“Compromises!” she repeated. “Do you believe, then, that we are like those ancient races who felt the presence of a conqueror because their hosts were scattered in battle, and who suffered themselves passively to be led into captivity? My country can be conquered in one way, and one way only,—not until her sons, ay, and her daughters too, have perished, can these people rule. They will come to an empty and a stricken country—a country red with blood, desolate, with blackened houses and empty cities. The horror of it! Think, my friend David, the horror of it!” 

 Bellamy threw his head back with a sudden gesture of impatience. 

 “You take too much for granted,” he declared. “England, at any rate, is not yet a conquered race. And there is France—Italy, too, if she is wise, will never suffer this thing from her ancient enemy.” 

 “It is the might of the world which threatens,” she murmured. “Your country may defend herself, but here she is powerless. Already it has been proved. Last year you declared yourself our friend—you and even Russia. Of what avail was it? Word came from Berlin and you were powerless.” 

 Then tragedy broke into the room, tragedy in the shape of a man demented. For fifteen years Bellamy had known Arthur Dorward, but this man was surely a stranger! He was hatless, dishevelled, wild. A dull streak of color had mounted almost to his forehead, his eyes were on fire. 

 “Bellamy!” he cried. “Bellamy!” 

 Words failed him suddenly. He leaned against the table, breathless, panting heavily. 

 “For God’s sake, man,” Bellamy began,— 

 “Alone!” Dorward interrupted. “I must see you alone! I have news!” 

 Mademoiselle Idiale rose. She touched Bellamy on the shoulder. 

 “You will come to me, or telephone,” she whispered. “So?” 

 Bellamy opened the door and she passed out, with a farewell pressure of his fingers. Then he closed it firmly and came back. 

 

CHAPTER II ARTHUR DORWARD’S “SCOOP”

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