



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Whoso Findeth a Wife, by William Le Queux.

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WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

A STATE SECRET.

"_Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the
Lord_."--Proverbs xviii, 22.

"Have those urgent dispatches come in from Berlin, Deedes?"

"Captain Hammerton has not yet arrived," I answered.

"Eleven o'clock!  Tut, tut!  Every moment's delay means greater risk,"
and the Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, strode up and down his private room, with his hat still
on, impatiently snapping his bony fingers in agitation quite unusual to
him.

"Hammerton wired from Berlin yesterday, when on the point of leaving," I
observed, taking a telegram from the table before me.

"In cipher?"

"Yes."

"No accident is reported in the papers, I suppose?"

"Nothing in the _Times_," I replied.

"Strange, very strange, that he should be so long overdue," the Earl
said, at last casting himself into his padded chair, and lounging back,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully into
space.

I resumed my writing, puzzled at the cause of the chief's excited
demeanour, but a few moments later sharp footsteps sounded outside in
the corridor, followed by a loud rapping, and there entered the
messenger, clad in his heavy fur-lined travelling coat, although a July
morning, and carrying a well-worn leather dispatch-box, which he placed
upon my table.

"Late, Hammerton.  Very late," snapped the Earl, glancing at his watch.

"There's a dense fog in the Channel, your Lordship, and we were
compelled to come across dead slow the whole distance.  I've driven
straight from the station," the Captain answered good-humouredly,
looking so spruce and well-groomed that few would credit he had been
travelling for nearly twenty-four hours.

"Go and rest.  You must return to-night," his Lordship said testily.

"At seven-thirty?"

"Yes, at my house in Berkeley Square."

Then, taking up the receipt I had signed for the dispatch-box, the
messenger, to whom a journey to Constantinople or St Petersburg was
about as fatiguing as a ride on the Underground Railway is to ordinary
persons, walked jauntily out, wishing us both good-day.

When the door had closed, Lord Warnham quickly opened the outer case
with his key, and drew forth a second box, covered with red morocco, and
securely sealed.  This he also opened, and, after rummaging for some
moments among a quantity of papers, exclaimed, in a tone of
satisfaction,--

"Ah!  Here it is.  Good!  Seals not tampered with."

Withdrawing from the box a large official envelope, doubly secured with
the seal of the British Embassy at Berlin, and endorsed by Sir Philip
Emden, our Ambassador, he walked hastily to one of the long windows
overlooking the paved courtyard of the Foreign Office, and for some
moments closely scrutinised both seals and signature.

"Did you fear that the papers might have been examined in transit?"  I
inquired of my grave-faced chief in surprise.

"No, Deedes, no.  Not at all," he answered, returning to his table,
cutting open the envelope, and giving a rapid glance at its contents to
assure himself that it was the same document he had sent to the German
capital a week before.  "Hammerton is trustworthy, and while dispatches
are in his care I have no fear.  The only apprehension I had was that an
attempt might possibly have been made to ascertain the nature of this
treaty," the great statesman added, indicating the document beneath his
hand.

"The result would be detrimental?"  I hazarded.

"Detrimental!" he cried.  "If the clauses of this secret defensive
alliance became known to our enemies war would be inevitable.  Russia
and France would combine, and the whole of the Powers would become
embroiled within a week.  Exposure of these secret negotiations would be
absolutely disastrous.  It would, I verily believe, mean irretrievable
ruin to England's prestige and perhaps to her power."

He uttered the ominous words slowly and distinctly, then carefully
refolding the precious document, with its string of sprawly signatures,
he placed it in another envelope, sealing it with his own private seal.

The great statesman, the greatest Foreign Minister of his time, upon
whose tact, judgment and forethought the peace and prosperity of England
mainly depended, was tall and thin, with scanty, white hair, a pale,
refined face, slightly wizened by age, deep-sunken, steely eyes, shaggy
brows, a sharp, straight nose, and a breadth of forehead indicating
indomitable perseverance and an iron will.  His reputation as brilliant
orator and shrewd and skilful diplomat was a household word throughout
the civilised world, whilst in our own land confidence always increased
when he was at the head of Foreign Affairs.  As his confidential private
secretary, I, Geoffrey Deedes, had daily opportunities of observing how
conscientiously he served his Sovereign and his country, and how amazing
was his capacity for work.  With him, duty was always of paramount
consideration; he worked night and day to sustain England's honour and
welfare, for times without number I had gone to his great gloomy house
in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night and roused him from his
bed to attend to urgent dispatches.

