One day, but one day, and the world would never have heard of Ian Stafford.  England would then have approached her conflict with the cup of trembling at her lips, and there would be a new disposition of power in Europe, a new dominating force in the diplomacy and the relations of the peoples of the world.  It was Landrassy’s own last battle-field of wit and scheming, of intellect and ambition.  If he failed in this, his sun would set soon.  He was too old to carry on much longer.  He could not afford to wait.  He was at the end of his career, and he had meant this victory to be the crown of his long services to Slavonia and the world.

But to him was opposed a man who was at the beginning of his career, who needed this victory to give him such a start as few men get in that field of retarded rewards, diplomacy.  It had been a man at the end of the journey, and a man at the beginning, measuring skill, playing as desperate a game as was ever played.  If Landrassy won—­Europe a red battle-field, England at bay; if Ian Stafford won—­Europe at peace, England secure.  Ambition and patriotism intermingled, and only He who made human nature knew how much was pure patriotism and how much pure ambition.  It was a great stake.  On this day of days to Stafford destiny hung shivering, each hour that passed was throbbing with unparalleled anxiety, each minute of it was to be the drum-beat of a funeral march or the note of a Te Deum.

Not more uncertain was the roulette-wheel spinning in De Lancy Scovel’s house than the wheel of diplomacy which Ian Stafford had set spinning.  Rouge et noire—­it was no more, no less.  But Ian had won; England had won.  Black had been beaten.

Landrassy bowed suavely to Ian as they met outside Mennaval’s door in the early evening of this day when the business was accomplished, the former coming out, the latter going in.

“Well, Stafford,” Landrassy said in smooth tones and with a jerk of the head backward, “the tables are deserted, the croupier is going home.  But perhaps you have not come to play?”

Ian smiled lightly.  “I’ve come to get my winnings—­as you say,” he retorted.

Landrassy seemed to meditate pensively.  “Ah yes, ah yes, but I’m not sure that Mennaval hasn’t bolted with the bank and your winnings, too!”

His meaning was clear—­and hateful.  Before Ian had a chance to reply, Landrassy added in a low, confidential voice, saturated with sardonic suggestion, “To tell you the truth, I had ceased to reckon with women in diplomacy.  I thought it was dropped with the Second Empire; but you have started a new dispensation—­evidemment, evidemment.  Still Mennaval goes home with your winnings.  Eh bien, we have to pay for our game!  Allons gai!”

Before Ian could reply—­and what was there to say to insult couched in such highly diplomatic language?—­Landrassy had stepped sedately away, swinging his gold-headed cane and humming to himself.