the carpet. Inside rested a thin leather bound book, its engraved cover cracked with age.
He sank into an overstuffed chair, adjusted his spectacles and began reading. It was a ritual, performed at varied intervals over the years. His eyes no longer saw the words on the pages; he had memorized them long ago.
He was still sitting there when the sun was gone and the shadows had stretched and melted into blackness. He clutched the book to his breast, his soul agonized by dread, his mind torn by indecision.
The past had caught up with a lonely old man in a darkened room.
Lieutenant Ewen Burton-Angus slipped his car into a parking stall at the Glen Echo Racquet Club, hoisted his tote bag from the passenger seat and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He hurried past the empty swimming pool and snow-coated tennis courts toward the warmth of the clubhouse.
He found the club manager seated at a table beneath a glass case stacked with rows of trophies. 'Can I help you?' asked the manager.
'Yes, my name's Burton-Angus. I'm a guest of Henry Argus.'
The manager scrutinized a clipboard. 'Right, Lieutenant Burton-Angus. Sorry, sir, but Mr. Argus called and said he couldn't make it. He told me to tell you he tried to catch you at the embassy, but you'd already left.'
'A pity,' said Burton-Angus. 'As long as I'm here, do you have a racquetball court available where I can practice?'
'I had to reshuffle the reservations when Mr. Argus canceled. However, there is another gentleman who is playing alone. Perhaps you can pair up.'
'Where can I find him?'
'He's seated in the bar. His court won't be free for another half hour. His name is Jack Murphy.'
Burton- Angus found Murphy nursing a drink by a picture window overlooking the Chesapeake Canal. He introduced himself. 'Do you mind awfully having an opponent?'
'Not at all,' said Murphy with an infectious smile. 'Beats playing alone, providing you don't smear the court with me.'
'Small chance of that.'
'You play much racquetball?'
'Actually, squash is more my game.'
'I'd guess that from your British accent.' Murphy gestured to a chair. 'Have a drink. Plenty of time before our court is free.'
Burton- Angus welcomed the opportunity to relax and ordered a gin. 'Beautiful countryside. The canal reminds me of one that runs near my home in Devon.'
'Travels through Georgetown and into the Potomac River,' Murphy said in his best tour-guide fashion. 'When the water freezes in winter the local residents use it for skating and ice fishing.'
'Do you work in Washington?' asked Burton-Angus.
'Yes, I'm the Senate historian. And you?'
'Aide to the naval attachd for the British embassy.'
A detached expression crossed Murphy's face and it seemed to Burton-Angus that the American was staring right through him.
'Is something wrong?'
Murphy shook his head. 'No, not at all. You being navy and British reminded me of a woman, a commander in the U.S. Navy who came to me searching for data concerning a treaty between our two countries.'
'No doubt a trade treaty.'
'I can't say. The strange part is that except for an old photograph, there is no record of it in Senate archives.'
'A photograph?'
'Yes, with a notation about a North American Treaty.'
'I'd be happy to have someone probe the embassy files for you.'
'Please don't bother. It's not that important.'
'No bother at all,' insisted Burton-Angus. 'Do you have a date?'
'On or about May twentieth, nineteen fourteen.'
'Ancient history.'
'Probably only a proposed treaty that was rejected.'
'Nonetheless, I'll have a look,' said Burton-Angus as his drink arrived. He held up the glass. 'Cheers.'
Sitting at his desk in the British embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, Alexander Moffat looked and acted like the archetype of a government official. With his hair trimmed short with an immaculately creased left-hand part, a ramrod spine and precise correctness in speech and mannerism, he and thousands of counterparts throughout the foreign service could have been stamped from the same cookie cutter. His desk was barren of all clutter; the only objects resting on its polished surface were his folded hands.
'I'm dreadfully sorry, Lieutenant, but I find nothing in the records department mentioning an Anglo-American treaty in early nineteen fourteen.'
'Most peculiar,' said Burton-Angus. 'The American chap who gave me the information seemed reasonably certain such a treaty either existed or at least had been in the talk stage.'
'Probably has his year wrong.'
'I don't think so. He's the Senate historian. Not the type to muck up his facts and dates.'
'Do you wish to pursue the matter?' asked Moffat in an official tone.
Burton- Angus clasped his hands thoughtfully. 'Might be worth a check with the Foreign Office in London to clear the fog.
Moffat shrugged indifferently. 'A vague clue to an unlikely event three-quarters of a century ago would hardly have a significant bearing on the present.'
'Perhaps not. Still, I promised the fellow I'd see what I could find. Shall I make a formal request for an inquiry, in writing?'
'Not necessary. I'll phone an old school chum who heads up the signals department and ask him to have a run at the old records. He owes me a favor. Should have an answer this time tomorrow. Don't be disappointed if he fails to turn up anything.'
'I won't,' said Burton-Angus. 'On the other hand, you never can tell what might be buried in Foreign Service archives.'
Peter Beaseley knew more about the Foreign Office than any other man in London. As chief librarian in charge of records for over thirty years, he considered the entire history of British international affairs his private domain. He made a specialty of ferreting out policy blunders and scandalous intrigues, by diplomats past and present, that had been swept under the carpet of secrecy.
Beaseley ran a hand through a few strands of white hair and reached for one of several pipes littering a large circular tray. He sniffed at the official-looking paper on his desk as a cat might sniff at an uninviting meal.
'North American Treaty,' he said aloud to the empty room. 'Never heard of it.'
In the minds of his staff it would have been a pronouncement from God. If Peter Beaseley had never heard of a treaty, it obviously did not exist.
He tit the pipe and idly watched the smoke. The year 1914 signaled the end of vintage diplomacy, he mused. After World War I the aristocratic elegance of international negotiation was replaced by mechanical maneuvers. It had become a shallow world indeed.
His secretary knocked and poked her head around the door. 'Mr. Beaseley.'
He looked up without really seeing her. 'Yes, Miss Gosset.'
'I'm going to lunch now.'
'Lunch?' He took his watch from a vest pocket and gazed at it. 'Oh yes, I'd lost all track of time. Where are you going to eat? Do you have a date?'
The two unexpected questions in sudden succession caught Miss Gosset by surprise. 'Why, no, I'm eating quite alone. I thought I would try that new Indian restaurant on Glendower Place.'
'Good, that settles it,' Beaseley grandly announced. 'You're lunching with me.'
The invitation was a rare honor and Miss Gosset was surprised.
Beaseley caught her blank expression and smiled. 'I have an ulterior motive, Miss Gosset. You may consider it
