"The woman and her husband are making a very substantial harvest out of it, depend upon it, Hubert. Therefore I do, as your old pal, beg of you to reconsider the whole situation. Is it really judicious for you to be a.s.sociated any longer with her? I know I have no right to dictate to you--or even to make the suggestion. But I venture to do so for your own sake."

"I know! I know!" was his impatient reply. "Yes. I've been a fool, no doubt, Jack--a d.a.m.ned idiot."

"No; don't condemn yourself until you have made your own inquiries.

When you get back to the Emba.s.sy look around and learn the truth. Then I hope you will become convinced of the foundation of my allegations.

When you are, let me know, old chap, won't you?"

At that moment a stout, elderly man, accompanied by another a trifle his junior, who wore the b.u.t.ton of the Legion d'Honneur in the lapel of his dress-coat, elbowed their way laboriously up to the bar.

Jack Jerningham's quick eyes discerned them, whereupon in amazement he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in a low whisper the somewhat vulgar expression:

"Good G.o.d!"

Hubert looked up and saw old Jules Gigleux.

"What?" he asked in surprise.

"Why, look at the elder man--that old fellow with the white, close-cropped hair. Don't you know him?" he asked in a low voice, indicating Lola's uncle.

"Know him? Yes. He's been up the Nile with us. He is a Frenchman named Gigleux."

"Gigleux!" echoed his friend. "By Gad! and a rather good _alias_. No, my dear fellow. Look at him well. He is the greatest and most cunning secret agent Germany has ever possessed--the arch-enemy of England, the Chief of the German Secret Service--an Italian whose real name is Luigi Ghelardi, though he goes by a dozen _aliases_. It is he who controls the whole service of German espionage throughout the world, and he is the unscrupulous chief of the horde of spies who are infesting the Eastern counties of England and preparing for `the day.'"

At that second the man referred to glanced across and nodded pleasant recognition with Waldron, though he apparently had no knowledge of his companion.

"Is that really true?" gasped Hubert, utterly astounded and aghast, staring open-mouthed at Lola's uncle.

"Most certainly. I know him by sight, only too well."

"Then that accounts for the fact that I found him prying into my belongings in my cabin up the Nile!" exclaimed his friend, to whom the truth had come as an astounding and staggering revelation. And so the dainty Lola--the girl of mystery--was niece of the chief spy of England's enemies.

CHAPTER NINE.

AT DOWNING STREET.

Hubert Waldron mounted the great staircase of the Foreign Office in Downing Street full of trepidation.

The Earl of Westmere, His Majesty's princ.i.p.al Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, desired to see him.

On New Year's night, an hour after his conversation with Jack Jerningham, he had found in his room at the Savoy an urgent telegram from the Emba.s.sy recalling him home at once. He had, therefore, left Port Said by the Indian mail next day, and had travelled post-haste to London.

He had arrived at Charing Cross at four o'clock, driven to the St James's Club, and after a wash, had taken a taxi to Downing Street.

The uniformed messenger who conducted him up the great staircase halted before a big mahogany door, tapped upon it, and next second Hubert found himself in that big, old-fashioned, rather severe room wherein, at a great littered writing-table, sat his white-haired Chief.

"Good afternoon, Waldron," exclaimed the tall, thin-faced statesman rising briskly and putting out his hand affably, an action which at once set the diplomat at his ease. He had feared that gossip regarding the opera-dancer had reached his ears, and that his reception might be a very cool one.

"I didn't expect you until to-morrow. You've come from Cairo, haven't you?"

"I came straight through by Brindisi," was the other's reply, seating himself in the padded chair which his Chief indicated.

"A gay season there, I hear--eh?"

"Quite. But I've been on leave in Upper Egypt."

"And a most excellent spot during this horrible weather we're having in London. Wish I were there now."

And the Earl, a rather spare, refined man whose clean-shaven features were strongly marked, and who wore the regulation morning coat and grey striped trousers, crossed to the big fireplace and flung into it a shovelful of coals.

That room in which Hubert had only been once before he well-remembered.

Its sombre walls that had listened to so many international secrets were painted dark green; upon one side was an old painting of Palmerston who had once occupied that selfsame room, while over the black marble mantelshelf hung a fine modern portrait of His Majesty, King George V.

The old Turkey carpet was dingy and worn, and about the place where the director of Great Britain's foreign policy so often interviewed the amba.s.sadors of the Powers, was an air of sombre, yet dignified gloom.

"I've called you home, Waldron," said the Earl deliberately as he re-seated himself at his great table, piled as it was with State papers and dispatches from England's representatives abroad, "because I want to have a chat with you."

He was interrupted by a tap upon the door, and a man in uniform announced:

"Captain Rayne, m'lord."

"Oh, come in, Rayne," exclaimed the Minister for Foreign Affairs, as a smart, well-dressed, middle-aged man entered, nodding acquaintance with Waldron. "Let's see! You're taking the turn to Berlin and Petersburg?"

"Yes, sir," replied the King's Foreign Service messenger.

The Earl took from a drawer a letter he had already written and sealed in an official envelope bearing a blue cross, and handed it to him saying:

"This is for Petersburg--most urgent. I have nothing for Berlin, but Sir Charles has, I believe. You will bring me back an answer to this dispatch with all haste, please."

"To-day is Tuesday, sir; I shall be back next Tuesday if Sir Henry is in Petersburg," replied the King's messenger with an air as unconcerned as though he were going to Hampstead.

"Yes, he is."

"Then nothing else, sir?"

"Nothing, Rayne--except what Sir Charles may have. Good afternoon."

And the King's messenger, who spent his days travelling to and fro across the face of Europe, placed the confidential dispatch addressed to the British Amba.s.sador to the Court of the Tzar in his pocket, bowed, and went forth on his weary seven days' journey to the Russian capital and back.

"As I was saying, Waldron," the Earl continued when the door had again closed, "I asked you to come home because I consider the time has now come when you should have promotion. As a friend of your late, respected father, I have naturally watched your career in the Service with greatest interest, and have been much gratified at the shrewd qualities you have shown, therefore I am giving you promotion, and have appointed you as second secretary to Rome."

"To Rome!" echoed Waldron, his eyes opening widely. "I--I'm sure, Lord Westmere, I cannot thank you sufficiently for your appreciation of my services, or for sending me to the one post I wished for most of all."

"I know, Waldron," laughed his lordship pleasantly. "You know Rome, for you lived there for some years. You were honorary attache there under your father, and I think you speak Italian very well indeed, if I remember aright."

"I have a fair knowledge of the language," was the diplomat's modest response.

"Then go to Rome and continue the career you have followed with such success. Your father's most brilliant work was accomplished in Italy, and I hope his mantle will fall upon you, Waldron."

"Your words are most encouraging, Lord Westmere," declared the younger man who, on entering there, had feared a reprimand for his friendship with the Spanish dancer. "You may rely on me to do my best."