The Dark Frontier by Eric Ambler Page B

conjecture. It was almost certainly the woman in the Roumanian coach who was the source of Groom’s particular anxiety. That woman had warned him, Carruthers, against entering Ixania.He closed his eyes. He was suddenly conscious of his complete ignorance of the business in which he was involved. Groom had told a plausible enough story—it would certainly have satisfied the real Professor Barstow—but was it, after all, even plausible? Who was he? He felt himself lost, slipping, falling headlong, falling towards a mist which as it rushed towards him seemed peopled with vaguely familiar shadows. The voices in his head swelled into a roar until, quite suddenly, part of it died away into whispers, leaving only the thudding rhythm of the train embossed upon his returning consciousness. He could feel the sweat breaking out all over his body. With a start he pulled himself together. It was not like Conway Carruthers to doze.
    Groom was talking.
    “I am myself to blame, Professor,” he was saying. “I should have taken you into my confidence. I should have put you on your guard.”
    “I’m afraid,” said Carruthers, “I don’t understand you.” That, at least, was true.
    Groom lighted his inevitable cigar before replying. Carruthers suspected that his constant preoccupation with a cigar was a device to give himself time to weigh his words carefully without appearing to do so.
    “I will explain,” he said; “but first tell me about the lady to whom you were talking this afternoon. Do you know her?”
    Carruthers affected bewilderment. Actually, calm and collected once more, his moment of unaccountable weakness forgotten, he was thinking fast.
    “Good heavens, no. She seemed worried about the breakdown to the train. I reassured her. We got into conversation.”
    “What did you talk about?”
    Carruthers had been waiting for this question.
    “Oh, generalities. She said she knew Ixania.”
    “You told her you were going there?”
    “Certainly. Why not?”
    Groom permitted himself an exasperated sigh.
    “What reason did you give?”
    Carruthers shrugged.
    “I said I was going to take photographs of Ixanian scenery.”
    “Have you got a camera?”
    “No.”
    “You must get one at Bâle. You will probably be searched for it at the Ixanian frontier.”
    Carruthers smiled grimly to himself at Groom’s duplication of his own forethought. Meanwhile he had a part to play.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “I think you will. Ixania is, as you are probably aware, a republic with a president and a so-called chamber of deputies. The republic was the outcome of the revolution of 1921 against the monarchy. It was an unnecessarily bloody affair and, in that, typically Ixanian. The King, Mihail the Seventh, was only too ready to abdicate, the army was republican to a man and the people laboured under what must have been one of the last outposts of the feudal system in Europe. However, with the usual shortsightedness of revolutionary bodies, the republicans overlooked the fact that the business of government has, like any other business, to be learnt. A period of anarchy and confusion was the inevitable result. Equally inevitable was the re-introduction into the governing body of a section of its prevailing ruling class. I say re-introduction, but that is not perhaps the word. Insinuation would be nearer the mark. To do the republicans justice, a certain amount of discretion was exercised and the governing power was nominally invested in the President and Chamber. But the real power in Ixania to this day is in the hands of an oligarchy from the
ancien régime
. They are secure, for their responsibility is borne by the President and Chamber, although, in actual fact, the Chamber has not been summoned for three or four years now. The peoplehave a superstitious respect for them. It takes more than a few months’ madness to expunge the Ixanians’ centuries-old reverence for titles and high birth.”
    He paused to examine the ash on