Not having it in his power to call up his cousin on the telephone, Campton went the next morning to the Nouveau Luxe.
 
It was the first time that he had entered the famous hotel since the beginning of the war; and at sight of the long hall his heart sank as it used to whenever some untoward¹ necessity forced him to run its deadly blockade.
 
But the hall was empty when he entered, empty not only of the brilliant beings who filled his soul with such dismay, but also of the porters, footmen and lift-boys who, even in its unfrequented hours, lent it the lustre² of their liveries.
 
A tired concierge³ sat at the desk, and near the door a boy scout⁴, coiling his bare legs about a high stool, raised his head languidly from his book. But for these two, the world of the Nouveau Luxe had disappeared.
 
As the lift was not running there was nothing to disturb their meditations⁵; and when Campton had learned that Mr. Mayhew would receive him he started alone up the deserted⁶ stairs.
 
Only a few dusty trunks remained in the corridors where luggage used to be piled as high as in the passages of the great liners on sailing-day; and instead of 138the murmur⁷ of ladies’-maids’ skirts, and explosions of laughter behind glazed⁸ service-doors, the swish of a charwoman’s mop alone broke the silence.
 
“After all,” Campton thought, “if war didn’t kill people how much pleasanter it might make the world!”
 
This was evidently not the opinion of Mr. Harvey Mayhew, whom he found agitatedly¹⁰ pacing a large room hung in shrimp-pink brocade, which opened on a vista¹¹ of turquoise¹² tiling and porcelain¹³ tub.
 
Mr. Mayhew’s round countenance¹⁴, composed of the same simple curves as his nephew’s, had undergone a remarkable¹⁵ change. He was still round, but he was ravaged¹⁶. His fringe of hair had grown greyer, and there were crow’s-feet about his blue eyes, and wrathful corrugations in his benignant forehead.
 
He seized Campton’s hands and glared at him through indignant eye-glasses.
 
“My dear fellow, I looked you up as soon as I arrived. I need you—we all need you—we need your powerful influence and your world-wide celebrity¹⁸. Campton, the day for words has gone by. We must act!”
 
Campton let himself down into an armchair. No verb in the language terrified him as much as that which his cousin had flung at him. He gazed at the ex-Delegate with dismay. “I didn’t know you were here. Where have you come from?” he asked.
 
Mr. Mayhew, resting a manicured hand on the edge of a gilt¹⁹ table, looked down awfully²⁰ on him.
 
139“I come,” he said, “from a German prison.”
 
“Good Lord—you?” Campton gasped²¹.
 
He continued to gaze at his cousin with terror, but of a new kind. Here at last was someone who had actually been in the jaws²² of the monster, who had seen, heard, suffered—a witness who could speak of that which he knew! No wonder Mr. Mayhew took himself seriously—at last he had something to be serious about! Campton stared at him as if he had risen from the dead.
 
Mr. Mayhew cleared his throat and went on: “You may remember our meeting at the Crillon—on the 31st of last July it was—and my asking you the best way of getting to the Hague, in view of impending²³ events. At that time” (his voice took a note of irony) “I was a Delegate to the Peace Congress at the Hague, and conceived it to be my duty to carry out my mandate²⁴ at whatever personal risk. You advised me—as you may also remember—in order to be out of the way of trouble, to travel by Luxembourg,” (Campton stirred uneasily). “I followed your advice; and, not being able to go by train, I managed, with considerable difficulty, to get permission to travel by motor. I reached Luxembourg as the German army entered it—the next day I was in a German prison.”
 
The next day! Then this pink-and-white man who stood there with his rimless²⁵ eye-glasses and neatly²⁶ trimmed hair, and his shining nails reflected in the plate glass of the table-top, this perfectly²⁷ typical, usual 140sort of harmless rich American, had been for four months in the depths of the abyss that men were beginning to sound with fearful hearts!
 
“It is a simple miracle,” said Mr. Mayhew, “that I was not shot as a spy.”
 
Campton’s voice choked in his throat. “Where were you imprisoned²⁸?”
 
