th his
friends. His wife was giving her third reception of the session to the
diplomatic world.

"Washington has certainly shown signs of mistrust lately," he remarked,
"but if communications from them are ever tampered with, it is
more likely to be on their side than ours. They have a particularly
unscrupulous Press to deal with, besides political intriguers. If this
person you speak of is really the bearer of a letter from there," he
added, "I think we can both guess what it is about."

The secretary nodded.

"Shall I ring up Mr. Haviland, sir?" he asked.

"Not yet," Bransome answered. "It is just possible that this person
requires an immediate reply, in which case it may be convenient for me
not to be able to get at the Prime Minister. Bring him along into my
private room, Sidney."

Sir Edward Bransome made his way to his study, opened the door with
a Yale key, turned on the electric lights, and crossed slowly to the
hearthrug. He stood there, for several moments, with his elbow upon
the mantelpiece, looking down into the fire. A darker shadow had
stolen across his face as soon as he was alone. In his court dress and
brilliant array of orders, he was certainly a very distinguished-looking
figure. Yet the last few years had branded lines into his face which it
was doubtful if he would ever lose. To be Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs to the greatest power which the world had as yet known must
certainly seem, on paper, to be as brilliant a post as a man's ambition
could covet. Many years ago it had seemed so to Bransome himself. It was
a post which he had deliberately coveted, worked for, and strived for.
And now, when in sight of the end, with two years of office only to run,
he was appalled at the ever-growing responsibilities thrust upon his
shoulders. There was never, perhaps, a time when, on paper, things
had seemed smoother, when the distant mutterings of disaster were less
audible. It was only those who were behind the curtain who realized how
deceptive appearances were.

In a few minutes his secretary reappeared, ushering in Mr. James B.
Coulson. Mr. Coulson was still a little pale from the effects of his
crossing, and he wore a long, thick ulster to conceal the deficiencies
of his attire. Nevertheless his usual breeziness of manner had not
altogether deserted him. Sir Edward looked him up and down, and
finding him look exactly as Mr. James B. Coulson of the Coulson & Bruce
Syndicate should look,