MR. THURLOW FELT a natural satisfaction as the short drive to Grosvenor Gardens was completed, and he passed through the Embassy doors. He was not merely in England again; he was, by an international fiction, upon the actual territory of the United States. He was at home, and secure. Even had he known the true origin and actual contents of the valise which he had been cajoled into taking under his protection (and he suspected the one as little as the other), he would have regarded it as an ended danger. Certainly no one would enter those sacred doors with any purpose of hostile search.
But that article of unsuspected criminality had never been a major concern and when he sat down to a breakfast such as would have beer; served in his own land, he had scarcely finished his preliminary grapefruit juice before he opened The Times (it being his deplorable habit to read the newspapers as he ate, even though his daughter, the councillor of the embassy, and two secretaries shared the meal), and saw an account of yesterday's events in Paris, which, even as they were narrated by that unimaginative periodical, was unpleasant to read.
He observed an angle which he might have anticipated from the first, but to which he had not given adequate consideration. It was not William Kindell, a British subject of no political importance, who had been arrested for murder, it was the cousin of the United States ambassador. This, in itself, however derogatory, might be of no critical consequence. Ambassadors who are immaculate in their private lives and closer family associations may survive cousins of homicidal habits. Cousins are numerous. Human nature is frail. It would be inconvenient for many if investigations were too widely spread.
But it is inexpedient for ambassadors with cousins of this quality to allow them to commit crimes in their own suites. In the best embassies, it is not done. Even The Times showed (most decorously) that it was not unaware of that. It showed it, by implication, in the care with which it explained the difference between French and English judicial procedure. Mr. Kindell had been detained rather than arrested. He was invited to give satisfactory explanations to a juge d'instruction, which it might be supposed that he would be able to do. But if this were the attitude of The Times, what would the Herald Tribune be saying now?
He looked up from the paper and met the eyes of his Second Secretary. "Alders," he said, irritably, "don't look so damned sympathetic. I'm not going to resign because of the inefficiency of the French police. If anyone thinks that, they can guess again."
"I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't thinking anything like that."
"They're only bothering Mr. Kindell," Irene interposed, "because they can't find out what happened. He just came up to say good-bye, and was gone before anything happened."
"I wish I were - - " her father began, and checked himself. He was shrewd enough to know that it was less simple than that, though he could not imagine any plausible explanation. But even here, among loyal friends, he felt that silence was best. Facts might be told, but speculations were best unsaid.
"I think," Irene went on, "I'll take that case round to Will's rooms this morning. I dare say you'll be able to drive me there, if the Bentley's not wanted." (She looked at Alders as she said this, and the young man showed no inclination to reject the proposal.) "It won't take half an hour."
Her father said: "You'd better not. Send it by carrier. There's no need for you to do it yourself."
But even as he spoke he saw that his objection was influenced by his feeling of irritation against Kindell and anything to do with him, rather than prudent judgment. It would be far better for the case to be delivered in that way rather than trusted to servants, who would doubtless observe its address with curiosity and speculate as to what it might imply.
He had not yet decided whether he would champion Kindell as his near relative, adopting a challenging attitude, such as might win the sympathy of patriotic Americans, or adopt an opposite attitude of repudiation. But whether he were about to blow hot or cold, Irene's would be the better way.
So when his daughter replied, "Oh, but I'd like to," in a tone which he knew meant that she would not be easy to change, he gave way, saying no more.
Irene was influenced by motives which she might herself have found difficult to analyse. She wished that what she had undertaken should be promptly and certainly done. She still had a feeling of regret for her parting words of the previous afternoon and a desire to do what she could to atone. But the motive of curiosity may have outweighed that of contrition. The address on that label her bag still held was not that of Kindell's rooms. It was one she had never heard him mention There were a dozen possible explanations of innocent simplicity But she would like to be able to make a guess at what the correct one might be.
So she went, and her father was shortly afterwards able to get what satisfaction he could (which was not much) from a polite enquiry which his First Secretary received from the private secretary of the Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Would His Excellency join him for lunch at the Foreign Office? His Excellency said that he would.
