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The Destroyer: A Tale of International Intrigue

by Burton Egbert Stevenson · English · Gutenberg #29629 · 534,148 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Destroyer: A Tale of International Intrigue

Author: Burton Egbert Stevenson


        
Release date: August 7, 2009 [eBook #29629]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESTROYER: A TALE OF INTERNATIONAL INTRIGUE ***




Produced by D Alexander, Barbara Kosker and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









  THE DESTROYER

  _A TALE OF INTERNATIONAL INTRIGUE_




  [Illustration]




  BY

  BURTON E. STEVENSON

  Author of "The Holladay Case," "The Marathon Mystery,"
  "The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet," etc.




  NEW YORK
  DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
  1921




  COPYRIGHT, 1913

  BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY




THE DESTROYER




CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                             PAGE

       I  THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF SEPTEMBER                  1

      II  FRANCE IN MOURNING                            14

     III  TWO GREAT MEN MEET                            31

      IV  THE ALLIES AT WORK                            47

       V  AT THE CAFÉ DES VOYAGEURS                     60

      VI  THE MYSTERIOUS SIGNALS                        77

     VII  THE HUT IN THE GROVE                          88

    VIII  THE SECOND INSTALLATION                      108

      IX  CHECKMATE                                    124

       X  THE LAND OF FREEDOM                          137

      XI  SHIPMATES                                    147

     XII  UNDER RUSSIAN RULE                           158

    XIII  IN THE WIRELESS HOUSE                        170

     XIV  THE MESSAGE                                  182

      XV  A WORD OF WARNING                            196

     XVI  A CHARGE TO KEEP                             208

    XVII  THE FIRST CONFERENCE                         221

   XVIII  THE SUBSTITUTE SENTRY                        239

     XIX  THE SECOND CONFERENCE                        256

      XX  THE PRINCE SEEKS DIVERSION                   269

     XXI  ON THE EDUCATION OF PRINCES                  283

    XXII  THE EVENTS OF MONDAY                         296

   XXIII  THE LANDING                                  310

    XXIV  PACHMANN SCORES                              321

     XXV  THE TRAP                                     334

    XXVI  THE TURN OF THE SCREW                        346

   XXVII  THE VOICE AT THE DOOR                        357

  XXVIII  CROCHARD, THE INVINCIBLE!                    370

    XXIX  THE ESCAPE                                   382

     XXX  COUNCIL OF WAR                               397

    XXXI  THE ALLIANCE ENDS                            407

   XXXII  STRASBOURG                                   420




THE DESTROYER




CHAPTER I

THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF SEPTEMBER


Monsieur Aristide Brisson, the fat little proprietor of the Hotel du
Nord--a modest house facing the Place Puget at Toulon--turned uneasily
in his sleep, as though fretted by a disturbing dream; then he awoke
with a start and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the dark windows showed
that the dawn was yet far distant, and he was about to turn over and go
thankfully to sleep again when a sudden remembrance leaped into his
brain. In an instant, he had bounded from the bed, struck a match, and,
after a look at his watch, lighted a candle. Then he returned to the
bed, and, without compunction, grasped the plump arm of Madame Brisson,
who was sleeping peacefully, and shook her roughly.

"Wake, Gabrielle, wake!" he cried--in French, of course.

Madame Brisson, who was also little and fat with a white skin that was
her pride, opened her eyes, stared an instant, and then sat up in bed.

"Heavens, Brisson!" she cried, her hand to her throat. "What is it? What
has happened? Have you illness?"

"No, no!" said her husband, who was struggling with his trousers. "But
rise, quickly!"

Madame Brisson glanced at the dark windows.

"I do not understand," she said.

"Ah, Gabrielle," said her husband reproachfully, "I should never have
believed you could have forgotten! It is to-day, at sunrise, that our
guests depart!"

"Heavens!" cried Madame Brisson again, and she, too, bounded from the
bed and began to don her clothes with trembling fingers. "That I should
have forgotten! Forgive me, Aristide! What hour is it?"

"It is almost four and a half. At five, the coffee must be ready."