“The first night, in the Police commissariat, with common thieves and vagabonds—with—” Mr. Mayhew lowered his voice and his eyes: “With prostitutes, Campton....”
 
He waited for this to take effect, and continued: “The next day, in consequence of the energetic intervention²⁹ of our consul—who behaved extremely well, as I have taken care to let them know in Washington—I was sent back to my hotel on parole, and kept there, kept there, Campton—I, the official representative of a friendly country—under strict police surveillance, like ... like an unfortunate woman ... for eight days: a week and one day over!”
 
Mr. Mayhew sank into a chair and passed a scented³⁰ handkerchief across his forehead. “When I was finally released I was without money, without luggage, without my motor or my wretched chauffeur—a Frenchman, who had been instantly carried off to Germany. In this state of destitution³¹, and without an apology, I was shipped to Rotterdam and put on a steamer sailing for America.” He wiped his forehead again, 141and the corners of his agitated⁹ lips. “Peace, Campton—Peace? When I think that I believed in a thing called Peace! That I left Utica—always a difficult undertaking³² for me—because I deemed it my duty, in the interests of Peace,” (the word became a hiss) “to travel to the other side of the world, and use the weight of my influence and my experience in such a cause!”
 
He clenched³³ his fist and shook it in the face of an invisible foe³⁴.
 
“My influence, if I have any; my experience—ha, I have had experience now, Campton! And, my God, sir, they shall both be used till my last breath to show up these people, to proclaim to the world what they really are, to rouse public opinion in America against a nation of savages³⁵ who ought to be hunted off the face of the globe like vermin—like the vermin in their own prison cells! Campton—if I may say so without profanity—I come to bring not Peace but a Sword!”
 
It was some time before the flood of Mr. Mayhew’s wrath¹⁷ subsided³⁶, or before there floated up from its agitated depths some fragments of his subsequent history and present intentions. Eventually, however, Campton gathered that after a short sojourn³⁷ in America, where he found opinion too lukewarm for him, he had come back to Europe to collect the experiences of other victims of German savagery³⁸. Mr. Mayhew, in short, meant to devote himself to Atrocities³⁹; and he had sought out Campton to ask his help, and especially 142to be put in contact with persons engaged in refugee-work, and likely to have come across flagrant offences against the law of nations.
 
It was easy to comply with the latter request. Campton scribbled⁴⁰ a message to Adele Anthony at her refugee Depot⁴¹; and he undertook also to find out from what officials Mr. Mayhew might obtain leave to visit the front.
 
“I know it’s difficult——” he began; but Mr. Mayhew laughed. “I am here to surmount⁴² difficulties—after what I’ve been through!”
 
It was not until then that Mr. Mayhew found time to answer an enquiry about his nephew.
 
“Benny Upsher ? Ha—I’m proud of Benny! He’s a hero, that nephew of mine—he was always my favourite.”
 
He went on to say that the youth, having failed to enlist⁴³ in the French army, had managed to get back to England, and there, passing himself off as a Canadian (“Born at Murray Bay, sir—wasn’t it lucky?”) had joined an English regiment⁴⁴, and, after three months’ training, was now on his way to the front. His parents had made a great outcry—moved heaven and earth for news of him—but the boy had covered up his tracks so cleverly that they had had no word till he was starting for Boulogne with his draft. Rather high-handed—and poor Madeline had nearly gone out of her mind; but Mr. Mayhew confessed he had no patience with 143such feminine weakness. “Benny’s a man, and must act as a man. That boy, Campton, saw things as they were from the first.”
 
Campton took leave, dazed and crushed by the conversation. It was all one to him if Harvey Mayhew chose to call on America to avenge⁴⁵ his wrongs; Campton himself was beginning to wish that his country would wake up to what was going on in the world; but that he, Campton, should be drawn⁴⁶ into the affair, should have to write letters, accompany the ex-Delegate to Embassies and Red Crosses, languish⁴⁷ with him in ministerial antechambers, and be deafened⁴⁸ with appeals to his own celebrity and efficiency; that he should have ascribed to himself that mysterious gift of &ldqu............