Of all that talk, I only recalled one thing clearly, and I recalled it because Blenkiron seemed to collect his wits and try to argue, just as he had done at the end of his lecture.  He was speaking about a story he had heard from someone, who had heard it from someone else, that Austria in the last week of July 1914 had accepted Russia’s proposal to hold her hand and negotiate, and that the Kaiser had sent a message to the Tsar saying he agreed.  According to his story this telegram had been received in Petrograd, and had been re-written, like Bismarck’s Ems telegram, before it reached the Emperor.  He expressed his disbelief in the yarn.  ‘I reckon if it had been true,’ he said, ’we’d have had the right text out long ago.  They’d have kept a copy in Berlin.  All the same I did hear a sort of rumour that some kind of message of that sort was published in a German paper.’

Mr Ivery looked wise.  ‘You are right,’ he said.  ’I happen to know that it has been published.  You will find it in the Wieser Zeitung.’

‘You don’t say?’ he said admiringly.  ’I wish I could read the old tombstone language.  But if I could they wouldn’t let me have the papers.’

‘Oh yes they would.’  Mr Ivery laughed pleasantly.  ’England has still a good share of freedom.  Any respectable person can get a permit to import the enemy press.  I’m not considered quite respectable, for the authorities have a narrow definition of patriotism, but happily I have respectable friends.’

Blenkiron was staying the night, and I took my leave as the clock struck twelve.  They both came into the hall to see me off, and, as I was helping myself to a drink, and my host was looking for my hat and stick, I suddenly heard Blenkiron’s whisper in my ear.  ’London . . . the day after tomorrow,’ he said.  Then he took a formal farewell.  ’Mr Brand, it’s been an honour for me, as an American citizen, to make your acquaintance, sir.  I will consider myself fortunate if we have an early reunion.  I am stopping at Claridge’s Ho-tel, and I hope to be privileged to receive you there.’

CHAPTER THREE

The Reflections of a Cured Dyspeptic

Thirty-five hours later I found myself in my rooms in Westminster.  I thought there might be a message for me there, for I didn’t propose to go and call openly on Blenkiron at Claridge’s till I had his instructions.  But there was no message—­only a line from Peter, saying he had hopes of being sent to Switzerland.  That made me realize that he must be pretty badly broken up.

Presently the telephone bell rang.  It was Blenkiron who spoke.  ’Go down and have a talk with your brokers about the War Loan.  Arrive there about twelve o’clock and don’t go upstairs till you have met a friend.  You’d better have a quick luncheon at your club, and then come to Traill’s bookshop in the Haymarket at two.  You can get back to Biggleswick by the 5.16.’