Although a perfect martinet towards many in the various departments of
the Foreign Office, he was to me always kind and generous.  My father,
Sir Reginald Deedes, had, as many will doubtless remember, represented
Her Majesty at the Netherlands Court for fifteen years until his death.
He was thus an old friend of the Earl, and it was this friendship that
caused him to appoint me five years ago his private secretary, and, much
to the chagrin of young Lord Gaysford, the Under Secretary, repose such
implicit confidence in me that very frequently he entrusted to my care
the keys of the ponderous safe wherein were deposited the State secrets
of the nation.

"You'd better register this, and we'll lock it away from prying eyes at
once," Lord Warnham said a few moments later, handing me the envelope
after he had sealed it.  Taking it, I went straight to my own room
across the corridor at the head of the fine central staircase.  It was
part of my duty to receive the more important dispatches, number those
which were sealed, and prior to depositing them in the safe, register
the number in my book, stating the source whence they came, the date
received, and the name of the messenger who brought them.

Alone in my room, I closed the door, took the register from my own small
safe, numbered the precious envelope with the designation "B27,893," and
carefully made an entry in the book.  Having finished, a clerk brought
me two letters from other Departments, both of which needed immediate
replies, therefore I sat down and scribbled them while he waited.  Then,
having been absent from the Chief's room nearly a quarter of an hour, I
went back with the dispatch in my hand.  In the room I found Lord
Gaysford, who, in reply to my question, stated that the Earl had been
compelled to leave in order to attend a meeting of the Cabinet, which he
believed would be a protracted one.

To me this was provoking, for the great statesman had taken with him the
key of the safe; thus was I left with this important document in my
possession.  But I said nothing of the matter to the Under Secretary,
and returning to my room placed the dispatch in my inner pocket for
greater security, determined to keep it there until his Lordship
returned.  I feared to lock it away in my own safe lest anyone else
might possess a key, and felt that in the circumstances my own pocket
was the safest place.

For nearly two hours I continued my work, it being Friday, an unusually
busy day, until, just as the clock at the Horse Guards chimed one
o'clock, a clerk entered with the card of Dudley Ogle, my college chum,
with whom I was now sharing, during the summer months, a cottage close
to the Thames at Shepperton.  On the card was the pencilled query, "Can
you come and lunch with me?"

For a few moments I hesitated.  I was busy, and I was compelled to
deliver the dispatch in my pocket to Lord Warnham before he left for
home.  I knew, however, that the meeting of the Cabinet must be a long
one, and recognising the fact that I must lunch somewhere, I gave the
clerk a message that I would join Mr Ogle in the waiting-room in a few
moments.  Then, locking my safe, I assured myself that the dispatch was
still in my pocket, brushed my hat, and joined my friend.

Dudley Ogle was the best of good fellows.  After a rather wild college
career, it had been his fancy to roam for about two years on the
Continent, and on his return, his father, with whom he was not on the
best of terms, conveniently died, leaving him possessor of about twenty
thousand pounds.  By this time he had, however, sown his wild oats, and
instead of spending his money as most young men of his age would have
done, he invested it, and now lived a careless, indolent existence,
travelling where he pleased, and getting as much enjoyment out of life
as was possible.  He was about my own age--twenty-eight, well set-up,
smart-looking, with rather aquiline features, dark hair, and a pair of
merry eyes that were an index to a contented mind.

"Didn't expect me, I suppose, old fellow?" he exclaimed breezily, when
we met.  "I found after you'd left this morning that I was compelled to
come up to town, and having nothing to do for an hour or so, it occurred
to me that we might lunch together."

"I thought you intended to pull up as far as `The Nook,'" I said,
laughing.

"So I did, but I received a wire calling me to town on some rather
urgent business.  Where shall we lunch?"

In descending the stairs and turning into Downing Street we discussed
the merits of various restaurants, and finally decided upon a small,
old-fashioned, unpretentious, but well-known place a few doors from
Charing Cross, in the direction of Whitehall, known as "The Ship."  Here
we ate our meal, spent an hour together, and then parted, he leaving to
return to Shepperton, I to finish my work