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“How provoking!” said the Captain, as he bit his lip. “They will be so impatient in England,” muttered he to himself, “and I know Sidney Herbert is sure to blame me.” Then he added aloud, “I am at a dead-lock here. I have come from the Crimea with despatches, and expected to find money here to carry me on to England; and these stupid people at the War Office have forgotten all about it. Is it not enough to provoke a saint?”

“I don’t know; I never was a saint,” said the impassive attache.

“Well, it’s trying to a sinner,” said F., with a slight laugh; for he was one of those happy-natured dogs who are not indifferent to the absurd side of even their own mishaps. “How long does the post take to England?”

“Three days.”

“And three back–that makes six; a week–an entire week.”

“Omitting Sunday,” said the grave attache, who really felt an interest in the other’s dilemma.

“All I can say is, it was no fault of mine,” cried F., after a moment. “If I am detained here through their negligence, they must make the best excuse they can. Have you got a cigar?” This was said with his eyes fixed on a roll of Cubans on the table.

“Take one,” said the other.

“Thanks,” said F., as he selected three. “I’ll drop in to-morrow, and hope to have better luck.”

“How much money do you want?” asked Mr L.

“Enough to carry me to London.”

“How much is that?”

“Let me see. Strasbourg–Paris, a day at Paris; Cowley might detain me two days: fifteen or twenty pounds would do it amply.”

“You shall have it.”

“All right,” said F., who walked to the fire, and, lighting his cigar, smoked away; while the other took some notes from a table-drawer and counted them.

“Shall I give you a formal receipt for this?” asked F.

“You can tell them at the Office,” said L., as he dipped his pen into the ink and continued the work he had been previously engaged in. F. said a few civil words–the offhand gratitude of a man who was fully as much in the habit of bestowing as of receiving favours, and withdrew. L. scarcely noticed his departure; he was deep in his despatch, and wrote on. At length he came to the happy landing-place, that spot of rest for the weary foot–“I have the honour to be, my Lord,” and he arose and stood at the fire.

As L. smoked his cigar he reflected, and as he reflected he remembered; and, to refresh his memory, he took out some papers from a pigeon-hole, and at last finding what he sought, sat down to read it. The document was a despatch, dated a couple of years back, instructing H.M.’s representative at the Court of Munich to secure the person of a certain N. F., and hold him in durance till application should be made to the Bavarian Government for his extradition and conveyance to England. Then followed a very accurate description of the individual–his height, age, general looks, voice, and manner–every detail of which L. now saw closely tallied with the appearance of his late visitor.

He pondered for a while over the paper, and then looked at his watch. It was five o’clock! The first train to Augsburg was to start at six. There was little time, consequently, to take the steps necessary to arrest a person on suspicion; for he should first of all have to communicate with the Minister for Foreign Affairs, who should afterwards back his application to the Prefect of Police. The case was one for detail, and for what the Germans insist upon, much writing–and there was very little time to do it in. L., however, was not one to be easily defeated.

If baffled in one road, he usually found out another. He therefore wrote a brief note to the Minister, stating that he might require his assistance at a later hour of the evening, and at a time not usually official. This done, he despatched another note to Captain E. F., saying familiarly it was scarcely worth while trying to catch the mail-train that night, and that perhaps instead he would come over and take a tete-a-tete dinner with him at the Legation.