The Japanese held out his hand, broke the seal of
the envelope, and read. His face remained immovable.
When he had finished he looked up at his visitor.
“I am permitted to take a copy?” he asked.
“Certainly!”
He touched a bell, spoke down a mouthpiece, and with
almost necromantic swiftness two young men were in
the room. A camera was dragged out, a little
flash of light shot up to the ceiling, and the attaches
vanished as quickly as they had come. The Ambassador
replaced the document in its envelope, handed a stick
of sealing-wax and a candle to Lutchester, who leaned
over and resealed the envelope.
“The negative?” he enquired.
“Will be kept under lock and key,” the
Ambassador promised. “It will pass into
the archives of Japanese history. In future we
shall know.”
Once more he touched a bell. The door was opened.
Lutchester found himself escorted into the street.
He was back at the Embassy in time to meet a little
stream of departing guests. Lady Ridlingshawe
patted him on the shoulder with her fan.
“Deserter!” she exclaimed, reproachfully,
“Wherever have you been hiding?”
Lutchester made some light reply and passed on.
He made his way out into the gardens. The darkness
now was a little more sombre, and he had to grope
his way to the palings. Soon he stood before the
dark outline of the adjoining house. In the window
towards which he was making his way a single candle
in a silver candlestick was burning. He paused
underneath and listened. Then he took a pine cone
which he had picked up on his way and threw it through
the open window. The candle was withdrawn.
A shadowy form leaned out.
“I’m quite alone,” she assured him
softly. “Can you throw it in?”
He nodded.
“I think so.”
His first effort was successful. The seal followed,
wrapped up in his handkerchief. A moment or two
later he saw Pamela’s face at the window.
“Good night!” she whispered. “Quickly,
please. There is still some one about downstairs.”
The light was extinguished. Lutchester made his
way cautiously back, replaced the gate upon its hinges
and reached the shelter of the Embassy, denuded now
of guests. He found Downing in the smoking-room.
“Can I get a whisky and soda?” Lutchester
asked, in response to the latter’s vociferous
greeting.
“Call it a highball,” was the prompt reply,
“and you can have as many as you like.
Have you earned it?” he added, a little curiously.
“I almost believe that I have,” Lutchester
assented.
Mr. Oscar Fischer and his friend, Senator Theodore
Hastings, stood side by side, a week later, in the
bar of one of the most fashionable of New York hotels.
They were passing away the few minutes before Pamela
and her aunt would be ready to join them in the dining
room above.
