The Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim

to himself the last paragraph of Sogrange's letter:—

      "As ever, dear friend, one of the greatest sayings which the men of my race have ever perpetrated, once more justifies itself, 'Cherchez la femme!' Of monsieur we have no manner of doubt; we have tested him in every way. And, to all appearance, madame should also be above suspicion. Yet those things of which I have spoken have happened. For two hours this morning I was closeted with Picon here. Very reluctantly he has placed the matter in my hands. I pass it on to you. It is your first undertaking, cher Baron, and I wish you bon fortune. A man of gallantry, as I know you are, you may regret that it should be a woman—and a beautiful woman, too—against whom the finger must be pointed. Yet, after all, the fates are strong and the task is yours.—Sogrange."

      The music from the reception-rooms grew louder and more insistent. Peter rose to his feet, and, moving to the fireplace, struck a match and carefully destroyed the letter which he had been reading. Then he straightened himself, glanced for a moment at the mirror, and left the room to join his guests.

      "Monsieur le Baron jests," the lady murmured. Peter shook his head.

      "Indeed, no, madame!" he answered earnestly. "France has offered us nothing more delightful in the whole history of our entente than the loan of yourself and your brilliant husband. Monsieur de Lamborne makes history amongst us politically, whilst madame——"

      Peter sighed, and his companion leaned a little towards him. Her dark eyes were full of sentimental regard.

      "Yes?" she whispered. "Continue. It is my wish."

      "I am the good friend of Monsieur de Lamborne," Peter said, and in his tone there seemed to lurk some far-away touch of regret, "yet madame knows that her conquests here have been many."

      The ambassador's wife fanned herself and remained silent for a moment, a faint smile playing at the corners of her full, curving lips. She was indeed a very beautiful woman—elegant, a Parisian to the finger-tips, with pale cheeks but eyes dark and soft; eyes trained to her service, whose flash was an inspiration, whose very droop had set beating the hearts of men less susceptible than the Baron de Grost. Her gown was magnificent, of amber satin—a colour daring but splendid; the outline of her figure as she leaned slightly back in her seat might indeed have been traced by the inspired finger of some great sculptor. Peter, whose reputation as a man of gallantry was well established, felt the whole charm of her presence—felt, too, the subtle indications of preference which she seemed inclined to accord to him. There was nothing which eyes could say which hers were not saying during those few minutes. Peter, indeed, glanced around a little nervously. His wife had still her moments of unreasonableness; it was just as well that she was engaged with a party of her guests at the farther end of the apartments!

      "You are trying to turn my head," his beautiful companion whispered. "You flatter me."

      "It is not possible," he answered.

      Again the fan fluttered.

      "Ah, monsieur," she continued, dropping her voice until it scarcely rose above a whisper, "there are not many men like you. You speak of my husband and his political gifts. Yet, what, after all, do they amount to? What is his position, indeed, if one glanced behind the scenes, compared with yours?"

      The face of the Baron de Grost became like a mask. It was as though suddenly he had felt the thrill of danger close at hand—danger even in that scented atmosphere wherein he sat.

      "Alas, madame!" he answered, "it is you now who are pleased to jest. Your husband is a great and powerful ambassador. I, unfortunately, have no career, no place in life, save the place which the possession of a few millions gives to a successful financier."

      She laughed very softly, and again her eyes spoke to him.

      "Monsieur," she murmured, "you and I together could make a great alliance; is it not so?"

      "Madame," he faltered doubtfully, "if one dared hope——"

      Once more the fire of her eyes, this time not only voluptuous. Was the man stupid or only cautious?

      "If that alliance were once concluded," she said softly, "one might hope for everything."

      "If it rests only with me," he began seriously, "oh, madame!"

      He seemed overcome. Madame was gracious; but was he really stupid or only very much in earnest?

      "To be one of the world's money kings," she whispered, "it is wonderful, that. It is power—supreme, absolute power! There is nothing beyond—there is nothing greater."

      Then Peter, who was watching her closely, caught another gleam in her eyes, and he began to understand. He had seen it before amongst a certain type of her countrywomen—the greed of money. He looked at her jewels, and he remembered that, for an ambassador, her husband was reputed to be a poor man. The cloud of misgiving passed away from him; he settled down to the game.

      "If money could only buy the desire of one's heart!" he murmured. "Alas!"

      His eyes seemed to seek out Monsieur de Lamborne amongst the moving throngs. She laughed softly, and her hand brushed his.

      "Money and one other thing, Monsieur le Baron," she whispered in his ear, "can buy the jewels from a crown—can buy even the heart of a woman."

      A movement of approaching guests caught them up and parted them for a time. The Baroness de Grost was at home from ten till one, and her rooms were crowded. Peter found himself drawn on one side a few minutes later by Monsieur de Lamborne himself.

      "I have been looking for you, de Grost," the latter declared. "Where can we talk for a moment?"

      His host took the ambassador by the arm and led him into a retired corner. Monsieur de Lamborne was a tall, slight man, somewhat cadaverous-looking, with large features, hollow eyes, thin but carefully arranged grey hair, and a pointed grey beard. He wore a frilled shirt, and an eyeglass suspended by a broad, black ribbon hung down upon his chest. His face, as a rule, was imperturbable enough, but he had the air just now of a man greatly disturbed.

      "We cannot be overheard here," Peter remarked. "It must be an affair of a few words only, though."

      Monsieur de Lamborne wasted no time in preliminaries.

      "This afternoon," he said, "I received from my Government papers of immense importance, which I am to hand over to your Foreign Minister at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning."

      Peter nodded.

      "Well?"

      De Lamborne's thin fingers trembled as they played nervously with the ribbon of his eyeglass.

      "Listen," he continued, dropping his voice a little. "Bernadine has undertaken to send a copy of their contents to Berlin by to-morrow night's mail."

      "How do you know that?"

      The ambassador hesitated.

      "We, too, have spies at work," he remarked grimly. "Bernadine wrote and sent a messenger with the letter to Berlin. The man's body is drifting down the Channel, but the letter is in my pocket."

      "The letter from Bernadine?"

      "Yes."

      "What does he say?"

      "Simply that a verbatim copy of the document in question will be dispatched to Berlin to-morrow evening without fail," replied the ambassador.

      "There are no secrets between us," Peter declared, smoothly. "What is the special importance of this document?"

      De Lamborne shrugged his shoulders.

      "Since you ask," he said, "I tell you. You know of the slight coolness which there has been between our respective Governments? Our people have felt that the policy of your Ministers in expending all their energies and resources in the building of a great fleet, to the utter neglect of your army, is a wholly one-sided arrangement, so far as we are concerned. In the event of a simultaneous attack by Germany upon France and England, you would be utterly