"You are Mr. Roger Brook, are you not?"
"I am, sir," Roger replied. "And I judge from your voice that you are a fellow countryman."
The other bowed. "My name is Miles, sir. William Augustus Miles, at your service. Mayhap the master whom we both have the honour to serve has mentioned me to you."
Fearing a trap, Roger answered with a shake of his head: "I fear, sir, you have mistaken me for another. I am a travelling journalist and owe no allegience to any particular master."
Mr. Miles nodded sagely. "You are right in exercising caution, but you have no need to do so with myself. I bear a message to you from Lord Robert Fitz-Gerald."
Roger's eyes narrowed. "Indeed, sir?"
"Yes. His lordship is much perturbed by your presence and activities in Paris. At the Sunday reception of the Diplomatic Corps the Queen had a word aside with him about your visit to her. His lordship's view is that such an unorthodox approach to the Royal Family is calculated to do the gravest harm. Moreover you have no business to be in Paris at all. I was sent here to replace you. I am instructed to bid you return to England forthwith."
To Roger, his successor's words were a body-blow. He could attach no blame to the Queen for having mentioned the audience she had given him to Lord Robert, as in showing her Mr. Pitt's Letter of Marque he had posed as an official representative of his country. He had let himself in for serious trouble, there was no doubt of that. After a moment he said in a low voice:
"Kindly convey my respects to his lordship, sir, and inform him that I shall be leaving for England shortly." Then he bowed and returned to his table.
Next day he felt more perturbed than ever by the episode. He was not responsible to Lord Robert for his acts, or under the orders of the Embassy. But it was certain now that his unsuccessful attempt to influence the Queen would be reported, and if he ignored the message he had received from Miles to return to England at once, since it came from an official source, that would gravely aggravate his offence. On further consideration he decided that his conduct would in any case determine Mr. Pitt to dispense with his services once and for all, so he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and stay on a few days longer in Paris.
But when he went to the Jacobin Club that Tuesday evening his heart was heavy as lead. He knew that short of two miracles his career as a secret agent was ended, and that next day he must make arrangements to take Isabella to England.
The very first person he ran into on entering the Club was William Augustus Miles, who greeted him with a lift of the eyebrows and said:
"After conveying Lord Robert's message to you last night, sir, I am much surprised to see you here."
"I have private business in Paris which still requires my attention,' replied Roger coldly. "So I shall leave when I see fit, sir; and not before."
"Oh, come!" protested Mr. Miles. "By ignoring his lordship's order you will only make worse the difficult situation in which you have placed yourself. On Thursday morning I am returning to England myself, to make a personal report on the situation to you-know-who. Why not come with me?"
As Roger did not immediately reply, he added patronizingly: "He has a very high opinion of my judgment; and if you return under my wing, I will do what I can to mitigate the displeasure with which 'tis certain he will receive you."
Roger shook his head. "I thank you, sir, for the offer of your good offices. But I will account for my actions to him who gave me my orders alone, and in my own good time."
On leaving Mr. Miles Roger sought out Barnave, and put to him the project for which he had been endeavouring to lay the ground-work during the past few nights. He knew that if only he were given the chance to speak upon the Spanish question, he could do so with fluency and point. He had a number of things to say that had not yet been said, which he felt might strongly appeal to the deputies of the Extreme Left, and bring over to them some of their less radical colleagues in their struggle to put a check on the power of the King to declare war.
The good-looking young lawyer listened to his proposal with interest but vetoed it. "Mon ami," he said. "It is true in theory that anyone who has been accepted as a member here has the right to address the meeting; but in practice they have to get themselves a hearing. I know you as an English journalist of sound Liberal opinions, but that is not enough. You have made no contribution towards the Revolution either by writings published in France or by deeds. Your countrymen were most popular here as speakers up to a month or so ago; but now, the very fact that you are an Englishman would damn you from the start. You would be howled down for a certainty. It might even be thought that you were a spy of Mr. Pitt's, who was endeavouring to influence us against our true interests, and you would then find yourself in grave danger of a lynching. Since you have no qualifications as a true Revolutionary, what you suggest is absolutely out of the question."
With his last hope gone, Roger had to sit there listening to Mirabeau arguing in sonorous, well-reasoned phrases that popular assemblies were subject to the same passions as Kings, and not subject to any responsibility as were Ministers; that if one country was preparing fast for war it was madness for another, against whom those preparations were aimed, to waste weeks while hundreds of its citizens of all shades of opinion argued whether counter-preparations were to be made or not; that for a country that was attacked, either itself or through its allies, to await the word of the representatives of the whole nation before drawing the sword in its own defence, was suicidal; and that in consequence it was sheer lunacy to suggest that such powers should not remain vested in the King.
At a little before noon next day Roger was hurrying towards the Spanish Embassy. A sullen, muttering crowd of some two hundred people was gathered in the street in front of it, but he pushed his way through them and ignored the insults they shouted after him as, seeing him run up the steps of its porch, they took him for a Spaniard.
When the door was answered by a footman, he asked gruffly if Don Diego was in. On the man replying that he was not, Roger thrust the astonished servant aside, dashed up the stairs and burst into the salon.
Georgina and the Condesa Fernanunez were sitting there. Both of them started up from their chairs at his precipitate entrance, and stared at him with startled eyes.
He was white as a sheet, breathless and trembling. After standing rigid for a moment he gasped out:
"Where is he? Where is Don Diego? I must see him at once!"
"You know?" Georgina's voice came in a hoarse whisper. "You have heard?"
He nodded. "Where is he? I tell you I must see himl Don't dare to hide him from me. I want the truth."
"He is not here," she faltered. "He has gone out. We expect him back at any moment. But Roger; I beg you control yourself. It was no-fault of his. 'Twas the mob ..."
With a set face he strode past her, through the french windows-and out on to the balcony. As he appeared he was greeted with catcalls, hisses and insults from the crowd below.
Georgina ran after him and clutched his arm from behind. "Roger, Roger! Are you gone crazy to act like this? 'Tis terrible, I know. Wha could guess that such an awful thing would happen; even with Paris in the state it is. But Diego is as innocent in this as myself. I implore - you to come in and let me do what I can to calm your distraught mind."
Without a word in reply he tore his arm from her grasp. He had suddenly seen Don Diego coming up the street and just entering the fringe of the crowd
He waited for another minute, then, leaning over the ironwork of the balcony, he thrust out his arm. Pointing it at the Spaniard, he cried at the top of his voice: