door he walked west. At Regent
Street he stopped to buy an evening paper from the aged news-vender at
the corner; he then crossed Piccadilly Circus into Coventry Street,
skirted Leicester Square, and at the end of Green Street entered
Pavoni's Italian restaurant. There he took his seat always at the same
table, hung his hat always on the same brass peg, ordered the same
Hungarian wine, and read the same evening paper. He spoke to no one;
no one spoke to him.

When he had finished his coffee and his cigarette he returned to his
lodgings, and there he remained until he rang for breakfast. From the
time at which he left his home until his return to it he spoke to only
two persons--the news-vender to whom he handed a halfpenny; the waiter
who served him the regular table d'hote dinner--between whom and Hertz
nothing passed but three and six for the dinner and sixpence for the
waiter himself.

Each evening, the moment he moved into the street a plain-clothes man
fell into step beside him; another followed at his heels; and from
across the street more plain-clothes men kept their eyes on every one
approaching him in front or from the rear. When he bought his evening
paper six pairs of eyes watched him place a halfpenny in the hand of
the news-vender, and during the entire time of his stay in Pavoni's
every mouthful he ate was noted--every direction he gave the waiter was
overheard.

Of this surveillance Hertz was well aware. To have been ignorant of it
would have argued him blind and imbecile. But he showed no resentment.
With eyes grave and untroubled, he steadily regarded his escort; but
not by the hastening of a footstep or the acceleration of a gesture did
he admit that by his audience he was either distressed or embarrassed.
That was the situation on the morning when the Treaty of London was to
be signed and sealed.

In spite of the publicity given to the conference by the Times,
however, what the terms of the treaty might be no one knew. If
Adrianople were surrendered; if Salonika were given to Greece; if
Servia obtained a right-of-way to the Adriatic--peace was assured; but,
should the Young Turks refuse--should Austria prove obstinate--not only
would the war continue, but the Powers would be involved, and that
greater, more awful war--the war dreaded by all the Christian
world--might turn Europe into a slaughter-house.

Would Turkey and Austria consent and peace ensue? Would they refuse and
war follow?