"It shall be!" Madame promised, and hurried from the room, to complete
her toilet in the kitchen.

"Fortunately," M. Brisson muttered to himself, "the fire is laid!"

Then, having held his collar to the light and decided that it was clean
enough, he buttoned it about his neck, attached his shiny ready-made
tie, donned his little white coat, picked up the candle and left the
room. Passing along the corridor to the front of the house, he tapped at
a door.

"Who is there?" called a rough voice.

"Your coffee will be ready in twenty minutes, sir," said Brisson.

"Very well; and thank you," answered the voice, and Brisson descended to
the dining-room, opened the shutters, lighted the lamp, and spread the
cloth.

He was contemplating his handiwork, his head to one side, when heavy
steps sounded on the stair, and a moment later two men entered. They
were both of middle-age, somewhat stocky and heavily-built, their hair
close-cropped, their faces smooth-shaven and deeply tanned. They had,
indeed, that indurated look which only years of exposure to wind and
rain can give, except that their upper lips were some shades lighter
than the remainder of the face, betraying the fact that they had, until
recently, been protected by a moustache. They were dressed in somewhat
shabby tweed walking-suits, and wore heavy well-worn shoes. At this
moment, each carried in his hand a little knapsack.

M. Brisson greeted them bent double, hoped that they had slept well,
foretold a fine day, and assured them that coffee would be ready in a
moment.

"Our bags are in our room, properly labelled," said one of them, finding
his words with apparent difficulty and accenting them most queerly.
"They are to go to Nice, where we will claim them."

"I will attend to it. And you, sirs?" asked Brisson.

"It is our intention to walk."

"By way of the Cornice?"

"Yes."

"You will find it a most beautiful road; even in your own America you
will find nothing more beautiful. And how fortunate that you will have
so fine a day! Where will you rest to-night?"

"At Frejus, probably."

"A beautiful town, well worth a visit. Permit me to recommend you, sirs,
that you stop at the Hotel du Midi. The proprietor is a relative of
mine--a nephew, in fact; he will treat you well."

"Thank you," responded the stranger, and at that moment Madame Brisson
entered, flushed but triumphant, bearing a tray on which was a small
pitcher of very black coffee, a large pitcher of very hot milk, a plate
of rolls and "crescents," some pats of butter and a jar of honey. She
placed the tray upon the table, greeted the travellers with the
brightest of smiles, and then, as she flitted about attending to their
wants, M. Brisson retired to his bureau to put the finishing touches to
the bill.

This was a weighty business. It was not often that the little Hotel du
Nord had the privilege of entertaining guests from America, and M.
Brisson was thriftily determined to make the most of it. The price of
the room, unfortunately, had been agreed upon in advance; but there were
the meals and, above all, the extras--baggage, lights, attendance, one
special breakfast at five o'clock--one must be paid for rising in the
middle of the night!--confitures, bath--had there been a bath? No
matter! Wine, cigars--M. Brisson licked his lips as he put them all in.
Then he made a mistake of five francs in the addition, and the thing was
done. He contemplated it for a moment with satisfaction, then folded it,
slipped it into his pocket, and returned to the breakfast-room.

His guests were just rising from the table, and a glance told him that
they had done but scant justice to the meal--fully half the rolls
remained uneaten! They were in haste, then; so much the better! He
assisted them to adjust their knapsacks.

"And now the bill," said one of them, taking out his purse.

M. Brisson presented it with a bow. The other took it, glanced at the
total, and his face flushed. He opened his lips to speak, closed them
again, and his eyes ran up the column of figures. The flush deepened,
and again he opened his lips; but when he met Brisson's ferret-like
gaze, he again closed them. Without a word, he extracted from his purse
a note for a hundred francs and placed it in Brisson's hand.

"You may keep the change," he said.

"Oh, thanks, sir!" Brisson cried, and he bowed again to hide the
triumphant smile upon his lips. "Many thanks! A pleasant journey! And
when you come again to Toulon, remember the Hotel du Nord!"

