“Do you know?” Nigel asked.

“I can only surmise.  Let us leave Prince Shan for the moment, Nigel.  Now listen.  You go about a great deal.  What do people say about me—­honestly, I mean?  Speak with your face to the light.”

“They call you a faddist and a scaremonger,” Nigel confessed, “yet there are one or two, especially at the St. Philip’s Club, diplomatists and ambassadors whose place in the world has passed away, who think and believe differently.  You know, sir, that I am amongst them.”

Lord Dorminster nodded kindly.

“Well,” he said, “I fancy I am about to prove myself.  Seven years ago, it was,” he went on reminiscently, “when the new National Party came into supreme power.  You know one of their first battle cries—­’Down with all secret treaties!  Down with all secret diplomacy!  Let nothing exist but an honest commercial understanding between the different countries of the world!’ How Germany and Russia howled with joy!  In place of an English statesman with his country’s broad interests at heart, we have in Berlin and Petrograd half a dozen representatives of the great industries, whose object, in their own words, is, I believe, to develop friendly commercialism and a feeling of brotherhood between the nations.  Not only our ambassadors but our secret service were swept clean out of existence.  I remember going to Broadley, the day he was appointed Foreign Minister, and I asked him a simple question.  I asked him whether he did not consider it his duty to keep his finger upon the pulses of the other great nations, however friendly they might seem, to keep himself assured that all these expressions of good will were honourable, and that in the heart of the German nation that great craving for revenge which is the natural heritage of the present generation had really become dissipated.  Broadley smiled at me.  ‘Lord Dorminster,’ he said, ’the chief cause of wars in the past has been suspicion.  We look upon espionage as a disgraceful practice.  It is the people of Germany with whom we are in touch now, not a military oligarchy, and the people of Germany no more desire war than we do.  Besides, there is the League of Nations.’  Those were Broadley’s views then, and they are his views to-day.  You know what I did?”

Nigel assented cautiously.

“I suppose it is an open secret amongst a few of us,” he observed.  “You have been running an unofficial secret service of your own.”

“Precisely!  I have had a few agents at work for over a year, and when I have finished decoding this last dispatch, I shall have evidence which will prove beyond a doubt that we are on the threshold of terrible events.  The worst of it is—­well, we have been found out.”

“What do you mean?” Nigel asked quickly.

His uncle’s sensitive lips quivered.

“You knew Sidwell?”

“Quite well.”

“Sidwell was found stabbed to the heart in a cafe in Petrograd, three weeks ago,” Lord Dorminster announced.  “An official report of the enquiry into his death informs his relatives that his death was due to a quarrel with some Russian sailors over one of the women of the quarter where he was found.”