“You have done very well,” he said.  “Good boys!  Good boys!”

“But that other half ...”  I began.

“Your friend Ashcroft is by no means such a fool as he looks,” the Chief chuckled.  “He did a wise thing.  He brought your two letters to me.  I saw to the rest.  So, when your brother’s telegram arrived from Rotterdam, I got the other half of the letter out of the safe; I thought I’d be ready for you, you see!”

“But how did you know we had the remaining portion of the letter?” I asked.

The Chief chuckled again.

“My young men don’t wire for cars to meet ’em at the station when they have failed,” he replied.  “Now, tell me all about it!”

So I told him my whole story from the beginning.

When I had finished, he said: 

“You appear to have a very fine natural disposition for our game, Okewood.  It seems a pity to waste it in regimental work ...”

I broke in hastily.

“I’ve got a few weeks’ sick leave left,” I said, “and after that I was looking forward to going back to the front for a rest.  This sort of thing is too exciting for me!”

“Well, well,” answered the Chief, “we’ll see about that afterwards.  In the meantime, we shall not forget what you have done ... and I shall see that it is not forgotten elsewhere.”

On that we left him.  It was only outside that I remembered that he had told me nothing of what I was burning to know about the origin and disappearance of the Kaiser’s letter.

It was my old friend, Red Tabs, whom I met on one of our many visits to mysterious but obviously important officials, that finally cleared up for me the many obscure points in this adventure of mine.  When he saw me he burst out laughing.

“’Pon my soul,” he grinned, “you seem to be able to act on a hint, don’t you?”

Then he told me the story of the Kaiser’s letter.

“There is no need to speak of the contents of this amazing letter,” he began, “for you are probably more familiar with them than I am.  The date alone will suffice ...  July 31st, 1914 ... it explains a great deal.  The last day of July was the moment when the peace of Europe was literally trembling in the balance.  You know the Emperor’s wayward, capricious nature, his eagerness for fame and military glory, his morbid terror of the unknown.  In that fateful last week of July he was torn between opposing forces.  On the one side was ranged the whole of the Prussian military party, led by the Crown Prince and the Emperor’s own immediate entourage; on the other, the record of prosperity which years of peace had conferred on his realms.  He had to choose between his own megalomania craving for military laurels, on the one hand, and, on the other, that place in history as the Prince of Peace for which, in his gentler moments, he has so often hankered.