Hamel nodded.

“They have Dunster down there,” he told her.  “I followed them in; it seemed the best thing to do.  I have a friend from London who is on his way down here now with some detective officers, to enquire into the matter of Dunster’s disappearance.”

“Are you going to leave them where they are until these people arrive?” she asked.

“I think so,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.  “I don’t seem to have had time to consider even what to do.  The opportunity came, and I embraced it.  There they are, and they won’t dare to do any further harm to Dunster now.  Mrs. Fentolin was down in my room, and I thought it best to bring her back first before I even parleyed with them again.”

“You must be careful,” she advised slowly.  “The man Dunster has been drugged, he has lost some of his will; he may have lost some of his mental balance.  Mr. Fentolin is clever.  He will find a dozen ways to wriggle out of any charge that can be brought against him.  You know what he has really done?”

“I can guess.”

“He has kept back a document signed by the twelve men in America who control the whole of Wall Street, who control practically the money markets of the world.  That document is a warning to Germany that they will have no war against England.  Owing to Mr. Fentolin, it has not been delivered, and the Conference is sitting now.  War may be declared at any moment.”

“But as a matter of common sense,” Hamel asked, “why does Mr. Fentolin desire war?”

“You do not understand Mr. Fentolin,” she told him quietly.  “He is not like other men.  There are some who live almost entirely for the sake of making others happy, who find joy in seeing people content and satisfied.  Mr. Fentolin is the reverse of this.  He has but one craving in life:  to see pain in others.  To see a human being suffer is to him a debauch of happiness.  A war which laid this country waste would fill him with a delight which you could never understand.  There are no normal human beings like this.  It is a disease in the man, a disease which came upon him after his accident.”

“Yet you have all been his slaves,” Hamel said curiously.

“We have all been his slaves,” she admitted, “for different reasons.  Before his accident came, Mr. Fentolin was my master and the only man in the world for me.  After his accident, I think my feelings for him, if anything, grew stronger.  I became his slave.  I sold my conscience, my self-respect, everything in life worth having, to bring a smile to his lips, to help him through a single moment of his misery.  And just lately the reaction has come.  He has played with me just as he would sit and pull the legs out of a spider to watch its agony.  I have been one of his favourite amusements.  And even now, if he came into this room I think that I should be helpless.  I should probably fall at his feet and pray for forgiveness.”