The other nodded glumly, and started for the door, followed by his
companion. Brisson and his wife accompanied them, again bade them adieu,
and stood for a moment watching them, as they went down the street in
the direction of the quays.

"A hundred francs!" said Madame Brisson, and gazed with veneration at
her lord and master. "But what was your bill, then, Aristide?"

"Ninety-six francs," said Brisson, sourly, "and, for a moment, I thought
the swine was going to protest it!"

"If they had not been Americans," began Madame.

"Americans!" burst in Brisson. "Bah! They are not Americans! Germans,
perhaps, or Austrians; but Americans, no! Those men, Gabrielle, have
something to conceal!" and Brisson, frowning darkly, went back into the
house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile the two pedestrians made their way rapidly along the dark and
silent street without exchanging a word. There was in their faces a
strange excitement, and they stared straight ahead, as though they dared
not meet each other's eyes. At the end of a few moments, they came out
upon the quays. Here the darkness of the narrow street gave place to
the grey of the approaching dawn, and one of them took his watch from
his pocket and looked at it.

"Nine minutes!" he said in guttural English, and in a voice strangely
thick, as with some deep and barely repressed emotion.

The other nodded, and with common accord they turned to the right toward
the great basin, where three or four men-of-war lay at anchor. The light
increased from minute to minute, the horizon turned from grey to pearly
white, and over the hills to the east a golden halo marked the spot
where the sun would rise. They stopped to look at it, and then, stepping
back into the recess of a doorway, directed their gaze toward a great
battleship, anchored perhaps three hundred yards away. As the minutes
passed, they seemed scarcely to breathe, and their lips were twitching
with nervous excitement.

Suddenly over the trees shot a long ray of yellow light, gilding the
house-tops, gilding the mast-heads of the vessels in the harbour; and
then, as though in answer to a signal, came a muffled roar from the
anchored battleship. There was an instant's silence, then the shrill
voices of sentries sounding the alarm, the whirring of a gong....

A second roar drowned all lesser sounds, and then the high, thin notes
of a bugle echoed across the water. The deck of the ship was alive with
men; from her open ports wisps of angry smoke swirled upward into the
morning air....

Above the babble of excited voices, rose a shout of command, the bugle
shrilled "Sauve qui peut! Sauve qui peut! Sauve qui peut!" and the crew
began leaping over the side; and then, straight in front of where stood
the breathless watchers, a mighty column of black smoke leaped high into
the air, mushroomed and drifted slowly away before the breeze. At the
same instant came a frightful, rending crash, which seemed to shake the
earth, and a foam-capped wave swept across the harbour and dashed
angrily against the quay. For one tense instant, all nature held her
breath, and then came the splash and clatter of débris falling into the
water and on the docks, the rattle of broken glass from the houses along
the quay; and finally, quivering through the air, rose the shrill,
inhuman cry of men in mortal anguish.

The smoke, drifting lazily away, disclosed a mass of twisted wreckage
where, a moment before, _La Liberté_, the pride of the French navy, had
swung at anchor.

"Ach Gott! Es ist doch wahr!" breathed one of the men, and stared rigid,
fascinated; but the other laid a trembling hand upon his arm.

"We must hasten!" he whispered. "We must not stay here!"

"True!" agreed the other, and with a last glance at the wreck, strode
away along the quay.

Already the city was awake; already frightened faces were peering from
shattered windows, half-clothed men were bursting into the streets, and
voices shrill with fear were demanding to know what had occurred. But
our travellers heeded them not. At the first corner they separated, and
one of them made his way rapidly up into the town, while the other
hastened along a dark and narrow lane parallel with the quay, and
stopped at last before a tall, decrepit house, whose plaster, black with
age, was flaking from its walls. On the door-step sat a girl of eighteen
or twenty, a dark shawl about her head, from whose shadow her face
peered, strangely white.

"Is it by this way one gains the Frejus road?" he asked in English.

"Straight on to the end of the street, then to the left," answered the
girl in the same tongue, speaking it readily and without accent.

