The Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim

render us any measure of assistance. If Germany should attack England alone, it is the wish of your Government that we should be pledged to occupy Alsace-Lorraine. You, on the other hand, could do nothing for us if Germany's first move were made against France."

      Peter was deeply interested, although the matter was no new one to him.

      "Go on," he directed. "I am waiting for you to tell me the specific contents of this document."

      "The English Government has asked us two questions; first, how many complete army corps we consider she ought to place at our disposal in this eventuality; and, secondly, at what point should we expect them to be concentrated? The dispatch which I received to-night contains the reply to these questions."

      "Which Bernadine has promised to forward to Berlin to-morrow night," Peter remarked softly.

      De Lamborne nodded.

      "You perceive," he said, "the immense importance of the affair. The very existence of that document is almost a casus belli."

      "At what time did the dispatch arrive," Peter asked, "and what has been its history since?"

      "It arrived at six o'clock," the ambassador declared. "It went straight into the inner pocket of my coat; it has not been out of my possession for a single second. Even whilst I talk to you I can feel it."

      "And your plans? How are you intending to dispose of it to-night?"

      "On my return to the Embassy I shall place it in the safe, lock it up, and remain watching it until morning."

      "There doesn't seem to be much chance for Bernadine," Peter remarked.

      "But there must be no chance—no chance at all," Monsieur de Lamborne asserted, with a note of passion in his thin voice. "It is incredible, preposterous, that he should even make the attempt. I want you to come home with me and share my vigil. You shall be my witness in case anything happens. We will watch together."

      Peter reflected for a moment.

      "Bernadine makes few mistakes," he said thoughtfully.

      Monsieur de Lamborne passed his hand across his forehead.

      "Do I not know it?" he muttered. "In this instance, though, it seems impossible for him to succeed. The time is so short and the conditions so difficult. I may count upon your assistance, Baron?"

      Peter drew from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper.

      "I received a telegram from headquarters this evening," he said, "with instructions to place myself entirely at your disposal."

      "You will return with me, then, to the Embassy?" Monsieur de Lamborne asked eagerly.

      Peter did not at once reply. He was standing in one of his characteristic attitudes, his hands clasped behind him, his head a little thrust forward, watching with every appearance of courteous interest the roomful of guests, stationary just now, listening to the performance of a famous violinist. It was, perhaps, by accident that his eyes met those of Madame de Lamborne, but she smiled at him subtly—more, perhaps, with her wonderful eyes than with her lips themselves. She was the centre of a very brilliant group, a most beautiful woman holding court, as was only right and proper, amongst her admirers. Peter sighed.

      "No," he said, "I shall not return with you, de Lamborne. I want you to follow my suggestions, if you will."

      "But, assuredly——"

      "Leave here early and go to your club. Remain there until one, then come to the Embassy. I shall be there awaiting your arrival."

      "You mean that you will go there alone? I do not understand," the ambassador protested. "Why should I go to my club? I do not at all understand!"

      "Nevertheless, do as I say," Peter insisted. "For the present, excuse me. I must look after my guests."

      The music had ceased, there was a movement towards the supper room. Peter offered his arm to Madame de Lamborne, who welcomed him with a brilliant smile. Her husband, although, for a Frenchman, he was by no means of a jealous disposition, was conscious of a vague feeling of uneasiness as he watched them pass out of the room together. A few minutes later he made his excuses to his wife, and, with a reluctance for which he could scarcely account, left the house. There was something in the air, he felt, which he did not understand. He would not have admitted it to himself, but he more than half divined the truth. The vacant seat in his wife's carriage was filled that night by the Baron de Grost.

      At one o'clock precisely Monsieur de Lamborne returned to his house, and found de Grost gazing with obvious respect at the ponderous safe let into the wall.

      "A very fine affair—this," he remarked, motioning with his head towards it.

      "The best of its kind," Monsieur de Lamborne admitted. "No burglar yet has ever succeeded in opening one of its type. Here is the packet," he added, drawing the document from his pocket. "You shall see me place it in safety."

      Peter stretched out his hand and examined the sealed envelope for a moment closely. Then he moved to the writing-table, and, placing it upon the letter scales, made a note of its exact weight. Finally he watched it deposited in the ponderous safe, suggested the word to which the lock was set, and closed the door. Monsieur de Lamborne heaved a sigh of relief.

      "I fancy this time," he said, "that our friends at Berlin will be disappointed. Couch or easy-chair, Baron?"

      "The couch, if you please," Peter replied, "a strong cigar, and a long whisky and soda. So! Now for our vigil."

      The hours crawled away. Once Peter sat up and listened.

      "Any rats about?" he inquired.

      The ambassador was indignant.

      "I have never heard one in my life," he answered. "This is quite a modern house."

      Peter dropped his match-box and stooped to pick it up.

      "Any lights on anywhere except in this room?" he asked.

      "Certainly not," Monsieur de Lamborne answered. "It is past three o'clock, and every one has gone to bed."

      Peter rose and softly unbolted the door. The passage outside was in darkness. He listened intently for a moment, and returned yawning.

      "One fancies things," he murmured apologetically.

      "For example?" de Lamborne demanded.

      Peter shook his head.

      "One mistakes," he said. "The nerves become over-sensitive."

      The dawn broke, and the awakening hum of the city grew louder and louder. Peter rose and stretched himself.

      "Your servants are moving about in the house," he remarked. "I think that we might consider our vigil at an end."

      Monsieur de Lamborne rose with alacrity.

      "My friend," he said, "I feel that I have made false pretences to you. With the day I have no fear. A thousand pardons for your sleepless night."

      "My sleepless night counts for nothing," Peter assured him; "but before I go, would it not be as well that we glance together inside the safe?"

      De Lamborne shook out his keys.

      "I was about to suggest it," he replied.

      The ambassador arranged the combination and pressed the lever. Slowly the great door swung back. The two men peered in.

      "Untouched!" de Lamborne exclaimed, a little note of triumph in his tone.

      Peter said nothing, but held out his hand.

      "Permit me," he interposed.

      De Lamborne was conscious of a faint sense of uneasiness. His companion walked across the room and carefully weighed the packet.

      "Well?" de Lamborne cried. "Why do you do that? What is wrong?"

      Peter