A Maker of History by E. Phillips Oppenheim (the lemonade war series TXT) 📕

"And your reply?"

"I answered that in the event of untoward happenings France would act as her honor dictated—remaining always mindful of the obligations of her alliance. He was quite satisfied."

"He had no suspicion of this?" the young man asked, touching the treaty with his forefinger.

"None. It is believed in Germany that the young Englishman was really found drowned in the Seine after a short career of dissipation. Our friends served us well here. Now, gentlemen, the English Ambassador will be here in twenty minutes. What am I to say to him? Do we sign this draft agreement or do we not?"

There was a silence which lasted nearly a minute. Then the younger of the two men spoke.

"Sir," he said respectfully, "without some proof of Russia's falsity I cannot see how in honor we can depart from our treaty obligations with her to the extent of signing an agreement with her putative enemy. England must fight her own battle, and God help her!"

"And you?" Monsieur Grisson asked, turning to the third man.

"I agree," was the regretful answer. "If this treacherous scheme is carried out I believe that France will be face to face with the greatest crisis she has known in history. Even then I dare not suggest that we court dishonor by breaking an alliance with a friend in distress."

"You are right, gentlemen," Monsieur Grisson said with a sigh. "We must tell Lord Fothergill that our relations with his country must remain unfettered. I——"

Again the telephone bell rang. Monsieur Grisson listened, and replied with a sudden return to his old briskness of manner.

"It is young De Bergillac," he announced. "He has been in England in search of that missing page of the treaty. I have told them to show him in."

The Vicomte entered, paler than ever from recent travel, and deeply humiliated from the fact that there was a smut upon his collar which he had had no time to remove. He presented a paper to Monsieur Grisson and bowed. The President spread it out upon the table, and the faces of the three men as they read became a study. Monsieur Grisson rang the bell.

"Monsieur le Duc de Bergillac and a young English gentleman," he told the attendant, "are in my private retiring-room. Desire their presence."

The servant withdrew. The three men looked at one another.

"If this is genuine!" the younger murmured.

"It is the Russian official paper," his vis-à-vis declared, holding it up to the light.

Then the Duc de Bergillac and Guy Poynton were ushered in. Monsieur Grisson rose to his feet.

"Monsieur Poynton," he said, "we have all three heard your story as to what you witnessed in the forest of Pozen. It is part of your allegation that a page of writing from the private car which you were watching was blown to your feet, and that you picked it up and brought it to Paris with you. Look at this sheet of paper carefully. Tell me if it is the one."

Guy glanced at it for a moment, and handed it back.

"It is certainly the one," he answered. "If you look at the back you will see my initials there and the date."

Monsieur Grisson turned it over quickly. The two other men looked over his shoulder, and one of them gave a little exclamation. The initials and date were there.

Then Monsieur Grisson turned once more to Guy. He was not a tall man, but he had dignity, and his presence was impressive. He spoke very slowly.

"Monsieur Guy Poynton," he said, "it is not often that so great an issue—that the very destinies of two great countries must rest upon the simple and uncorroborated story of one man. Yet that is the position in which we stand to-day. Do not think that you are being treated with distrust. I speak to you not on behalf of myself, but for the millions of human beings whose welfare is my care, and for those other millions of your own countrymen, whose interests must be yours. I ask you solemnly—is this story of yours word for word a true one?"

Guy looked him in the face resolutely, and answered without hesitation.

"On my honor as an Englishman," he declared, "it is true!"

Monsieur Grisson held out his hand.

"Thank you!" he said.

The three men were again alone. The man who controlled the destinies of France dipped his pen in the ink.

"Gentlemen," he said, "do you agree with me that I shall sign this draft?"

"We do!" they both answered.

The President signed his name. Then he turned the handle of the telephone.

"You may show Lord Fothergill in!" he ordered.

It was perhaps as well for Andrew Pelham that he could not see Phyllis' look as she entered the room. An English gentleman, she had been told, was waiting to see her, and she had thought of no one but Duncombe. It was true that she had sent him away, but only an hour ago the Marquise had told her that her emancipation was close at hand. He too might have had a hint! The little smile, however, died away from her lips as she saw who was waiting for her with such manifest impatience.

"You, Andrew!" she exclaimed in amazement. "Why, however did you find me out?"

He took both her hands in his. The look upon his face was transfiguring.

"At last! At last!" he exclaimed. "Never mind how I found you! Tell me, what does it all mean? Are you here of your own free will?"

"Absolutely!" she answered.

"It was you at Runton?"

"Yes."

"Under a false name—with a man who committed robbery!"

She shrugged her shoulders a little wearily.

"My dear Andrew!" she said, "I will admit that I have been doing all manner of incomprehensible things. I couldn't explain everything. It would take too long. What I did, I did for Guy's sake, and of my own free will. It will be all over in a day or two now, and we shall be coming back to Raynesworth. Then I will tell you tales of our adventures which will make your hair stand on end."

