The two men who were supping together in the grillroom at the Cafe Milan were talking with a seriousness which seemed a little out of keeping with the rose-shaded lamps and the swaying music of the band from the distant restaurant. Their conversation had started some hours before in the club smoking-room and had continued intermittently throughout the evening. It had received a further stimulus when Richard Hamel, who had bought an Evening Standard on their way from the theatre a few minutes ago, came across a certain paragraph in it which he read aloud.

“Hanged if I understand things over here, nowadays, Reggie!” he declared, laying the paper down. “Here’s another Englishman imprisoned in Germany—this time at a place no one ever heard of before. I won’t try to pronounce it. What does it all mean? It’s all very well to shrug your shoulders, but when there are eighteen arrests within one week on a charge of espionage, there must be something up.”

For the first time Reginald Kinsley seemed inclined to discuss the subject seriously. He drew the paper towards him and read the little paragraph, word by word. Then he gave some further order to an attentive maitre d’hotel and glanced around to be sure that they were not overheard.

“Look here, Dick, old chap,” he said, “you are just back from abroad and you are not quite in the hang of things yet. Let me ask you a plain question. What do you think of us all?”

“Think of you?” Hamel repeated, a little doubtfully. “Do you mean personally?”

“Take it any way you like,” Kinsley replied. “Look at me. Nine years ago we played cricket in the same eleven. I don’t look much like cricket now, do I?”

Hamel looked at his companion thoughtfully. For a man who was doubtless still young, Kinsley had certainly an aged appearance. The hair about his temples was grey; there were lines about his mouth and forehead. He had the air of one who lived in an atmosphere of anxiety.

“To me,” Hamel declared frankly, “you look worried. If I hadn’t heard so much of the success of your political career and all the rest of it, I should have thought that things were going badly with you.”

“They’ve gone well enough with me personally,” Kinsley admitted, “but I’m only one of many. Politics isn’t the game it was. The Foreign Office especially is ageing its men fast these few years. We’ve been going through hell, Hamel, and we are up against it now, hard up against it.”

The slight smile passed from the lips of Hamel’s sunburnt, good-natured face. He himself seemed to become infected with something of his companion’s anxiety.

“There’s nothing seriously wrong, is there, Reggie?” he asked.

“Dick,” said Kinsley, with a sigh, “I am afraid there is. It’s very seldom I talk as plainly as this to any one but you are just the person one can unburden oneself to a little; and to tell you the truth, it’s rather a relief. As you say, these eighteen arrests in one week do mean something. Half of the Englishmen who have been arrested are, to my certain knowledge, connected with our Secret Service, and they have been arrested, in many cases, where there are no fortifications worth speaking of within fifty miles, on one pretext or another. The fact of the matter is that things are going on in Germany, just at the present moment, the knowledge of which is of vital interest to us.”

“Then these arrests,” Hamel remarked, “are really bona fide?”

“Without a doubt,” his companion agreed. “I only wonder there have not been more. I am telling you what is a pretty open secret when I tell you that there is a conference due to be held this week at some place or another on the continent—I don’t know where, myself—which will have a very important bearing upon our future. We know just as much as that and not much more.”

“A conference between whom?” Hamel asked.

Kinsley dropped his voice almost to a whisper.

“We know,” he replied, “that a very great man from Russia, a greater still from France, a minister from Austria, a statesman from Italy, and an envoy from Japan, have been invited to meet a German minister whose name I will not mention, even to you. The subject of their proposed discussion has never been breathed. One can only suspect. When I tell you that no one from this country was invited to the conference, I think you will be able, broadly speaking, to divine its purpose. The clouds have been gathering for a good many years, and we have only buried our heads a little deeper in the sands. We have had our chances and wilfully chucked them away. National Service or three more army corps four years ago would have brought us an alliance which would have meant absolute safety for twenty-one years. You know what happened. We have lived through many rumours and escaped, more narrowly than most people realise, a great many dangers, but there is every indication this time that the end is really coming.”

“And what will the end be?” Hamel enquired eagerly.

Kinsley shrugged his shoulders and paused while their glasses were filled with wine.

