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.”