The Right Honourable gentleman smiled slightly.  He was a man of some natural politeness, but he found it hard to altogether conceal his incredulity.

“Well, Lord Dorminster,” he promised, “I will consider all that you have said.  Is there anything more I can do for you?”

“Yes!” Nigel replied boldly.  “Induce the Cabinet to reestablish our Intelligence Department and secret service, even on a lesser scale, and don’t rest until you have discovered exactly what it is they are plotting against us somewhere on the continent.”

“To carry out your suggestions, Lord Dorminster,” the Minister pointed out, “would be to be guilty of an infringement of the spirit of the League of Nations, the existence of which body is, we believe, a practical assurance of our safety.”

Nigel rose to his feet.

“As man to man, sir,” he said, “I see you don’t believe a word of what I have been telling you.”

“As man to man,” the other admitted pleasantly, as he touched the bell, “I think you have been deceived.”

* * * * *

Nigel, even as a prophet of woe, was a very human person and withal a philosopher.  He strolled along Piccadilly and turned into Bond Street, thoroughly enjoying one of the first spring days of the season.  Flower sellers were busy at every corner; the sky was blue, with tiny flecks of white clouds, there was even some dust stirred by the little puffs of west wind.  He exchanged greetings with a few acquaintances, lingered here and there before the shop windows, and presently developed a fit of contemplation engendered by the thoughts which were all the time at the back of his mind.  Bond Street was crowded with vehicles of all sorts, from wonderfully upholstered automobiles to the resuscitated victoria.  The shop windows were laden with the treasures of the world, buyers were plentiful, promenaders multitudinous.  Every one seemed to be cheerful but a little engrossed in the concrete act of living.  Nigel almost ran into Prince Karschoff, at the corner of Grafton Street.

“Dreaming, my friend?” the latter asked quietly, as he laid his hand upon Nigel’s shoulder.

“Guilty,” Nigel confessed.  “You are an observant man, Prince.  Tell me whether anything strikes you about the Bond Street of to-day, compared with the Bond Street of, say, ten years ago?”

The Russian glanced around him curiously.  He himself was a somewhat unusual figure in his distinctively cut morning coat, his carefully tied cravat, his silk hat, black and white check trousers and faultless white spats.

“A certain decline of elegance,” he murmured.  “And is it my fancy or has this country become a trifle Americanised as regards the headgear of its men?”

Nigel smiled.

“I believe our thoughts are moving in the same groove,” he said.  “To me there seems to be a different class of people here, as though the denizens of West Kensington, suddenly enriched, had come to spend their money in new quarters.  Not only that, but there is a difference in the wares set out in the shops, an absence of taste, if you can understand what I mean, as though the shopkeepers themselves understood that they were catering for a new class of people.”