“We have met,” Anna declared, smiling,
as she made her way towards the door, “but we
do not know one another. It is best like that.
Herr Selingman and I work in the same army—”
“But I, madame, am the sergeant,” Selingman
interrupted, with a low bow, “whilst you are
upon the staff.”
She laughed as she made her adieux and departed.
The door closed heavily behind her. Selingman
came a little further into the room.
“You have read your dispatches this morning,
Prince?” he asked.
“Not yet,” the latter replied. “Is
there news, then?”
Selingman pointed to the closed door. “You
have spoken for long with her?”
“Naturally,” the Prince assented.
“She is a confidential friend of the Emperor.
She has been entrusted for the last two years with
all the private dispatches between Vienna and Berlin.”
“In your letters you will find news,”
Selingman declared. “She is pronounced
suspect. She is under my care at this moment.
A report was brought to me half an hour ago that she
was here. I came on at once myself. I trust
that I am in time?”
The Prince stood quite silent for a moment.
“Fortunately,” he answered coolly, “I
have told her nothing.”
As Norgate entered the premises of Selingman, Horsfal
and Company a little later on the same morning he
looked around him in some surprise. He had expected
to find a deserted warehouse—probably only
an office. He saw instead all the evidences of
a thriving and prosperous business. Drays were
coming and going from the busy door. Crates were
piled up to the ceiling, clerks with notebooks in
their hands passed continually back and forth.
A small boy in a crowded office accepted his card and
disappeared. In a few minutes he led Norgate into
a waiting-room and handed him a paper.
“Mr. Selingman is engaged with a buyer for a
few moments, sir,” he reported. “He
will see you presently.”
Norgate looked through the windows out into the warehouse.
There was no doubt whatever that this was a genuine
and considerable trading concern. Presently the
door of the inner office opened, and he heard Mr.
Selingman’s hearty tones.
“You have done well for yourself and well for
your firm, sir,” he was saying. “There
is no one in Germany or in the world who can produce
crockery at the price we do. They will give you
a confirmation of the order in the office. Ah!
my young friend,” he went on, turning to Norgate,
“you have kept your word, then. You are
not a customer, but you may walk in. I shall
make no money out of you, but we will talk together.”
Norgate passed on into a comfortably furnished office,
a little redolent of cigar smoke. Selingman bit
off the end of a cigar and pushed the box towards
his visitor.
“Try one of these,” he invited. “German
made, but Havana tobacco—mild as milk.”
