The letter the speculator read through carefully, and then expressed a desire to partic.i.p.ate in the venture.

Ansell's bluff was superb.

The two men talked over the matter, "The American" drawing an entrancing picture of the enormous sums which were bound to accrue on the enterprise until, before he left the room, Mr. Budden-Reynolds declared himself ready to put up three hundred and fifty pounds for preliminary expenses if, in exchange, he might become one of the original syndicate.

Upon a sheet of the hotel notepaper a draft agreement was at once drawn up, but not, however, until Ansell had raised many objections. He was not eager to accept the money, a fact which greatly impressed the victim.

An hour later, however, he took Mr. Budden-Reynolds' cheque, signed a receipt, and from that moment his recovery from his illness was extremely rapid.

Early next morning he handed in the cheque to a local bank for telegraphic clearance--which would occupy two days--and then set about packing.

On the second day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, he drew the money, paid his hotel bill with a condescending air, and prepared to depart for Constantinople, for, as he had explained to his victim, there were several minor points in the concession which were not clear, and which could only be settled by discussion on the spot.

Therefore he would go to Paris, and take the Orient Express direct to the Bosphorus.

He had been smoking with Budden-Reynolds from four till five, and then went out to the American bar for an _aperitif_.

When, however, he returned and ascended to his room to dress for dinner, he was suddenly startled by a loud knock on the door, and his friend Budden-Reynolds bustled in.

Facing "The American" suddenly, he said, purple with rage:

"Well, you're about the coolest and most clever thief I've ever met! Do you know that your confounded Turkish concession isn't worth the paper it's written upon?"

"What do you mean?" asked Ansell, with an air of injured innocence.

"I mean, sir," cried the speculator, "I mean that you are a thief and a swindler, and I now intend to call in the police and have you arrested for palming off upon me a bogus concession. As it happens, my son is in the British Consulate in Constantinople, and, having wired to him to investigate the facts, he has just sent me a reply to say that the Grand Vizier has no knowledge of any such concession, and that it has not been given by him. Indeed, the concession for wireless telegraphy in Turkey was given to the Marconi Company a year ago, and, further, they have already erected two coast-stations on the Black Sea."

Mr. Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal., unscrupulous as he was, stood before his irate visitor absolutely nonplussed.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE FALLING SHADOW.

The country _chateau_ of the Earl of Bracondale, though modestly named the Villa Monplaisir, stood on the road to Fecamp amid the pines, about half a mile from the sea, at St. Addresse, the new seaside suburb of Havre.

St. Addresse is, perhaps, not so fashionable as Etretat or Yport, being quieter and more restful, yet with excellent sea-bathing. Along the broad _plage_ are numerous summer villas, with quaint gabled roofs and small pointed towers in the French style--houses occupied in the season mostly by wealthy Parisians.

Monplaisir, however, was the largest and most handsome residence in the neighbourhood; and to it, when the British statesman was in residence, came various French Ministers of State, and usually for a few days each year the President of the Republic was his lordship's guest.

It was a big, modern house, with wide verandahs on each floor, which gave extensive views of country and sea, a house with a high circular slated tower at one end, and many gables with black oaken beams. Around was a plantation of dark pines, protecting the house from the fierce, sweeping winter winds of the Channel, and pretty, sheltered flower-gardens, the whole enclosed with railings of white painted ironwork.

Over the doorway was a handsome semi-circular roof of gla.s.s, while from the west end of the house ran a large winter garden, full of palms and exotic flowers.

Before his marriage, Bracondale had been inclined to sell the place, for he went there so very little; but Jean, being French, expressed a wish that it should be kept, as she liked to have a _pied-a-terre_ in her own land. At Montplaisir she always enjoyed herself immensely, and the bathing had always been to little Lady Enid of greatest benefit.

One morning towards the end of September Jean, in her white-embroidered muslin frock, the only tr.i.m.m.i.n.g upon which was a single dark cerise rosette at the waist, and wearing a black velvet hat with long black osprey, stood leaning on the verandah chatting to Bracondale, who, in a well-worn yachting suit and a Panama hat, smoked a cigarette. They were awaiting Enid and Miss Oliver, for they had arranged to take the child down to the sea, and already the car was at the door.

"How delightful it is here!" exclaimed Jean, glancing around at the garden, bright with flowers, at the blue, cloudless sky, and the glimpse of distant sea.

"Ah!" he laughed. "You always prefer this place to Bracondale--eh? It is but natural, because you are among your own people."

At that moment they both heard the noise of an approaching car, and next moment, as it swept round the drive past the verandah, a good-looking young man in heavy travelling coat, seated at the back of the car, raised his soft felt hat to them.

"Halloa!" exclaimed the Earl. "Here's Martin! Left Downing Street last night. More trouble, I suppose. Excuse me, dearest."

"Yes, but you'll come with us, won't you?"

"Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought," was the reply. Then his lordship left his wife's side, pa.s.sed along the verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His Majesty's Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.

"Mornin', Martin!" exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. "Nice pa.s.sage over?"

"Yes, my lord," was the traveller's response. "It was raining hard, however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday."

And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried, he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable seals and was marked "On His Britannic Majesty's Service."

The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in a drawer and locked them up.

Then he scribbled his signature upon the receipt which Martin, the ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King's Messenger took it with a word of thanks.

"When do you go back?" he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Emba.s.sies.

"To-night, at midnight."

"Will you call here at eight for despatches?"

"Certainly."

"They'll be ready for you. I thought you were in Constantinople."

"Frewen went yesterday. He took my turn. I do the next journey--to Petersburg--on Friday," he added, speaking as though a journey to that Russian capital was only equal to that from Piccadilly to Richmond.

"Tell Sir Henry to send somebody else to Russia. I shall, I expect, want you constantly here for the next three weeks or so. And you have no objection, I suppose?"

"None," laughed Captain Martin, who for the past eight years had had but few short spells of leave. The life of a King's Messenger is, indeed, no sinecure, for constant journeys in the stuffy _wagonlits_ of the European expresses try the most robust const.i.tution. He was a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, and, before entering the Foreign Office, had held a commission in the Engineers. Easy-going, popular, and a man of deepest patriotism, he was known in every Emba.s.sy in Europe, and to every sleeping-car conductor on the express routes.

"And, by the way, on the mantelshelf of my room at Downing Street, Martin, you will find a small stereoscopic camera," added Lord Bracondale. "I wish you would bring it over next time you come."

"Certainly," Martin replied.

"Then, at eight o'clock to-night. You can leave your despatch-box here,"

his lordship said.

So Martin, a man of polished manners, placed his little box--a steel one, with a travelling-cover of dark green canvas--upon a side table, and, wishing the Earl good-morning, withdrew, returning to Havre in the hired car to shave, wash, and idle until his return to London.

Wherever Bracondale went, the problems of foreign policy followed him.