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"I don't think so. He's the Senate historian. Not the type to muck up his facts and dates."
"Do you wish to pursue the matter?" asked Moffat in an official tone.
Burton-Angus clasped his hands thoughtfully. "Might be worth a check with the Foreign Office in London to clear the fog.
Moffat shrugged indifferently. "A vague clue to an unlikely event three-quarters of a century ago would hardly have a significant bearing on the present."
"Perhaps not. Still, I promised the fellow I'd see what I could find. Shall I make a formal request for an inquiry, in writing?"
"Not necessary. I'll phone an old school chum who heads up the signals department and ask him to have a run at the old records. He owes me a favor. Should have an answer this time tomorrow. Don't be disappointed if he fails to turn up anything."
"I won't," said Burton-Angus. "On the other hand, you never can tell what might be buried in Foreign Service archives."
Peter Beaseley knew more about the Foreign Office than any other man in London. As chief librarian in charge of records for over thirty years, he considered the entire history of British international affairs his private domain. He made a specialty of ferreting out policy blunders and scandalous intrigues, by diplomats past and present, that had been swept under the carpet of secrecy.
Beaseley ran a hand through a few strands of white hair and reached for one of several pipes littering a large circular tray. He sniffed at the official-looking paper on his desk as a cat might sniff at an uninviting meal.
"North American Treaty," he said aloud to the empty room. "Never heard of it."
In the minds of his staff it would have been a pronouncement from God. If Peter Beaseley had never heard of a treaty, it obviously did not exist.
He tit the pipe and idly watched the smoke. The year 1914 signaled the end of vintage diplomacy, he mused. After World War I the aristocratic elegance of international negotiation was replaced by mechanical maneuvers. It had become a shallow world indeed.
His secretary knocked and poked her head around the door. "Mr. Beaseley."
He looked up without really seeing her. "Yes, Miss Gosset."
"I'm going to lunch now."
"Lunch?" He took his watch from a vest pocket and gazed at it. "Oh yes, I'd lost all track of time. Where are you going to eat? Do you have a date?"
The two unexpected questions in sudden succession caught Miss Gosset by surprise. "Why, no, I'm eating quite alone. I thought I would try that new Indian restaurant on Glendower Place."
"Good, that settles it," Beaseley grandly announced. "You're lunching with me."
The invitation was a rare honor and
Miss Gosset was surprised.
Beaseley caught her blank expression and smiled. "I have an ulterior motive, Miss Gosset. You may consider it a bribe. I need you to assist me in searching for an old treaty. Four eyes are faster than two. I don't want to waste too much time on this one."
She barely had time to slip on her coat before he hustled her outside and waved down a taxi with his umbrella.
"Sanctuary Building, Great Smith Street," Beaseley instructed the driver.
"With five buildings scattered about London crammed with old Foreign Office records," she said, adjusting a scarf, "it's a mystery to me how you know where to look."
"Correspondence dealing with the Americas during the year nineteen fourteen are shelved on the second floor of the east wing in the Sanctuary Building," he stated flatly.
Properly impressed, Miss Gosset remained silent until they reached their destination. Beaseley paid the driver, and they entered the lobby, showing their official credentials and signing in with the commissionaire. They took a rickety old elevator to the second floor. He walked unerringly to the correct section. "You check April. I'll take May."
"You haven't told me what we're looking for," she said inquiringly.
"Any reference to a North American Treaty."
She felt there was more she needed to know, but Beaseley had already turned his back and was poring through a huge leather binder that held reams of yellowed official documents and department memoranda. She resigned herself to the inevitable and tackled the first volume of April 1914, wrinkling her nose at the musty odor.
After four hours, to the accompaniment of Miss Gosset's protesting stomach, they had turned up nothing. Beaseley replaced the binders and looked thoughtful.
