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Updated: July 27, 2025
Would you like to go back to your country, in the first place?" "It is impossible!" Henriote declared bitterly, "I am exile. I am forbidden to return under pain of death." Selingman opened his pocket-book, and, searching among his papers, produced a thin blue one which he opened and passed across the table. "Read that," he ordered shortly. The young man obeyed.
I want to tell you that that little eastern trouble has been brought about simply with the idea of provoking a European war. Germany is ready to strike at last, and this is her moment. Not a fortnight ago I sat opposite the boy Henriote in a café in Soho. My German friend handed him the money to get back to his country and to buy bombs. It's all part of the plot.
His name is Sigismund Henriote." They paused at last, breathless, and walked out of the most wonderful ballroom in London into the gardens, aglow with fairy lanterns whose brilliance was already fading before the rising moon. They found a seat under a tall elm tree, and Anna leaned back.
Henriote, with very great interest. Before we leave to-night, I shall make a proposal to you." The boy seemed puzzled for a moment, but Stralhaus intervened with some commonplace remark. "After dinner," he suggested, "we will talk." Certainly during the progress of the meal Henriote said little.
I live over here Heaven knows how I, Sigismund Henriote, have toiled for my living with Polish Jews and the outcasts of Europe." Selingman dived once more into his pocket-book. He passed a packet across the table. "Young man," he said, "that sum has been collected for your funds by the friends of your country abroad. Take it and use it as you think best.
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