Part 4 (1/2)

”And the conclusion you arrive at, then?”

”Is an absolutely logical one,” Nigel declared firmly. ”I a.s.sert that other countries are not falling into line with our lamentable abnegation of all secret service defence, and that, in plain words, my uncle was murdered by an agent of one of these countries, in order that the dispatch which had come into his hands should not be decoded and pa.s.sed on to your Government.”

The Right Honourable gentleman smiled slightly. He was a man of some natural politeness, but he found it hard to altogether conceal his incredulity.

”Well, Lord Dorminster,” he promised, ”I will consider all that you have said. Is there anything more I can do for you?”

”Yes!” Nigel replied boldly. ”Induce the Cabinet to reestablish our Intelligence Department and secret service, even on a lesser scale, and don't rest until you have discovered exactly what it is they are plotting against us somewhere on the continent.”

”To carry out your suggestions, Lord Dorminster,” the Minister pointed out, ”would be to be guilty of an infringement of the spirit of the League of Nations, the existence of which body is, we believe, a practical a.s.surance of our safety.”

Nigel rose to his feet.

”As man to man, sir,” he said, ”I see you don't believe a word of what I have been telling you.”

”As man to man,” the other admitted pleasantly, as he touched the bell, ”I think you have been deceived.”

Nigel, even as a prophet of woe, was a very human person and withal a philosopher. He strolled along Piccadilly and turned into Bond Street, thoroughly enjoying one of the first spring days of the season. Flower sellers were busy at every corner; the sky was blue, with tiny flecks of white clouds, there was even some dust stirred by the little puffs of west wind. He exchanged greetings with a few acquaintances, lingered here and there before the shop windows, and presently developed a fit of contemplation engendered by the thoughts which were all the time at the back of his mind. Bond Street was crowded with vehicles of all sorts, from wonderfully upholstered automobiles to the resuscitated victoria.

The shop windows were laden with the treasures of the world, buyers were plentiful, promenaders mult.i.tudinous. Every one seemed to be cheerful but a little engrossed in the concrete act of living. Nigel almost ran into Prince Karschoff, at the corner of Grafton Street.

”Dreaming, my friend?” the latter asked quietly, as he laid his hand upon Nigel's shoulder.

”Guilty,” Nigel confessed. ”You are an observant man, Prince. Tell me whether anything strikes you about the Bond Street of to-day, compared with the Bond Street of, say, ten years ago?”

The Russian glanced around him curiously. He himself was a somewhat unusual figure in his distinctively cut morning coat, his carefully tied cravat, his silk hat, black and white check trousers and faultless white spats.

”A certain decline of elegance,” he murmured. ”And is it my fancy or has this country become a trifle Americanised as regards the headgear of its men?”

Nigel smiled.

”I believe our thoughts are moving in the same groove,” he said. ”To me there seems to be a different cla.s.s of people here, as though the denizens of West Kensington, suddenly enriched, had come to spend their money in new quarters. Not only that, but there is a difference in the wares set out in the shops, an absence of taste, if you can understand what I mean, as though the shopkeepers themselves understood that they were catering for a new cla.s.s of people.”

”It is the triumph of your _bourgeoisie_,” the Russian declared. ”Your aristocrat is no longer able to survive. _n.o.blesse oblige_ has no significance to the shopman. He wants the fat cheques, and he caters for the people who can write them. Let us pursue our reflections a little farther and in a different direction, my friend,” he added, glancing at his watch. ”Lunch with me at the Ritz, and we will see whether the cookery, too, has been adapted to the new tastes.”

Nigel hesitated for a moment, a somewhat curious hesitation which he many times afterwards remembered.

”I am not very keen on restaurants for a week or two,” he said doubtfully. ”Besides, I had half promised to be at the club.”

”Not to-day,” Karschoff insisted. ”To-day let us listen to the call of the world. Woman is at her loveliest in the spring. The Ritz Restaurant will look like a bouquet of flowers. Perhaps 'One for you and one for me.' At any rate, one is sure of an omelette one can eat.”

The two men turned together towards Piccadilly.

CHAPTER IV

Luncheon at the Ritz was an almost unexpectedly pleasant meal. The two men sat at a table near the door and exchanged greetings with many acquaintances. Karschoff, who was in an unusually loquacious frame of mind, pointed out many of the habitues of the place to his companion.

”I am become a club and restaurant lounger in my old age,” he declared, a little bitterly. ”Almost a boulevardier. Still, what else is there for a man without a country to do?”