“If I am not heard of in The Hague to-morrow at the latest,” Mr. Dunster pointed out, “remember that before many more hours have passed, I shall be searched for, even to the far corners of the earth.” “Let me assure you,” Mr. Fentolin promised serenely, “that though your friends search for you up in the skies or down in the bowels of the earth, they will not find you. My hiding-places are not as other people’s.” Mr. Dunster beat lightly with his square, blunt forefinger upon the table which stood by his side. “That’s not the sort of talk I understand,” he declared curtly. “Let us understand one another, if we can. What is to happen to me, if I refuse to give you that word?” Mr. Fentolin held his hand in front of his eyes, as though to shut out some unwelcome vision. “Dear me,” he exclaimed, “how unpleasant! Why should you force me to disclose my plans? Be content, dear Mr. Dunster, with the knowledge of this one fact: we cannot part with you. I have thought it over from every point of view, and I have come to that conclusion; always presuming,” he went on, “that the knowledge of that little word of which we have spoken remains in its secret chamber of your memory.” Mr. Dunster smoked in silence for a few minutes. “I am very comfortable here,” he remarked. “You delight me,” Mr. Fentolin murmured. “Your cook,” Mr. Dunster continued, “has won my heartfelt appreciation. Your cigars and wines are fit for any nobleman. Perhaps, after all, this little rest is good for me.” Mr. Fentolin listened attentively. “Do not forget,” he said, “that there is always a limit fixed, whether it be one day, two days, or three days.” “A limit to your complacence, I presume?” Mr. Fentolin assented. “Obviously, then,” Mr. Dunster concluded, “you wish those who sent me to believe that my message has been delivered. Yet there I must confess that you puzzle me. What I cannot see is, to put it bluntly, where you come in. Any one of the countries represented at this little conference would only be the gainers by the miscarriage of my message, which is, without doubt, so far as they are concerned, of a distasteful nature. Your own country alone could be the sufferer. Now what interest in the world, then, is there left--what interest in the world can you possibly represent--which can be the gainer by your present action?” Mr. Fentolin’s eyes grew suddenly a little brighter. There was a light upon his face strange to witness. “The power which is to be the gainer,” he said quietly, “is the power encompassed by these walls.” He touched his chest; his long, slim fingers were folded upon it. “When I meet a man whom I like,” he continued softly, “I take him into my confidence. Picture me, if you will, as a kind of Puck. Haven’t you heard that with the decay of the body comes sometimes a malignant growth in the brain; a Caliban-like desire for evil to fall upon the world; a desire to escape from the loneliness of suffering, the isolation of black misery?”