"Thank you. This for your father," and thrusting his hand quickly into
his pocket, he drew out a fat envelope, sealed with many seals, placed
it in the girl's hand, and hurried on.

An hour later, the two travellers, reunited, Toulon well behind them,
strode along a beautiful road skirting the Mediterranean, which
stretched, a sheet of greenish-blue, away to the south. But, strangely
enough, they did not even glance at this panorama. Instead, they walked
with heads down, as though still fearing to meet each other's eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Back in the narrow Rue du Plasson, the girl, her face still very white,
re-entered the house, closed and bolted the crazy door, and slowly
mounted the dark staircase. From the street outside came excited cries,
hoarse shouting, the clatter of running feet; but she did not stop to
listen. Indeed, she did not seem to hear, but dragged herself up from
step to step as though a weight was on her feet.

The house was of four stories, and she did not pause until she reached
the top one. A stream of yellow light poured through an open door, and
she entered and closed the door behind her. A lighted candle stood on a
table in the centre of the narrow room, but already the rays of the sun
were beating against the single window. Besides the table, the room
contained two chairs, a rusty stove, and a cupboard in which were a few
dishes. Against one wall stood a cot, and the back of the room was
curtained off, no doubt for the girl's sleeping-chamber.

She stood for a moment staring listlessly before her, as though trying
to remember what she should do next; then she laid the envelope on the
table, blew out the candle, started a fire in the stove, and placed a
kettle upon it. Finally she drew a chair to the window, sat down, and
looked out across the harbour.

Opposite the house was a long, low building, the wine-market, so that
her view of the harbour was unobstructed. It was alive with boats,
circling around or speeding towards a black and shapeless mass, above
which some shreds of smoke still lingered. Her lips were moving as she
stared at it, and her face was bloodless; and she pressed her hands to
her breast, as though in pain.

At last the singing of the kettle roused her. She seemed to pull herself
together; then she rose, made the coffee and placed some rolls upon the
table. Finally she picked up a knife and with the handle smote sharply
against the wall. A moment later, the door opened and a man came in.

At first glance, one thought him very old, for his hair was white as
snow, his body shrivelled and bent, his face lined and sallow. But at
the second glance, one perceived that these were not the marks of age
but of the ravages of the fiery spirit which dwelt within the body and
which peered from the burning eyes. At this moment, they gleamed with a
lustre almost demoniacal.

"Breakfast is ready, father," said the girl. "And--and the man came
past, as you expected, and gave me that for you," she added, with a
little gesture toward the sealed envelope.

The man advanced to the table, picked up the envelope, and walked on to
the window. For a moment he stood staring out across the harbour; then
there was the sound of ripping paper, a moment's silence, and he thrust
the envelope into his pocket and turned back to the table.

"It is well!" he said, and sat down. "It is well, Kasia!"

"I am glad of that, father," she answered, in a low voice, and poured
his coffee.

He ate rapidly and as though very hungry; but the girl made only a
pretence of eating. At last the man looked at her.

"We leave at once," he said. "We are to take the first boat for America.
Are you not glad?"

"Very glad, father."

"Why is it you so love America, Kasia?" he asked.

"You also love it, father. It is the land of freedom--even for us poor
Poles, it is the land of freedom!"

"The land of freedom!" he echoed. "And I love it, as you say. It is
because of that I hasten back; I have in store for her a great honour,
which will make her more than ever the land of freedom! For she is not
free yet, Kasia--not for poor Poles, nor for poor Jews, nor for the poor
of any nation. The poor cannot know freedom--not anywhere in the whole
world. They must labour, they must sweat, they may not rest if they
would live, for the greater part of what they earn is stolen from them.
But I will change all that! Oh, you know my dream--no more poverty, no
more suffering, no more cruelty and tyranny and injustice--but all men,
all the nations of the world, joined in brotherhood and love! This day
at dawn I struck the first blow for freedom! Do you know what it was, my
daughter? Did you hear the roar of the waters as they opened? See!"

He caught her by the wrist and dragged her to the window.

"See!" he cried again, and pointed a shaking finger toward the black
hulk in the harbour.

