  When you meet Mademoiselle to-morrow afternoon or evening, if she cares to take you into her confidence, in reward for your services, in regard to some private interests of her own which have got themselves wildly mixed up with the gravest political matters, she’s at liberty to do so as far as I’m concerned, for you are to be trusted, and deserve to be trusted.  You may say that to her from me, if the occasion arises.  I hope with all my heart that everything may go smoothly.  If not—­the Entente Cordiale may burst like a bomb.  I—­who have made myself responsible in the matter, with the clear understanding that England will deny me if the scheme’s a failure—­shall be shattered by a flying fragment.  The favourite actress of Paris will be asphyxiated by the poisonous fumes; and you, though I hope no worse harm may come to you, will mourn for the misfortunes of others.  Your responsibility will be such that it will be almost as if you carried the destructive bomb itself, until you get the packet into the hands of Maxine de Renzie.”  “Good heavens, I shall be glad when she has it!” said Ivor.

“You can’t be gladder than she—­or I. And here it is,” replied the Foreign Secretary.  “I consider it great luck to have found such a messenger, at a house I could enter without being suspected of any motive more subtle than a wish to eat a good supper, or to meet some of the prettiest women in London.”