“It will be in the nature of a diplomatic coup,” he said presently. “Of that much I feel sure. England will be forced into such a position that she will have no alternative left but to declare war. That, of course, will be the end of us. With our ridiculously small army and absolutely no sane scheme for home defence, we shall lose all that we have worth fighting for—our colonies—without being able to strike a blow. The thing is so ridiculously obvious. It has been admitted time after time by every sea lord and every commander-in-chief. We have listened to it, and that’s all. Our fleet is needed under present conditions to protect our own shores. There isn’t a single battleship which could be safely spared. Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Egypt, India, must take care of themselves. I wonder when a nation of the world ever played fast and loose with great possessions as we have done!”

“This is a nice sort of thing to hear almost one’s first night in England,” Hamel remarked a little gloomily. “Tell me some more about this conference. Are you sure that your information is reliable?”

“Our information is miserably scanty,” Kinsley admitted. “Curiously enough, the man who must know most about the whole thing is an Englishman, one of the most curious mortals in the British Empire. A spy of his succeeded in learning more than any of our people, and without being arrested, too.”

“And who is this singular person?” Hamel asked.

“A man of whom you, I suppose, never heard,” Kinsley replied. “His name is Fentolin—Miles Fentolin—and he lives somewhere down in Norfolk. He is one of the strangest characters that ever lived, stranger than any effort of fiction I ever met with. He was in the Foreign Office once, and every one was predicting for him a brilliant career. Then there was an accident—let me see, it must have been some six or seven years ago—and he had to have both his legs amputated. No one knows exactly how the accident happened, and there was always a certain amount of mystery connected with it. Since then he has buried himself in the country. I don’t think, in fact, that he ever moves outside his place; but somehow or other he has managed to keep in touch with all the political movements of the day.”

“Fentolin,” Hamel repeated softly to himself. “Tell me, whereabouts does he live?”

“Quite a wonderful place in Norfolk, I believe, somewhere near the sea. I’ve forgotten the name, for the moment. He has had wireless telegraphy installed; he has a telegraph office in the house, half-a-dozen private wires, and they say that he spends an immense amount of money keeping in touch with foreign politics. His excuse is that he speculates largely, as I dare say he does; but just lately,” Kinsley went on more slowly, “he has been an object of anxiety to all of us. It was he who sent the first agent out to Germany, to try and discover at least where this conference was to be held. His man returned in safety, and he has one over there now who has not been arrested. We seem to have lost nearly all of ours.”

“Do you mean to say that this man Fentolin actually possesses information which the Government hasn’t as to the intentions of foreign Powers?” Hamel asked.

Kinsley nodded. There was a slight flush upon his pallid cheeks.

“He not only has it, but he doesn’t mean to part with it. A few hundred years ago, when the rulers of this country were men with blood in their veins, he’d have been given just one chance to tell all he knew, and hung as a traitor if he hesitated. We don’t do that sort of thing nowadays. We rather go in for preserving traitors. We permit them even in our own House of Commons. However, I don’t want to depress you and play the alarmist so soon after your return to London. I dare say the old country’ll muddle along through our time.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Hamel begged. “There’s no other subject of conversation could interest me half as much. Have you formed any idea yourself as to the nature of this conference?”

“We all have an idea,” Kinsley replied grimly; “India for Russia; a large slice of China for Japan, with probably Australia thrown in; Alsace-Lorraine for France’s neutrality. There’s bribery for you. What’s to become of poor England then? Our friends are only human, after all, and it’s merely a question of handing over to them sufficient spoil. They must consider themselves first: that’s the first duty of their politicians towards their country.”

“You mean to say,” Hamel asked, “that you seriously believe that a conference is on the point of being held at which France and Russia are to be invited to consider suggestions like this?”

“I am afraid there’s no doubt about it,” Kinsley declared. “Their ambassadors in London profess to know nothing. That, of course, is their reasonable attitude, but there’s no doubt whatever that the conference has been planned. I should say that to-night we are nearer war, if we can summon enough spirit to fight, than we have been since Fashoda.”

“Queer if I have returned just in time for the scrap,” Hamel remarked thoughtfully. “I was in the Militia once, so I expect I can get a job, if there’s any fighting.”

