For several hours Paschics wrote unceasingly, Mansfield laboured at the typewriter, Mr Hicks hurried in and out with telegrams and their answers, and still Cyril sat in his place, dictating to one, giving directions to another, exchanging missives with the third. He seemed, as Mr Hicks had said, to have the affairs of all Europe in his hands. Reassuring messages went to one community of Jews, curt commands to another, stern reproofs to yet another; while to high government officials, and personages in situations even more lofty, were despatched brief reminders of the unpleasant consequences that would follow a breach of faith with the United Nation Syndicate. From the Hercynian Chancellor to the editor of an obscure Jargon journal, no one seemed either too high or too low for his notice, and Mr Hicks observed in admiration that he had no need to refer to any note-book for so much as a single name or address. Paschics was a pitiable object as he laboured in vain to keep up with his employer’s dictation. Mansfield had fallen into a state of semi-somnambulism as he translated into suitable terms, in a purely mechanical way, the brief instructions he received. Mr Hicks himself was inclined to think that the ‘Crier’ office on a summer night, with a big sensation coming in just as the paper had gone to press, was not so much worse than this; but Cyril showed no sign of hurry or exhaustion as he issued his directions without a pause, and the pile of papers before him grew smaller and smaller. The stream of fresh telegrams ceased at last, for the office was closed for the night, the typewriter rested from its clicking and clacking; Paschics was engaged upon the last letter. “Is there anything more, Excellency?” he asked, looking up, for Cyril had suddenly ceased speaking. “I believe not. No, I cannot think of anything more. Hicks,” he turned to the American, “it’s a curious thing, my brain is an utter blank. If you asked me what all these letters have been about, I could not tell you. And yet my head has never been clearer than it was until just now. It is like the sudden snapping of a thread.” “You had better get to bed at once, Count,” was the answer, the roughness of which masked a fierce rush of anxiety. CHAPTER XX. _REDINTEGRATIO AMORIS._