Even the lightest-hearted felt a thrill of apprehension at the thought of the horrors that were to come.  In a day or two all this was to be changed.  People went about then counting the Russian millions; the steamroller fetish was to be evolved.  The most peaceful stockbroker or shopkeeper, who had never even been to a review in his life, could make calculations of man power with a stump of pencil on the back of an old envelope, which would convince the greatest pessimist that Germany and Austria were outnumbered by at least three to one.  But on this particular morning, people were too stunned for calculations.  The incredible had happened.  The long-discussed war—­the nightmare of the nervous, the derision of the optimist—­had actually materialised.  The happy-go-luck years of peace and plenty had suddenly come to an end.  Black tragedy leaned over the land.

Dominey, avoiding acquaintances as far as possible, his own mind in a curious turmoil, passed down St. James’s Street and along Pall Mall and presented himself at Carlton House Terrace.  Externally, the great white building, with its rows of flower boxes, showed no signs of undue perturbation.  Inside, however, the anteroom was crowded with callers, and it was only by the intervention of Terniloff’s private secretary, who was awaiting him, that Dominey was able to reach the inner sanctum where the Ambassador was busy dictating letters.  He broke off immediately his visitor was announced and dismissed every one, including his secretaries.  Then he locked the door.

“Von Ragastein,” he groaned, “I am a broken man!”

Dominey grasped his hand sympathetically.  Terniloff seemed to have aged years even in the last few hours.

“I sent for you,” he continued, “to say farewell, to say farewell and make a confession.  You were right, and I was wrong.  It would have better if I had remained and played the country farmer on my estates.  I was never shrewd enough to see until now that I have been made the cat’s-paw of the very men whose policy I always condemned.”

His visitor still remained silent.  There was so little that he could say.

“I have worked for peace,” Terniloff went on, “believing that my country wanted peace.  I have worked for peace with honourable men who were just as anxious as I was to secure it.  But all the time those for whom I laboured were making faces behind my back.  I was nothing more nor less than their tool.  I know now that nothing in this world could have hindered what is coming.”

“Every one will at least realise,” Dominey reminded him, “that you did your best for peace.”

“That is one reason why I sent for you,” was the agitated reply.  “Not long ago I spoke of a little volume, a diary which I have been keeping of my work in this country.  I promised to show it to you.  You have asked me for it several times lately.  I am going to show it to you now.  It is written up to yesterday.  It will tell you of all my efforts and how they were foiled.  It is an absolutely faithful narrative of my work here, and the English response to it.”