“I can get you a better job than fighting—one you can start on to-morrow, too,” Kinsley announced abruptly, “that is if you really want to help?”

“Of course I do,” Hamel insisted. “I’m on for anything.”

“You say that you are entirely your own master for the next six months?”

“Or as much longer as I like,” Hamel assented. “No plans at all, except that I might drift round to the Norfolk coast and look up some of the places where the governor used to paint. There’s a queer little house—St. David’s Tower, I believe they call it—which really belongs to me. It was given to my father, or rather he bought it, from a man who I think must have been some relative of your friend. I feel sure the name was Fentolin.”

Reginald Kinsley set down his wine-glass.

“Is your St. David’s Tower anywhere near a place called Salthouse?” he asked reflectively.

“That’s the name of the village,” Hamel admitted. “My father used to spend quite a lot of time in those parts, and painted at least a dozen pictures down there.”

“This is a coincidence,” Reginald Kinsley declared, lighting a cigarette. “I think, if I were you, Dick, I’d go down and claim my property.”

“Tired of me already?” Hamel asked, smiling.

Reginald Kinsley knocked the ash from his cigarette.

“It isn’t that. The fact is, that job I was speaking to you about was simply this. We want some one to go down to Salthouse—not exactly as a spy, you know, but some one who has his wits about him. We are all of us very curious about this man Fentolin. There are no end of rumours which I won’t mention to you, for they might only put you off the scent. But the man seems to be always intriguing. It wouldn’t matter so much if he were our friend, or if he were simply a financier, but to tell you the truth, we have cause to suspect him.”

“But he’s an Englishman, surely?” Hamel asked. “The Fentolin who was my father’s friend was just a very wealthy Norfolk squire—one of the best, from all I have heard.”

“Miles Fentolin is an Englishman,” Kinsley admitted. “It is true, too, that he comes of a very ancient Norfolk family. It doesn’t do, however, to build too much upon that. From all I can learn of him, he is a sort of Puck, a professional mischief-maker. I don’t suppose there’s anything an outsider could find out which would be really useful to us, but all the same, if I had the time, I should certainly go down to Norfolk myself.”

The conversation drifted away for a while. Mutual acquaintances entered, there were several introductions, and it was not until the two found themselves together in Kinsley’s rooms for a few minutes before parting that they were alone again. Hamel returned then once more to the subject.

“Reggie,” he said, “if you think it would be of the slightest use, I’ll go down to Salthouse to-morrow. I am rather keen on going there, anyway. I am absolutely fed up with life here already.”

“It’s just what I want you to do,” Kinsley said. “I am afraid Fentolin is a little too clever for you to get on the right side of him, but if you could only get an idea as to what his game is down there, it would be a great help. You see, the fellow can’t have gone into all this sort of thing blindfold. We’ve lost several very useful agents abroad and two from New York who’ve gone into his pay. There must be a method in it somewhere. If it really ends with his financial operations—why, all right. That’s very likely what it’ll come to, but we should like to know. The merest hint would be useful.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hamel promised. “In any case, it will be just the few days’ holiday I was looking forward to.”

Kinsley helped himself to whisky and soda and turned towards his friend.

“Here’s luck to you, Dick! Take care of yourself. All sorts of things may happen, you know. Old man Fentolin may take a fancy to you and tell you secrets that any statesman in Europe would be glad to hear. He may tell you why this conference is being held and what the result will be. You may be the first to hear of our coming fall. Well, here’s to you, anyway! Drop me a line, if you’ve anything to report.”

“Cheero!” Hamel answered, as he set down his empty tumbler. “Astonishing how keen I feel about this little adventure. I’m perfectly sick of the humdrum life I have been leading the last week, and you do sort of take one back to the Arabian Nights, you know, Reggie. I am never quite sure whether to take you seriously or not.”

Kinsley smiled as he held his friend’s hand for a moment.

“Dick,” he said earnestly, “if only you’d believe it, the adventures in the Arabian Nights were as nothing compared with the present-day drama of foreign politics. You see, we’ve learned to conceal things nowadays—to smooth them over, to play the part of ordinary citizens to the world while we tug at the underhand levers in our secret moments. Good night! Good luck!”