“You are, I am sure,” Mr. Dunster continued, “a person of intelligence, a well-read person, a person of perceptions.  Surely you can see and appreciate the danger with which your country is threatened?”

“With regard to political affairs,” Mr. Fentolin admitted, “I consider myself unusually well posted—­in fact, the study of the diplomatic methods of the various great Powers is rather a hobby of mine.”

“Yet,” Mr. Dunster persisted, “you do not wish this letter delivered to that little conference in The Hague, which you must be aware is now sitting practically to determine the fate of your nation?”

“I do not wish,” Mr. Fentolin replied, “I do not intend, that that letter shall be delivered.  Why do you worry about my point of view?  I may have a dozen reasons.  I may believe that it will be good for my country to suffer a little chastisement.”

“Or you may,” Mr. Dunster suggested, glancing keenly at his host, “be the paid agent of some foreign Power.”

Mr. Fentolin shook his head.

“My means,” he pointed out, “should place me above such suspicion.  My income, I really believe, is rather more than fifty thousand pounds a year.  I should not enter into these adventures, which naturally are not entirely dissociated from a certain amount of risk, for the purposes of financial gain.”

Mr. Dunster was still mystified.

“Granted that you do so from pure love of adventure,” he declared, “I still cannot see why you should range yourself on the side of your country’s enemies.

“In time,” Mr. Fentolin observed, “even that may become clear to you.  At present, well—­just that word, if you please?”

Mr. Dunster shook his head.

“No,” he decided, “I do not think so.  I cannot make up my mind to tell you that word.”

Mr. Fentolin gave no sign of annoyance or even disappointment.  He simply sighed.  His eyes were full of a gentle sympathy, his face indicated a certain amount of concern.

“You distress me,” he declared.  “Perhaps it is my fault.  I have not made myself sufficiently clear.  The knowledge of that word is a necessity to me.  Without it I cannot complete my plans.  Without it I very much fear, dear Mr. Dunster, that your sojourn among us may be longer than you have any idea of.”

Mr. Dunster laughed a little derisively.

“We’ve passed those days,” he remarked.  “I’ve done my best to enter into the humour of this situation, but there are limits.  You can’t keep prisoners in English country houses, nowadays.  There are a dozen ways of communicating with the outside world, and when that’s once done, it seems to me that the position of Squire Fentolin of St. David’s Hall might be a little peculiar.”

Mr. Fentolin smiled, very slightly, still very blandly.

“Alas, my stalwart friend, I fear that you are by nature an optimist!  I am not a betting man, but I am prepared to bet you a hundred pounds to one that you have made your last communication with the outside world until I say the word.”