E Phillips Oppenheim

Ambrose Lavendale, Diplomat E Phillips Oppenheim

It was a few minutes after one o'clock-the busiest hour of the day at the most popular bar inLondon. The usual little throng of Americans, journalists, men of business and loiterers, wereoccupying their accustomed chairs in one corner of the long, green-carpeted room. Around thebar, would-be customers were crowded three or four deep-many of them stalwart Canadians inkhaki, making the most of their three days' leave, and a thin sprinkling of men about town ontheir way to lunch in the grill-room adjoining. On the outskirts of the group was a somewhatincongruous figure, a rather under-sized, ill-dressed, bespectacled little man, neither young norold, colourless, with a stoop which was almost a deformity. His fingers were stained to the tip ofhis nails as though by chemicals or tobacco juice. He held the glass of vermouth which he hadjust succeeded in obtaining from the bar, half-way suspended to his lips. He was listening to theconversation around him.'The most blackguardly trick that has ever been known in civilized warfare!' a Canadianofficer declared indignantly.'It's put the lid on all pretence of conducting this war decently, ' another assented. 'What aboutthe Hague Convention?''The Hague Convention!' a young journalist from the other side repeated sarcastically. 'Ishould like to know when Germany has ever shown the slightest regard for the HagueConvention or any other agreement which didn't happen to suit her!