‘Well I’m damned! Poor Duncan! And what’s he going to get out of it?’

‘I don’t know. But he might rather like it, even.’

‘He might, might he? Well, he’s a funny man if he does. Why, you’ve never even had an affair with him, have you?’

‘No! But he doesn’t really want it. He only loves me to be near him, but not to touch him.’

‘My God, what a generation!’

‘He would like me most of all to be a model for him to paint from. Only I never wanted to.’

‘God help him! But he looks down–trodden enough for anything.’

‘Still, you wouldn’t mind so much the talk about him?’

‘My God, Connie, all the bloody contriving!’

‘I know! It’s sickening! But what can I do?’

‘Contriving, conniving; conniving, contriving! Makes a man think he’s lived too long.’

‘Come, Father, if you haven’t done a good deal of contriving and conniving in your time, you may talk.’

‘But it was different, I assure you.’

‘It’s ALWAYS different.’

Hilda arrived, also furious when she heard of the new developments. And she also simply could not stand the thought of a public scandal about her sister and a game–keeper. Too, too humiliating!

‘Why should we not just disappear, separately, to British Columbia, and have no scandal?’ said Connie.

But that was was no good. The scandal would come out just the same. And if Connie was going with the man, she’d better be able to marry him. This was Hilda’s opinion. Sir Malcolm wasn’t sure. The affair might still blow over.

‘But will you see him, Father?’

Poor Sir Malcolm! he was by no means keen on it. And poor Mellors, he was still less keen. Yet the meeting took place: a lunch in a private room at the club, the two men alone, looking one another up and down.

Sir Malcolm drank a fair amount of whisky, Mellors also drank. And they talked all the while about India, on which the young man was well informed.

This lasted during the meal. Only when coffee was served, and the waiter had gone, Sir Malcolm lit a cigar and said, heartily:

‘Well, young man, and what about my daughter?’

The grin flickered on Mellors’ face.

‘Well, Sir, and what about her?’

‘You’ve got a baby in her all right.’

‘I have that honour!’ grinned Mellors.

‘Honour, by God!’ Sir Malcolm gave a little squirting laugh, and became Scotch and lewd. ‘Honour! How was the going, eh? Good, my boy, what?’

‘Good!’

‘I’ll bet it was! Ha–ha! My daughter, chip of the old block, what! I never went back on a good bit of fucking, myself. Though her mother, oh, holy saints!’ He rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘But you warmed her up, oh, you warmed her up, I can see that. Ha–ha! My blood in her! You set fire to her haystack all right. Ha–ha–ha! I was jolly glad of it, I can tell you. She needed it. Oh, she’s a nice girl, she’s a nice girl, and I knew she’d be good going, if only some damned man would set her stack on fire! Ha–ha–ha! A game–keeper, eh, my boy! Bloody good poacher, if you ask me. Ha–ha! But now, look here, speaking seriously, what are we going to do about it? Speaking seriously, you know!’

“She must think of her future.”

“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own very definite plans about England, and that your information will be very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar.

The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy door.

“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.

The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeonhole had its label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such titles as “Fords”, “Harbour defences", “Aeroplanes", “Ireland”, “Egypt", “Portsmouth forts", “The Channel", “Rosythe", and a score of others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.

“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands.

“And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.

“But you have a good dossier there already.”

“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron — the worst setback in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont all will be well to-night.”

The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of disappointment.

“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did Altamont name no hour?”

Von Bork pushed over a telegram.

Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.

ALTAMONT.

“Sparking plugs, eh?”

“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”

“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary, examining the superscription. “By the way, what do you give him?”