It was a few minutes after one o'clock—the busiest hour of the day at the most popular bar in London. The usual little throng of Americans, journalists, men of business and loiterers, were occupying their accustomed chairs in one corner of the long, green-carpeted room. Around the bar, would-be customers were crowded three or four deep—many of them stalwart Canadians in khaki, making the most of their three days' leave, and a thin sprinkling of men about town on their way to lunch in the grill-room adjoining. On the outskirts of the group was a somewhat incongruous figure, a rather under-sized, ill-dressed, bespectacled little man, neither young nor old, colourless, with a stoop which was almost a deformity. His fingers were stained to the tip of his nails as though by chemicals or tobacco juice. He held the glass of vermouth which he had just succeeded in obtaining from the bar, half-way suspended to his lips. He was listening to the conversation around him.

'The most blackguardly trick that has ever been known in civilized warfare!' a Canadian officer declared indignantly.

'It's put the lid on all pretence of conducting this war decently,' another assented. 'What about the Hague Convention?'

'The Hague Convention!' a young journalist from the other side repeated sarcastically. 'I should like to know when Germany has ever shown the slightest regard for the Hague Convention or any other agreement which didn't happen to suit her!'

The little man on the outskirts of the group, who had been listening eagerly to the conversation, ventured upon a question. His accent at once betrayed his transatlantic origin.

'Say, is there anything fresh this morning?' he inquired. 'I haven't seen the papers yet.'

The Canadian glanced down at the speaker.

'We were talking,' he said, 'about the use of poisonous gases by the Germans. They started pumping them at us yesterday and pretty nearly cleared us out of Ypres.'

The effect of this statement upon the little man was, in its way, extraordinary. For a moment he stood with his mouth open, the glass shaking between his fingers, a queer, set expression in his pale face. Then his lips parted and he began to laugh. It was a mirth so obviously ill-timed, so absolutely unaccountable, that they all turned and stared at him. There was no doubt whatever that for some reason or other the news which he had just heard had excited this strange little person almost hysterically. His lips grew further apart, the whole of his face was puckered up in little creases. Then, just as suddenly as his extraordinary impulse towards mirth had come, it seemed to pass away. He drained his glass, set it down on the edge of the counter, and, turning around, walked slowly out of the place. The remarks that followed him were not altogether inaudible and they were distinctly uncomplimentary.

'All I could do to keep my toe off the little devil!' the Canadian exclaimed angrily. 'I'd like to take him back with me out into the trenches for a few days!'

A young man who had been talking to an English officer on the outskirts of the group, turned around. He was a tall, well-set-up young man, with a face rather grave for his years and a mouth a little over-firm. He, too, had watched the exit of the stranger half in indignation, half in contempt.

'Who was that extraordinary little man?' he inquired.

No one seemed to know. The waiter paused with a tray full of glasses.

'He's staying in the hotel—arrived yesterday from America, sir,' he announced. 'I don't know his name, but I think he's a little queer in his head.'

The young man set down his glass upon the counter.

'A person,' he remarked, 'who can laugh at such a ghastly thing, must be either very queer in his head indeed, or——'

'Or what, Ambrose?' his companion asked.

'I don't know,' the other replied thoughtfully. 'Well, au revoir, you fellows! I'm going in to lunch. Sure you won't come with me, Reggie?'

'Sorry, I have to be back in ten minutes,' the other replied. 'See you to-morrow.'

Ambrose Lavendale strolled out of the room, crossed the smoke-room and descended into the restaurant. At a table in a remote corner, seated by himself, the little man who had been guilty of such a breach of good-feeling was studying the menu with a waiter by his side. Lavendale watched him for a moment curiously. Then he turned to speak to one of the maîtres d'hôtel, a short, dark man with a closely-cropped black moustache.

'I shan't want my usual table this morning, Jules,' he announced. 'I am going to sit in that corner.'

He indicated a vacant table close to the little man whom he had been watching. The maîtres d'hôtel bowed and ushered him towards it.

'Just as you like, Mr. Lavendale,' he said. 'It isn't often you care about this side of the room, though.'

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Ambrose Lavendale, Diplomat

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CHAPTER I THE MAN WHO COULD HAVE ENDED THE WAR

Ambrose Lavendale, Diplomat. E. Phillips Oppenheim
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CHAPTER I
THE MAN WHO COULD HAVE ENDED THE WAR