It was after half-past ten when Grant, in the suite of his own Ambassador, mounted the stairs of Yeovil House and waited for some time in the block which had collected at the entrance to the reception rooms. From where he stood he suddenly recognised Susan, recognised her with a little shock of mingled pleasure and apprehension. His first impression was that she had changed, had grown older in some marvellous fashion, without the loss of any of her beauty or freshness. She wore the gown in which, only a few months ago, she had been presented. Her hair, in the midst of a galaxy of brilliant coiffures, was arranged as simply as in the old Monte Carlo days, and the jewellery she wore consisted only of a simple rope of pearls. Yet she seemed to have assumed without effort and with perfect naturalness a becoming dignity and ease, wholly in keeping with her position as the hostess of a great gathering, and having a certain piquant charm when associated with her extreme youth. She talked gaily and without embarrassment to every one, passing them on with that tactful little word which is sometimes a hostess’s greatest difficulty and having always the air of thoroughly enjoying her position, of finding real joy in welcoming individually members of the distinguished crowd which streamed slowly by. More than once Lord Yeovil, who in his court dress and dazzling array of orders was himself a striking figure, found time to glance for a moment, half in amusement, half in delight, at the girl by his side, whom the society papers of to-morrow were all to acknowledge as one of London’s most promising hostesses. Step by step they moved on. Glancing upwards, Grant fancied once that she recognised him. If so, there was no change in her expression. She welcomed the Ambassador, talked for a moment with his wife, exchanged some jest about a golf match with the Naval Attache, and finally turned away, to find Grant standing before her. She gave him her hand and smiled as frankly as ever. There was no trace of self-consciousness in her manner. Yet Grant was aware of a great chill of disappointment.
“Welcome back to London, Mr. Slattery,” she said, “You really are a globe trotter, aren’t you? I hope you’ve brought some new bridge problems with you for father. He needs a little distraction, poor dear, with all those terrible newspapers of yours hurling thunderbolts at his head.”
“Glad to see you, Slattery,” Lord Yeovil added, “You’ll find Arthur in the room to the left. If dancing amuses you, he’ll introduce you to some good partners.”
And that was the end of it. Grant found himself one amongst seven or eight hundred people, meeting an old acquaintance occasionally as he strolled about, introduced by Lymane to one or two young women with whom he danced, and all the time conscious of a vague but sickening sense of disappointment. This was the meeting to which he had looked forward so eagerly. He was judged and condemned, wiped out, finished with. And why not? Who in the world would believe that Gertrude had come to him as a stowaway? And, worse still, whom could he tell? It was a little trap of fate, into which he had fallen, a problem to which there seemed no solution.
Later in the evening Arthur Lymane sought him out and presented him to a white-haired, lean-faced man, in the uniform of an admiral.
“Admiral Sullivan would like to have a word or two with you. Grant,” he said, “Unofficially, of course. The Admiral is head of our Naval Intelligence Department.”
“I have heard of Admiral Sullivan often,” Grant declared, shaking hands, “Once in Tokyo, where he wasn’t very popular, and again in Archangel.”
“Don’t mention that,” the Admiral begged, with a little grin, “Tokyo I don’t mind, I hear you fellows are getting the wind up on the other side of the pond.”
“We’re shaking in our shoes,” Grant assured him, “Can we find a place to talk?”
“I know the runs of this house,” was the cheerful reply. “Come along.”
They passed outside the formal suite of reception rooms into an apartment opening from the billiard room,—a small den, in which were a few easy-chairs, a quantity of sporting literature, several decanters, and some soda water.
“This is Arthur Lymane’s little shanty,” Grant’s cicerone explained. “Can I mix you one? Say when.”
They subsided into easy-chairs. The Admiral’s blue eyes were still twinkling.
“By the bye,” he confided, “I’m the man who handled your reports from Archangel and Berlin.”
“You didn’t throw them into the waste basket, I hope?”
“Not on your life,” was the prompt assurance. “I acted upon them, and jolly quick too. They tell me you’ve been doing S. S. work for Washington for the last two years.”
“Two years and a half, to be exact,” Grant admitted. “I’m beginning to piece things together now.”
“Interesting!” his companion murmured. “There have been rummy things going on all over the world—heaps of loose threads we’ve got hold of ourselves. I wonder whether your conclusions are the same as mine?”
“There is no secret about my conclusions, so far as you’re concerned,” Grant replied. “I am convinced that there is a most venomous plot brewing against my country. That is why I am so thankful that the question of our joining the Pact has been raised again. My only fear is that it’s a trifle late.”
The Admiral selected and lit a cigar with deliberate care.
“Well,” he said, “the world knows my opinion of Pacts and Limitation of Armaments Conferences, and all that sort of twaddle. They are started by philanthropic fools to be taken advantage of by rogues. I’ve given Yeovil seven questions to ask the Japanese representative at Washington, and I tell you that there isn’t one of them which he will be able to answer.”
“Thank heavens the Conference comes before the matter of joining the Pact is voted on by the Senate,” Grant exclaimed fervently.
“Damned good job, I should think,” the other agreed. “It’s easy enough to see that your country’s being riddled with propaganda. As regards that Conferenc............