“Well, the worst has happened.  Or nearly the worst.”

“The enemy has landed,” cried March, and sprang erect out of his chair.

“Oh, I knew the enemy would land,” said Fisher, with composure.  “Yes, he’s landed; but that’s not the worst that could happen.  The worst is that there’s a leak of some sort, even from this fortress of ours.  It’s been a bit of a shock to me, I can tell you; though I suppose it’s illogical.  After all, I was full of admiration at finding three honest men in politics.  I ought not to be full of astonishment if I find only two.”

He ruminated a moment and then said, in such a fashion that March could hardly tell if he were changing the subject or no: 

“It’s hard at first to believe that a fellow like Herries, who had pickled himself in vice like vinegar, can have any scruple left.  But about that I’ve noticed a curious thing.  Patriotism is not the first virtue.  Patriotism rots into Prussianism when you pretend it is the first virtue.  But patriotism is sometimes the last virtue.  A man will swindle or seduce who will not sell his country.  But who knows?”

“But what is to be done?” cried March, indignantly.

“My uncle has the papers safe enough,” replied Fisher, “and is sending them west to-night; but somebody is trying to get at them from outside, I fear with the assistance of somebody inside.  All I can do at present is to try to head off the man outside; and I must get away now and do it.  I shall be back in about twenty-four hours.  While I’m away I want you to keep an eye on these people and find out what you can.  Au revoir.”  He vanished down the stairs; and from the window March could see him mount a motor cycle and trail away toward the neighboring town.

On the following morning, March was sitting in the window seat of the old inn parlor, which was oak-paneled and ordinarily rather dark; but on that occasion it was full of the white light of a curiously clear morning—­the moon had shone brilliantly for the last two or three nights.  He was himself somewhat in shadow in the corner of the window seat; and Lord James Herries, coming in hastily from the garden behind, did not see him.  Lord James clutched the back of a chair, as if to steady himself, and, sitting down abruptly at the table, littered with the last meal, poured himself out a tumbler of brandy and drank it.  He sat with his back to March, but his yellow face appeared in a round mirror beyond and the tinge of it was like that of some horrible malady.  As March moved he started violently and faced round.

“My God!” he cried, “have you seen what’s outside?”

“Outside?” repeated the other, glancing over his shoulder at the garden.

“Oh, go and look for yourself,” cried Herries in a sort of fury.  “Hewitt’s murdered and his papers stolen, that’s all.”

He turned his back again and sat down with a thud; his square shoulders were shaking.  Harold March darted out of the doorway into the back garden with its steep slope of statues.