But she did not look. Instead she shrank away from him and pressed her
hands before her eyes, and shook with a long shudder.

And after a moment, the light faded from her father's face, and left it
old and worn; his eyes grew dull and moody; his lips trembled.

"Every cause must have its martyrs," he said, as though answering her
thought, and his voice was shaking with emotion; "even the cause of
freedom; yea, that more than any other, for the battle against tyranny
is the most desperate of all!"

And dropping her wrist, he went slowly from the room.




CHAPTER II

FRANCE IN MOURNING


To M. Théophile Delcassé, Minister of Marine, and first statesman of the
Republic, slumbering peacefully in his bed at Paris that morning, came
the sound of urgent knocking. He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from
his eyes, for he knew that not without good cause would any one dare
disturb him at that hour. Then he stepped to the floor, thrust his feet
into a pair of slippers, his arms into the sleeves of a dressing-robe,
and opened the door.

"A telegram, sir, marked 'Most Important,'" said his valet, and passed
it in to him.

It was from Vice-Admiral Bellue, commander at Toulon, and a moment later
M. Delcassé had learned of the terrible disaster.

He ordered his carriage and dressed rapidly with trembling hands. He was
shocked and distressed as he had rarely been before. Would these
disasters never cease? First the _Jena_ow the _Liberté_--both ships
the pride of their country, the last formidable word in marine
architecture! He gulped down the cup of coffee which his valet brought
him, seized hat and gloves, hastened to his carriage, and drove
straight to the Elysée Palace.

The President was already up, and his broad face, usually so placid and
good-humoured, was convulsed with grief as he greeted his Minister. He
held in his hand a telegram, which he had just opened.

"See," he said, after the first moment, "the sad news is already
abroad," and he held out the message.

Delcassé took it and read it with astonished eyes. It was from the
German Emperor, and expressed his grief at the catastrophe, and his
sympathy with France, which he had directed his ambassador to call at
once in person to convey more fully.

"The Kaiser is certainly well-served!" muttered Delcassé, reading the
message again, his lips twitching with emotion. "There is something
ironical in this promptness. He must have had the news before we did!"

The President nodded gloomily. Then the other members of the cabinet
came whirling up, and were convened at once by their chief in secret
session.

Not many hours later, as a result of that session, a special train
rolled out of the Gare de Lyon, and headed away for the south, with a
clear track and right-of-way over everything. Aboard it were the
President himself, the Minister of Marine, the Minister of War, and a
score of minor officials. There was also a thin little man with white
hair and yellowish-white beard--M. Louis Jean Baptiste Lépine, Prefect
of Police, and the most famous hunter of criminals in the world; and in
the last car were a dozen of the best men of his staff, under command of
his most trusted lieutenant, Inspector Pigot.

At each station, as the train rolled on, great crowds gathered to meet
it--crowds strangely silent, inarticulate with grief, furious,
suspicious of they knew not what. Terrible rumours were abroad--rumours
of treachery, of treason striking at the very heart of France. No one
dared repeat these rumours, but nevertheless they ran up and down the
land. The _Jena_ and now the _Liberté_! True, the Board of Inquiry,
which had investigated the destruction of the _Jena_, had decided that
that catastrophe was due to the spontaneous combustion of the powder in
her magazines. France had accepted the verdict; but now a second
battleship was gone. It would be too much to ask any one to believe that
this was spontaneous combustion, also! Such things do not happen twice.

And at every station telegrams were handed in giving fresh details of
the disaster--horrible details. The ship was a total loss; of that
splendid mechanism, built by years of toil, by the expenditure of many
millions, there remained only a twisted and useless mass of wreckage;
and in that wreckage lay three hundred of France's sailors. Small wonder
that the President sat, chin in hand, staring straight before him, and
that the others spoke in whispers, or not at all.

