Susan came up to Grant, smiling, about half an hour later. She had left Bobby Lancaster and his sister seated on a divan.
“Aren’t you flattered, Grant?” she exclaimed. “You’ve been labelled dangerous. Kings have been summoned to the help of the terrified husband. Look, they’ve made the poor woman sit at a table and play roulette, which she hates, with His Majesty on one side, her husband behind her chair, and Blunn, like a patron saint, hovering around.”
Grant looked at the little phalanx and nodded.
“Well,” he admitted, “I’m half inclined to believe you’re right. It does seem to be a plot. Where’s your father?”
“Gone home,” she answered. “He was very angry with Mr. Blunn.”
“All the same, it was clever,” Grant observed. “I’ll bet he’s got a dozen copies of those few remarks of his ready for print and distribution in the States. The audacity of it all is so amazing. There were you and I and Gertrude, to say nothing of the Prince, who knew the whole secret, absolutely within a few yards of him,—knew how he fought to get that gloomy Scandinavian back to Nice in time to vote. He just laughs at us and ignores it all. We’re only one or two. It is the millions he wants. It’s magnificent!”
“Since I’m afraid it’s quite hopeless for you to get anywhere near the enchanting Princess, would you like to talk to me for a few minutes?” she invited.
“We’ll find that greedy corner in the Bar,” he assented, turning away with her, “where you eat up all the chocolate eclairs.”
She sighed.
“I wish I weren’t so fond of food. People won’t believe that I have sentiment when they watch my appetite. However,” she went on cheerfully, “I shan’t want anything more to eat to-day, nor to-morrow, as a matter of fact.”
“It was a great dinner,” he acknowledged. “We’ll have an orangeade and go through the courses. They were something to dream of.”
“If you’re going to talk about food,” she began peevishly,
“Not necessarily food,” he interrupted, as they selected their easy chairs. “There were the wines—that Chateau Yquem, for instance. Terrible to drink it after champagne, but it was a dream.”
“How long are you going to stay in the States.-’” she asked.
“Until you’re grown up,” he replied. “Then I’m coming back to see what sort of a woman you have become.”
“You will probably find me married to Bobby Lancaster,” she warned him. “He proposed to me to-night in an entirely different way and I was really touched. I don’t see why one should wait forever for a man who never asks one, and who talks about going to the other end of the world as though he was slipping into Corret’s to have his hair cut.”
“Meaning me?”
“Meaning you.”
For a single moment Grant felt that he had exchanged his thirty-one years for her nineteen. She was smiling at him with all the gentle savoir faire of a woman of the world. He himself was embarrassed.
“Aren’t you by way of being an extremist?” he enquired. “Even if one might hesitate to ask you to leap into sedate middle age, it seems rather a pity for you to marry into the nursery.”
“Bobby is twenty-four,” she declared indignantly.
“You amaze me,” he confessed. “But consider those twenty-four years. We will leave out the perambulator stages. Fifteen to nineteen at Eton—cricket and rackets. Twenty to twenty-four, a guardsman—rather more cricket, rather more rackets. It is a full and busy life, child, but it makes for youth.”
She smiled serenely.
“You don’t understand,” she remonstrated. “Cricket is almost our religion. I asked the Captain of the Australians to marry me when I was fourteen.”
“He spared you?”
She nodded.
“He gave me his daughter’s photograph. She was much older than I was, very thin and she squinted. It wasn’t really a romance—it was cricket.”
“Is Bobby any good?” he asked.
She sighed.
“That’s rather the pity of it,” she admitted. “He very seldom makes any runs and he has ninety-five different excuses, or rather explanations, for the way in which he got out.”
“I don’t think I’m missing much in cricket,” Grant reflected. “I played halfback for Harvard. Football isn’t a bad game, you know.”
She looked at him sympathetically.
“That must have been back in the dim past,” she observed. “Long before the sedate middle-aged feeling came upon you.”
“Susan, I want to tell you this. You’re a delightful child and an amusing tomboy and I’ve often wished that you were just a few years older.”
“Why?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Never mind. But, in addition to youth, you have a brain, and you’re one of the pluckiest girls I’ve ever had with me in a tight corner. Don’t think I’ve forgotten it, because I haven’t.”
“Rubbish!” she laughed.
“And I’m going to say this to you,” he continued, turning towards her, so that she suddenly saw that he was in earnest, and became very still indeed, “I’ve got a half-finished job on my hands, and how it will turn out I don’t know. It will be a matter of six months before I’m through. When I’m through, I’m coming right back. And, Susan, I don’t want to say too much, but I don’t think those boys are going to be quite what you deserve in life. It’s horrible to feel a little too old.”
She suddenly gripped his hand.
“Idiot!” she murmured. “You’re not a bit too old. I wouldn’t marry Bobby Lancaster if he were the last man on earth.”
She was looking at him with a suspicious mistiness in her eyes. Her mouth was quivering just a little. And then it all passed. She was herself again,—slim, girlish, delightful, with the audacity of a child and the certain promise of the woman’s beauty in her delicate immaturity.
“I don’t know how I can trust you to cross the Atlantic alone,” she laughed. “How many of the crew of the Grey Lady have you sacked?”
“Not one,” he admitted. “I’ve forgiven them all. You don’t think Blunn is going to smuggle himself and a few desperate plotters on board, do you? Or put an infernal machine there to blow me sky-high?”
She shook her head.
“I’m half honest,” she said thoughtfully, “when I tell you frankly that I don’t like letting you go alone. You, in your sedate middle age, do need a little looking after, sometimes, you know—somebody with the common sense of youth. However, it’s just an idea, I suppose. I wish you luck in America, Grant.”
“Will you wish me a safe return?” he asked.
Once more she looked at him. He felt the peace of a great understanding in his heart. Those were not the eyes of a child.
