forgiven.”
“So I understand, sir,” said Nayland Smith curtly. “But what I do not understand is your attitude in regard to the Si-Fan.”
Delibes seated himself at his desk, assumed a well-known pose, and smiled.
“You are trying to frighten me, eh? Fortunately for France, I am not easily frightened. You are going to tell me that General Quinto, Rudolf Adion, Diesler—oh, quite a number of others—died because they refused to accept the order of this secret society! You are going to say that Monaghani has accepted and this is why Monaghani lives! Pouf! a bogey, my friend! A cloud comes, the sky is darkened, when the end of a great life draws near. So much the Romans knew, and the Greeks before them. And this scum, this red-hand gang, which calls itself Si-Fan, obtains spectacular success by sending these absurd notices . . . But how many have they sent in vain?”
He pulled open a drawer of his desk and tossed three sheets of paper onto the blotting pad. Nayland Smith stepped forward and with no more than a nod of apology picked them up.
“Ah! The final notice!”
“Yes—the final notice!” Delibes had ceased to smile. “To me! Could anything be more impudent?”
“It gives you, I see, until half past eleven tonight.”
“Exactly How droll!”
“Yet, Lord Aylwin has seen you, and Railton was sent by the Foreign Office with the special purpose of impressing upon you the fact that the power of the Si-Fan is real. I see, sir, that you are required to lower and then to raise the lights in this room three times, indicating that you have destroyed an order to Marshal Brieux. That distinguished officer is now in your lobby. I had a few words with him as I came in. As a privileged visitor, may I ask you the exact nature of this order?”
“It is here, signed.” Delibes opened a folder and drew out an official document. “The whole of France, you see, as these signatures testify, stands behind me in this step which I propose to take tonight. You may read it if you please, for it will be common property tomorrow.”
With a courteous inclination of the head he handed the document to Nayland Smith.
Smith’s steely eyes moved mechanically as he glanced down the several paragraphs, and then: “Failing a message from Monaghani before eleven-fifteen,” he said, “this document, I gather, will be handed to Marshal Brieux? It calls all Frenchmen to the Colors. This will be construed as an act of war.”
“Not necessarily sir.” The Minister drew down his heavy brows. “It will be construed as evidence of the unity of France. It will check those who would become the aggressors. At three minutes before midnight, observe, Paris will be plunged into darkness—and we shall test our air defenses under war conditions.”
Smith began to pace up and down the thick Persian carpet.
“You are described in the first notice from the Si-Fan,” he went on, “as one of seven men in the world in a position to plunge Europe into war. It may interest you to know, sir, that the first warning of this kind with which I became acquainted referred to fifteen men. This fact may be significant?”
Delibes shrugged his shoulders.
“In roulette the color red may turn up eighteen times,” he replied. “Why not a coincidence of eight?”
We were interrupted by the entrance of a secretary.
“No vulgar curiosity prompts my inquiry,” said Nayland Smith, as the Minister stared angrily at him. “But you have two photographs in your charming collection of a lady well known to me.
“Indeed, sir?” Delibes stood up. “To which lady do you refer?”
Smith took the two photographs from their place and set them on the desk.
Both were of the woman called Korean!: one was a head and shoulders so fantastically like the bust of Nefertiti as to suggest that this had been one of her earlier incarnations; the other showed her in the revealing dress of a Korean dancer.
Delibes glanced at them and then stared under his brows at Nayland Smith.
“I trust. Sir Denis, that this friendship does not in any way intrude upon our affairs?”
“But certainly not—although I have been acquainted with this lady for some years.”
“I met her during the time she was appearing here. She is not an ordinary cabaret artiste, as you are aware. She belongs to an old Korean family and in performing the temple dances, has made herself an exile from her country…
“Indeed,” Smith murmured. “Would it surprise you to know that she is also one of the most useful servants of the Si-Fan? . . . That she was personally concerned in the death of General Quinto, and in that of Rudolph Adion?— to mention but two! Further, would it surprise you to know that she is the daughter of the president of the Council of Seven?”
Delibes sat down again, still staring at the speaker.
“I do not doubt your word—but are you sure of what you say?”
“Quite sure.”
“Almost, you alarm me.” He smiled again. “She is difficult this Korean!—but most, most attractive. I saw her only last night. Today, for she knows my penchant, she sent me blue carnations.”
“Indeed!
He began looking all about the room.
“Yes, but beautiful—you see them in those three vases.”
“I have counted thirty-five,” snapped Smith.
“The other, I wear.”
Smith sniffed at one cautiously.
“I assume that they came from some florist known to you?”
“But certainly, from Meurice Freres.”
Smith stood directly in front of the desk, staring down at Delibes, then:
“Regardless of your personal predilection, sir,” he said, “I have special knowledge and special facilities. Since the peace of France, perhaps of the world is at stake, may I ask you when these carnations arrived?”
“At some time before I was awake this morning.”
“In one box or in several?”
“To this I cannot reply, but I will make inquiries. Your interests are of an odd nature.”
Nevertheless, I observed that Delibes was struggling to retain his self-assurance. As he bent aside to press a bell, surreptitiously he removed the blue carnation from his buttonhole and dropped it in a wastebasket . . .
Delibes’ valet appeared: his name was Marbeuf.
“These blue carnations,” said Nayland Smith, “you received them from the florist this morning?”
“Yes sir.”
Marbeuf’s manner was one of masked alarm.
“In one box or in a number of boxes?”
“In a number, sir.”
“Have those boxes been destroyed?”
“I believe not, sir.”
Smith turned to Delibes.
“I have a small inquiry to make,” he said, “but I beg that you will spare me a few minutes when I return.”
“As you wish, sir. You bring strange news, but my purpose remains undisturbed . . .”
We descended with the valet to the domestic quarters of the house. The lobby buzzed with officials; there was an atmosphere of pent-up excitement, but we slipped through unnoticed. I was studying Marbeuf, a blond, clean-shaven fellow with the bland hypocrisy which distinguishes some confidential man-servants.
“There are four boxes here,” said Smith rapidly and stared at Marbeuf. “You say you received them this morning?”
“Yes sir.”
“Here, in this room?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I placed them on that table, sir, for such presents frequently arrive for Monsieur. Then I sent Jacqueline for vases, and I opened the boxes.”