"It isn't true about Guy, then?" he exclaimed.

She hesitated for a moment.

"Andrew," she said, "I cannot tell you anything. It must sound rather horrid of me, but I cannot help it. I want you to go away. In a day or two I will write."

He looked at her in pained bewilderment.

"But, Phyllis," he protested, "I am one of your oldest friends! You ask me to go away and leave you here with strangers, without a word of explanation. Why, I have been weeks searching for you."

"Andrew," she said, "I know it. I don't want to be unkind. I don't want you to think that I have forgotten that you are, as you say, one of my oldest friends. But there are times when one's friends are a source of danger rather than pleasure. Frankly, this is one of them."

His face darkened. He looked slowly around the magnificent room. He saw little, but what he could distinguish was impressive.

"Your riddles," he said gravely, "are hard to read. You want me to go away and leave you here."

"You must," she said firmly.

"Did you treat Duncombe like this?" he asked in a blind fit of jealousy.

"You have not the right to ask me such a question," she answered coldly.

"Not the right! Not the right!" he repeated. "Who else has, then? Haven't I watched you grow from a beautiful, capricious child into the woman you are? Haven't I taught you, played with you, done your bidding blindly ever since you came into your kingdom? Haven't I felt the pain and the joy of you in my heart? Who else has a better right, then? Duncombe, who came here, a stranger to you—or is it one of your new friends?"

She came close to him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"Don't be foolish, Andrew!" she said softly.

His whole expression changed. The bitterness left his tone.

"Ah, Phyllis!" he said. "That is more like yourself."

"And I want you," she said, "to be like your old self. You have always been my best friend, Andrew. I hope you will always be that."

He tried to look into her face. It seemed to him that there was a little unnecessary emphasis in her words.

"I am not a child now, you know," she continued. "I am quite old enough to take care of myself. You must believe that, Andrew. You must go away, and not worry about me. You will do this, please, because I ask you!"

"If I must," he said reluctantly. "I will go away, but not to worry about you—that is impossible. You seem to be surrounded by all the mediæval terrors which confronted the emancipation of princesses in our fairy books. Only a short time ago Duncombe implored me to follow his example, and leave you and Paris alone. The detective whom I brought with me has been shadowed ever since we left Paris. Last night he left me for a few hours, and this morning comes a note from the hospital. He is lying there with the back of his head beaten in—garotters, of course, the police say, looking for plunder. How can you ask me to be easy in my mind about you?"

She smiled reassuringly.

"No harm will come to me here, I can promise you," she said. "It is you who run the most risk if you only knew it. Sir George Duncombe gave you the best advice when he tried to get you to return to England."

"I cannot leave Lloyd now until he has recovered," Andrew answered. "Tell me, Phyllis, has Duncombe found you out? Has he been here?"

"Yes," she answered. "I sent him away—as I am sending you."

"Has he ever told you," Andrew asked, "why he was willing in the first instance to come to Paris in search of you?"

"No," she answered. "Wasn't it because he was your friend?"

He shook his head.

"It is his affair, not mine," he said with a sigh. "Ask him some day."

"You won't tell me, Andrew?"

"No! I will go now! You know where to send for me if you should need help. I can find my way down, thank you. I have a guide from the hotel outside."

The Marquise swept into the room as he passed out, an impression of ermine and laces and perfume.

"Another of your English lovers, ma belle?" she asked.

"Scarcely that," Phyllis answered. "He is a very old friend, and he was rather hard to get rid of."

"I think," the Marquise said, "you would get rid of all very willingly for the sake of one, eh?"

The Marquise stared insolently into the girl's face. Phyllis only laughed.

"One is usually considered the ideal number—in our country," she remarked demurely.

"But the one?" the Marquise continued. "He would not be one of these cold, heavy countrymen of yours, no? You have learnt better perhaps over here?"

It was a cross-examination, but Phyllis could not imagine its drift.

"I have not had very much opportunity over here, have I, to amend my ideals?" she asked. "I think the only two Frenchmen I have met are the Marquis and that languid young man with the green tie, the Vicomte de Bergillac, wasn't it?"

The Marquise watched her charge closely.

"Well," she said, "he is comme il faut, is he not? You find him more elegant, more chic than your Englishmen, eh?"

Phyllis shook her head regretfully.

"To me," she admitted, "he seemed like an exceedingly precocious spoilt child!"

"He is twenty-three," the Marquise declared.

Phyllis laughed softly.

"Well," she said, "I do not think that I shall amend my ideals for the sake of the Vicomte de Bergillac!"

The Marquise looked at her doubtfully.

"Tell me, child," she said, "you mean, then, that of the two—your English Sir George Duncombe and Henri—you would prefer Sir George?"

Phyllis looked at her with twinkling eyes.

"You would really like to know?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"Sir George Duncombe—infinitely!"

The Marquise seemed to have recovered her good spirits.

"Come,