“Yes,” she answered. “I hope you will come back safe and soon.”
At a few minutes after ten the next morning the Blue Peter was flying from the masthead of the Grey Lady and the last of a little stream of tradespeople were leaving the yacht. There was the usual crowd of loungers upon the dock to watch the departure, and on the bridge Lord Yeovil and Grant were standing a little aside, talking.
“If anything could make me a convert to your somewhat alarmist point of view, Slattery, Blunn’s behaviour last night would do it,” the former acknowledged, after a little desultory conversation upon the events of the evening before. “I still don’t understand what was at the back of his mind.”
“I can tell you,” Grant said. “You’ll find a copy of that speech will appear broadcast throughout America. ‘Cornelius Blunn, the great shipping magnate, entertains Prime Minister of Great Britain, to celebrate invitation to the United States to join the Pact of Nations.’ That’s the sort of headline you’ll see in every paper which counts. Every word he said will appear verbatim. It’s wonderful propaganda for Germany.”
“He stole a march on me, I’m afraid,” was the somewhat rueful admission.
“Never mind,” Grant consoled him. “We’ve won the first bout, after all, and Blunn knows it. For all his carefully laid scheme to prevent it, America is invited to join the Pact of Nations. Now we’ll have to strip for the second bout. We shall have to fight like hell to get that invitation accepted. You don’t follow our domestic politics, sir, I expect.”
“How can I?” Lord Yeovil protested. “I’ve problems enough of our own to deal with all the time.”
“The opinion of the educated and intelligent citizen of the United States upon any vital subject,” Grant expounded, “is sometimes, unfortunately, an entirely different matter to her voting force. That is our only danger. Cornelius Blunn and his friends know quite well that if America accepts the invitation of the Pact, all those grandiose schemes which have been formulated and brought to maturity by Germany and her friends fall to the ground. Peace is assured to the world for an indefinite period of time. Germany must abandon her hope of revenge. Japan must reconcile herself to the permanent subordination of the yellow races. Therefore, strenuous efforts will be made in America to prevent her acceptance.”
“I can quite believe that,” Lord Yeovil assented. “The peace lover will have German-American interests and the Japanese influence to fight. Still, I can’t help thinking that on a question like this the common sense of the country will carry all before it.”
“I am with you there,” Grant agreed, “and yet it is a fact that there have been, even within my memory, laws passed by the legislature which were in absolute opposition to the will of the people. The voting power of America is a chaotic and terribly uncertain quantity. Our friend Blunn will be over there before a month is passed. Prince Lutrecht will be visiting at Washington. I shouldn’t be surprised if Baron Funderstrom takes a little tour there, too. Headquarters will be moved from Monte Carlo to Washington and New York, and we haven’t any reasonable means of coping with all the flaring, misleading propaganda which will be let loose to induce America to refuse this invitation within the next few weeks. The only hope will be if, by any remote chance, one of us is able to discover proof of the subsequent intentions of Germany and her jackals. Otherwise I honestly believe that there is a serious possibility that the United States, in the most courteous possible tones, will decline your invitation.”
“If they do,” Lord Yeovil remarked grimly, “I must resign at once from my position as Chairman of the Pact and probably from the Premiership of Great Britain. A refusal under the present circumstances would be little less than an affront. You have this matter very much at heart, Grant.”
“I’m an American and I am fond and proud of my country,” Grant answered. “I pose as being an idle millionaire. You know I’m not. I never worked so hard in my younger days, when I was Second and eventually First Secretary, or went through so many disagreeable moments as I have during the last eighteen months. I don’t fancy my next six months will be any easier. I am going to do my level best to bring the truth home to the American people and to show up the plot which I am convinced is being organised against us. If I succeed I shall come straight back to Europe and, if I may, I shall come and pay you a visit.”
Lord Yeovil held out his hand. Probably at that moment the same thought was in the minds of both men.
“You have my best wishes. Grant,” he said cordially.
Grant walked with his departing guest to the gangplank and waved his farewell as they backed away into the harbour and swung round. Very soon they were heading for the open sea. The wonderful little bejewelled principality of intrigue, of fierce excitements and strange happenings, grew fainter but not less beautiful. The sun was streaming down upon the snow-streaked mountain peaks, the white-faced villas, the deep masses of green, the garish but curiously attractive front of the great Casino. Grant breathed a sigh of relief as the coast line faded away and the west wind took them into its embrace. There were ten days at least of freedom,—ten days in which to rearrange his thoughts, to prepare for the next stage of the struggle.
He lunched early, dozed for an hour in the afternoon, read for a little time, and discussed the question of coal supply with the chief engineer. They made careful calculations and to Grant’s relief, came to the conclusion that a call at Gibraltar would not be necessary. He was suddenly feverishly anxious to reach New York, to see his friends at Washington, to gauge for himself exactly the feeling which would be created by this fateful invitation. The solitude of the open seas appealed to him immensely. He sat on deck for a while after dinner, in a sheltered place, listening to the rush of the wind and watching the stars make a fitful appearance. As the breeze stiffened they altered their course slightly and showers of spray sometimes swept the deck. He turned in early and slept soundly although every now and then he was haunted by a queer sense of some unusual sound,—unusual yet not sufficiently distinct to waken him. In the morning, he turned out at his usual hour, quite unconscious of the fact that he was so soon to be brought face to face with tragedy. He took his bath of warm and then cold sea water, strolled on deck, breakfasted in a sunny corner, and lit a pipe. After an hour or so he strolled aft on his way to the chart room. As he passed the companionway he glanced in, gripped at the door, stood stupefied, speechless, aghast. Still wearing her wonderful cloak, her satin shoes and slippers, her eyes weary but passionately questioning, came Gertrude.