it? Put on the other side, Prudence — the one about Sex Appeal Sarah.’
‘Percy, it’s you to play again. Now trump it this time.’
‘Sorry,
no trumps left. Good that about “start off with cocktails and end up with Eno’s”)
A few miles away at the
French Legation the minister and the first secretary were discussing the report
of the British movements which was brought to them every evening by Sir
Samson’s butler.
‘Bishop
Goodchild is there again.’
‘Clericalism.’
‘That
is how they keep in touch with the town. He is an old fox, Sir Courteney.’
‘It is
quite true that they have made no attempt to fortify the Legation. I have
confirmed it.’
‘No
doubt they have made their preparations in another quarter. Sir Courteney has
been financing Seth.’
‘Without
doubt.’
‘I
think he is behind the fluctuations of the currency.’
‘ They are using a new code. Here is a copy of today’s telegram. It
means nothing to me. Yesterday there was one the same.’
‘Kt
to QR3 CH. No, that is not one of the ordinary
codes. You must work on that all night. Pierre will help.’
‘I
should not be surprised if Sir Samson were in the pay of the Italians.’
‘It is
more than likely. The guard has been set?’
‘They
have orders to shoot at sight.’.
‘Have
the alarms been tested?’
‘All
are in order.’
‘Excellent.
Then I will wish you good night.’
M. Ballon
ascended the stairs to bed. In his room he first tested the steel shutters,
then the lock of the door. Then he went across to the bed where his wife was
already asleep and examined the mosquito curtains. He squirted a little Flit
round the windows and door, sprayed his throat with antiseptic and rapidly
divested himself of all except his woollen cummerbund. He shipped on his
pyjamas, examined the magazine of his revolver and laid it on the chair at his
bedside; next to it he placed his watch, electric torch and a bottle of Vittel.
He slipped another revolver under his pillow. He tiptoed to the window and
called down softly:
‘Sergeant.’
There
was a click of heels in the darkness. ‘Excellence.’
‘Is all
well?’
‘All
well, Excellence.’
M. Ballon
moved softly across to the electric switches, and before extinguishing the main
lamp switched on a small electric night-light which shed a faint blue radiance
throughout the room. Then he cautiously lifted the mosquito curtain, flashed
his torch round to make sure that there were no insects there, and finally, with
a little grunt, hay down to sleep. Before losing consciousness his hand felt,
found and grasped a small carved nut which he kept under his bolster in the
belief that it would bring him good luck.
Next morning by eleven
o’clock the Bishop had been seen off the premises and the British Legation had
settled down to its normal routine. Lady Courteney was in the potting-shed; Sir
Samson was in the bath; William, Legge and Anstruther were throwing poker dice
in the chancery; Prudence was at work on the third chapter of the Panorama
of Life. Sex, she wrote in round, irregular characters, is the crying
out of the Soul for Completion. Presently she crossed out ‘Soul’ and
substituted ‘Spirit’ ; then she inserted ‘of man’, changed it to ‘manhood’ and substituted ‘humanity’. Then she took a new sheet of paper and
copied out the whole sentence. Then she wrote a letter. Sweet William. You
looked so lovely at breakfast you know all half awake and I wanted to pinch you
only didn’t. Why did you go away at once? Saying ‘decode’. You know you hadn’t
got to. I suppose is was the Bishop. Darling, he’s gone now so come back and I
will show you something lovely. The Panorama of Life is rather a trial to-day.
Very literary and abstruse but it won’t get any LONGER. Oh dear. Prudence.
XXXX. She folded this letter very carefully into a three-cornered hat,
addressed it The Honble William Bland, Attaché Honoraire, près La Legation
de Grande
‘Percy, it’s you to play again. Now trump it this time.’
‘Sorry,
no trumps left. Good that about “start off with cocktails and end up with Eno’s”)
A few miles away at the
French Legation the minister and the first secretary were discussing the report
of the British movements which was brought to them every evening by Sir
Samson’s butler.
‘Bishop
Goodchild is there again.’
‘Clericalism.’
‘That
is how they keep in touch with the town. He is an old fox, Sir Courteney.’
‘It is
quite true that they have made no attempt to fortify the Legation. I have
confirmed it.’
‘No
doubt they have made their preparations in another quarter. Sir Courteney has
been financing Seth.’
‘Without
doubt.’
‘I
think he is behind the fluctuations of the currency.’
‘ They are using a new code. Here is a copy of today’s telegram. It
means nothing to me. Yesterday there was one the same.’
‘Kt
to QR3 CH. No, that is not one of the ordinary
codes. You must work on that all night. Pierre will help.’
‘I
should not be surprised if Sir Samson were in the pay of the Italians.’
‘It is
more than likely. The guard has been set?’
‘They
have orders to shoot at sight.’.
‘Have
the alarms been tested?’
‘All
are in order.’
‘Excellent.
Then I will wish you good night.’
M. Ballon
ascended the stairs to bed. In his room he first tested the steel shutters,
then the lock of the door. Then he went across to the bed where his wife was
already asleep and examined the mosquito curtains. He squirted a little Flit
round the windows and door, sprayed his throat with antiseptic and rapidly
divested himself of all except his woollen cummerbund. He shipped on his
pyjamas, examined the magazine of his revolver and laid it on the chair at his
bedside; next to it he placed his watch, electric torch and a bottle of Vittel.
He slipped another revolver under his pillow. He tiptoed to the window and
called down softly:
‘Sergeant.’
There
was a click of heels in the darkness. ‘Excellence.’
‘Is all
well?’
‘All
well, Excellence.’
M. Ballon
moved softly across to the electric switches, and before extinguishing the main
lamp switched on a small electric night-light which shed a faint blue radiance
throughout the room. Then he cautiously lifted the mosquito curtain, flashed
his torch round to make sure that there were no insects there, and finally, with
a little grunt, hay down to sleep. Before losing consciousness his hand felt,
found and grasped a small carved nut which he kept under his bolster in the
belief that it would bring him good luck.
Next morning by eleven
o’clock the Bishop had been seen off the premises and the British Legation had
settled down to its normal routine. Lady Courteney was in the potting-shed; Sir
Samson was in the bath; William, Legge and Anstruther were throwing poker dice
in the chancery; Prudence was at work on the third chapter of the Panorama
of Life. Sex, she wrote in round, irregular characters, is the crying
out of the Soul for Completion. Presently she crossed out ‘Soul’ and
substituted ‘Spirit’ ; then she inserted ‘of man’, changed it to ‘manhood’ and substituted ‘humanity’. Then she took a new sheet of paper and
copied out the whole sentence. Then she wrote a letter. Sweet William. You
looked so lovely at breakfast you know all half awake and I wanted to pinch you
only didn’t. Why did you go away at once? Saying ‘decode’. You know you hadn’t
got to. I suppose is was the Bishop. Darling, he’s gone now so come back and I
will show you something lovely. The Panorama of Life is rather a trial to-day.
Very literary and abstruse but it won’t get any LONGER. Oh dear. Prudence.
XXXX. She folded this letter very carefully into a three-cornered hat,
addressed it The Honble William Bland, Attaché Honoraire, près La Legation
de Grande
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