“But the war was forced upon us,” Julian reminded him.  “You can’t deny that.”

“No one wishes to, sir.  It was forced upon us all right, but who made it necessary?  Why, our rotten government for the last twenty years!  Our politicians, Mr. Julian, that are prating now of peace before their job’s done!  Do you think that if we’d paid our insurance like men and been prepared, this war would ever have come?  Not it!  We asked for trouble, and we got it in the neck.  If we make peace now, we’ll be a German colony in twenty years, thanks to Mr. Stenson and you and the rest of them.  A man can be a pacifist all right until his head has been punched.  Afterwards, there’s another name for him.  Is there anything more I can get you to-night before I leave, sir?”

“Nothing, thanks.  I’m sorry about Fred.”

Julian, conscious of an intense weariness, undressed and went to bed very soon after the man’s departure.  He was already in his first doze when he awoke suddenly with a start.  He sat up and listened.  The sound which had disturbed him was repeated,—­a quiet but insistent ringing of the front-door bell.  He glanced at his watch.  It was barely midnight, but unusually late for a visitor.  Once more the bell rang, and this time he remembered that Robert slept out, and that he was alone in the flat.  He thrust his feet into slippers, wrapped his dressing gown around him, and made his way to the front door.

Julian’s only idea had been that this might be some messenger from the Council.  To his amazement he found himself confronted by Catherine.

“Close the door,” she begged.  “Come into your sitting room.”

She pushed past him and he obeyed, still dumb with surprise and the shock of his sudden awakening.  Catherine herself seemed unaware of his unusual costume, reckless of the hour and the strangeness of her visit.  She wore a long chinchilla coat, covering her from head to foot, and a mantilla veil about her head, which partially obscured her features.  As soon as she raised it, he knew that great things had happened.  Her cheeks were the colour of ivory, and her eyes unnaturally distended.  Her tone was steady but full of repressed passion.

“Julian,” she cried, “we have been deceived—­tricked!  I have come to you for help.  Are the telegrams sent out yet?”

“They go at eight o’clock in the morning,” he replied.

“Thank God we are in time to stop them!”

Julian looked at her for a moment, utterly incredulous.

“Stop them?” he repeated.  “But how can we?  Stenson has declared war.”

“Thank heaven for that!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling.  “Julian, the whole thing is an accursed plot.  The German Socialists have never increased their strength except in their own imaginations.  They are absolutely powerless.  This is the most cunning scheme of the whole war.  Freistner has simply been the tool of the militarists.  They encouraged him to put forward these proposals and to communicate with Nicholas Fenn.  When the armistice has been declared and negotiations begun, the three signatures will be repudiated.  The peace they mean to impose is one of their own dictation, and in the meantime we shall have created a cataclysm here.  The war will never start again.  All the Allies will be at a discord.”