“But,” I put in, “my present work? It is important, and if I drop it—”
“We foresaw that objection,” replied the colonel, “and I must tell you that under war regulations we have the right to requisition your services if need be. You have been attached to the Foreign Office. This office also works in conjunction with the Foreign Office, which has been consulted on this question. Of course,” he added, bitingly, “if the risk or danger alarms you—”
I forget what I said but he did not continue.
“Very well,” he proceeded, “consider the matter and return at 4:30 p.m. tomorrow. If you have no valid reasons for not accepting this post we will consider you as in our service and I will tell you further details.” He rang a bell. A young lady appeared and escorted me out, threading her way with what seemed to me marvellous dexterity through the maze of passages.
Burning with curiosity and fascinated already by the mystery of this elevated labyrinth I ventured a query to my young female guide. “What sort of establishment is this?” I said. I detected a twinkle in her eye. She shrugged her shoulders and without replying pressed the button for the elevator. “Good afternoon,” was all she said as I passed in.
Next day another young lady escorted me up and down the narrow stairways and ushered me into the presence of the colonel. I found him in a fair-sized apartment with easy chairs and walls hidden by bookcases. He seemed to take it for granted that I had nothing to say. “I will tell you briefly what we desire,” he said. “Then you may make any comments you wish, and I will take you up to interview—er—the Chief. Briefly, we want you to return to Soviet Russia and to send reports on the situation there. We wish to be accurately informed as to the attitude of every section of the community, the degree of support enjoyed by the Bolshevist Government, the development and modification of its policy, what possibility there may be for an alteration of regime or for a counterrevolution, and what part Germany is playing. As to the means whereby you gain access to the country, under what cover you will live there, and how you will send out reports, we shall leave it to you, being best informed as to conditions, to make suggestions.”
He expounded his views on Russia, asking for my corroboration or correction, and also mentioned the names of a few English people I might come into contact with. “I will see if—er—the Chief is ready,” he said finally, rising; “I will be back in a moment.”
The apartment appeared to be an office but there were no papers on the desk. I rose and stared at the books on the bookshelves. My attention was arrested by an edition of Thackeray’s works in a decorative binding of what looked like green morocco. I used at one time to dabble in bookbinding and am always interested in an artistically bound book. I took down Henry Esmond from the shelf. To my bewilderment the cover did not open, until, passing my finger accidentally along what I thought was the edge of the pages, the front suddenly flew open of itself, disclosing a box! In my astonishment I almost dropped the volume and a sheet of paper slipped out on to the floor. I picked it up hastily and glanced at it. It was headed “Kriegsministerium, Berlin,” had the German Imperial arms imprinted on it, and was covered with minute handwriting in German. I had barely slipped it back into the box and replaced the volume on the shelf when the colonel returned.
“A—the—er—Chief is not in,” he said, “but you may see him tomorrow. You are interested in books?” he added, seeing me looking at the shelves. “I collect them. That is an interesting old volume on Cardinal Richelieu, if you care to look at it. I picked it up in Charing Cross Road for a shilling.” The volume mentioned was immediately above Henry Esmond. I took it down warily, expecting something uncommon to occur, but it was only a musty old volume in French with torn leaves and soiled pages. I pretended to be interested. “There is not much else there worth looking at, I think,” said the colonel, casually. “Well, goodbye. Come in tomorrow.”
I wondered mightily who “the Chief” of this establishment could be and what he would be like. The young lady smiled enigmatically as she showed me to the elevator. I returned again next day after thinking overnight how I should get back to Russia—and deciding on nothing. My mind seemed to be a complete blank on the subject in hand and I was entirely absorbed in the mysteries of the roof-labyrinth.
Again I was shown into the colonel’s sitting-room. My eyes fell instinctively on the bookshelf. The colonel was in a genial mood. “I see you like my collection,” he said. “That, by the way, is a fine edition of Thackeray.” My heart leaped! “It is the most luxurious binding I have ever yet found. Would you not like to look at it?”
I looked at the colonel very hard, but his face was a mask. My immediate conclusion was that he wished to initiate me into the secrets of the department. I rose quickly and took down Henry Esmond, which was in exactly the same place as it had been the day before. To my utter confusion it opened quite naturally and I found in my hands nothing more than an édition de luxe printed on India paper and profusely illustrated! I stared bewildered at the shelf. There was no other Henry Esmond. Immediately over the vacant space stood the life of Cardinal Richelieu as it had stood yesterday. I replaced the volume, and trying not to look disconcerted turned to the colonel. His expression was quite
