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The night-porter shuffled off. Lieutenant Lapenotiere, erect and sombre, cast a look around the apartment, into which he had never before been admitted. The candles lit up a large painting–a queer bird’s-eye view of Venice. Other pictures, dark and bituminous, decorated the panelled walls–portraits of dead admirals, a sea-piece or two, some charts. . . . This was all he discerned out in the dim light; and in fact he scanned the walls, the furniture of the room, inattentively. His stomach was fasting, his head light with rapid travel; above all, he had a sense of wonder that all this should be happening to him. For, albeit a distinguished officer, he was a modest man, and by habit considered himself of no great importance; albeit a brave man, too, he shrank at the thought of the message he carried–a message to explode and shake millions of men in a confusion of wild joy or grief.

For about the tenth time in those sixteen days it seemed to burst and escape in an actual detonation, splitting his head–there, as he waited in the strange room where never a curtain stirred. . . . It was a trick his brain played him, repeating, echoing the awful explosion of the French seventy-four Achille, which had blown up towards the close of the battle. When the ship was ablaze and sinking, his own crew had put off in boats to rescue the Frenchmen, at close risk of their own lives, for her loaded guns, as they grew red-hot, went off at random among rescuers and rescued. . . .

As had happened before when he felt this queer shock, his mind travelled back and he seemed to hear the series of discharges running up at short intervals to the great catastrophe. . . . To divert his thoughts, he turned to study the view of Venice above the chimney-piece . . . and on a sudden faced about again.

He had a sensation that someone was in the room–someone standing close behind him.

But no. . . . For the briefest instant his eyes rested on an indistinct shadow–his own perhaps, cast by the candle-light? Yet why should it lie lengthwise there, shaped like a coffin, on the dark polished table that occupied the middle of the room?

The answer was that it did not. Before he could rub his eyes it had gone. Moreover, he had turned to recognise a living being . . . and no living person was in the room, unless by chance (absurd supposition) one were hidden behind the dark red window curtains.

“Recognise” may seem a strange word to use; but here had lain the strangeness of the sensation–that the someone standing there was a friend, waiting to be greeted. It was with eagerness and a curious warmth of the heart that Lieutenant Lapenotiere had faced about–upon nothing.

He continued to stare in a puzzled way at the window curtains, when a voice by the door said:

“Good evening!–or perhaps, to be correct, good morning! You are Mr.–“

“Lapenotiere,” answered the Lieutenant, who had turned sharply. The voice–a gentleman’s and pleasantly modulated–was not one he knew; nor did he recognise the speaker–a youngish, shrewd-looking man, dressed in civilian black, with knee-breeches. “Lapenotiere–of the Pickle schooner.”

“Yes, yes–the porter bungled your name badly, but I guessed. Lord Barham will see you personally. He is, in fact, dressing with all haste at this moment. . . . I am his private secretary,” explained the shrewd-looking gentleman in his quiet, business-like voice. “Will you come with me upstairs?”

Lieutenant Lapenotiere followed him. At the foot of the great staircase the Secretary turned.

“I may take it, sir, that we are not lightly disturbing his Lordship–who is an old man.”

“The news is of great moment, sir. Greater could scarcely be.”

The Secretary bent his head. As they went up the staircase Lieutenant Lapenotiere looked back and caught sight of the night-porter in the middle of the hall, planted there and gazing up, following their ascent.