At Dijon, which was reached about the middle of the afternoon, there was
a tremendous crowd, thronging the long platforms and pressing against
the barriers, which threatened at every moment to be swept away. The
President went out to say a few words to them, but at the first sentence
his voice failed him, and he could only stand and look down upon them,
convulsive sobs rising in his throat. Suddenly a little red-legged
Turco, weeping too, snatched off his fez and shouted "Vive la France!"
and the cheer was taken up and repeated and repeated, until it swelled
to a vast roar. As the train rolled out of the station, the crowd,
bareheaded, was singing the Marseillaise.

M. Delcassé's eyes, behind his heavy glasses, were wet with tears.

"It is the same people still!" he said, pressing the President's hand.
"They are as ready to spring to arms as they were a hundred years ago.
Now, as then, they need only to know that their country is in danger!"

His voice had grown vibrant with emotion, for the passion of his life
was and always had been revenge upon Germany. He made no effort to
conceal it or to dissimulate. Alsace and Lorraine were always in his
thoughts. To placate Germany, indeed, France had once been compelled to
drive him from the Quai d'Orsay, where, for so many years, he had been
to his contemporaries a sort of Olympian in the conduct of her foreign
affairs. But even in retirement he remained the most powerful man in
France; and now he was back in the cabinet again, a giant among
Lilliputians, building up the navy, building up the army, strengthening
the forts along the frontier, increasing the efficiency of the
artillery, experimenting with air-ships, devoting his days and nights to
the study of strategy, the discussion of possibilities, always with the
same idea, the same hope! And now, this catastrophe!

As he sat gnawing his nails, the President glanced at him, read his
thoughts, and shook his head.

"No, my friend," he said, sadly, "the country is not in danger; or, if
it is, the danger is from within, not from without. This is an accident,
like all the others."

"You believe so? But it seems to me that we have had more than our share
of accidents!"

"So we have," the President agreed. "Let us hope that this will be the
last--that it will teach us to guard ourselves, in future, from our own
carelessness."

"England, America, Germany," Delcassé went on, speaking half to himself,
"these nations, with navies greater than ours, never have such
accidents. Small explosions, sometimes, it is true, wrecking a gun or
damaging a turret--but never destroying a whole ship! Is it merely
because they are never careless?"

"There was the _Maine_," the President reminded him.

Delcassé's hand went to his moustache to hide the ironic smile upon his
lips. In that close-cropped head of his, along with many other such
secrets, was that of the cause of the catastrophe in Havana harbour. In
all the chancellories of Europe, it was agreed that the _Maine_ had been
destroyed by the spontaneous explosion of her own magazines. Four men
knew the truth, and Delcassé was one of them. There had been a fifth,
but an assassin's bullet killed him.

In an instant Delcassé's face was composed, and his eyes, behind their
immense glasses, as inscrutable as ever. The President, so ingenuous and
child-like, must never suspect the truth!

"True!" Delcassé agreed. "There was the _Maine_! I had forgotten that,"
and he relapsed into thoughtful silence.

Evening came, and still the train rolled southward, past Macon, past
Lyons, past Vienne, everywhere greeted by surging crowds. At the latter
place, Delcassé arose and, with an almost imperceptible nod to Lépine,
entered the last car. The Prefect followed him, and a few minutes
later, they were closeted together in a compartment, where, at a word
from his superior, Inspector Pigot had joined them.

"And now," began Delcassé, when the door was closed and the train had
started again, "tell me what you think of this affair, Lépine."

The little grey man spread his hands wide with a gesture of
helplessness.

"At this moment I know no more than you, sir," he answered; "probably
not so much. By morning, I shall have a report ready for you."

"We shall not arrive until after midnight," the Minister pointed out.

"Nevertheless, my report will be ready, sir," said Lépine, quietly.
"Between midnight and dawn there are six hours."

Delcassé looked at him. He knew that this little man never made an empty
promise.

"Did you go through the papers at the time of the _Jena_ disaster?" he
asked.

"I did, sir. I assisted the investigating board."

"You are, then, familiar with the theories in that case?"

"There were four theories," answered Lépine. "The first was that the
ship had been blown up by treachery; that is always the first thought!
But in the case of the _Jena_, it was quickly discovered that treachery
was impossible, unless it was that of the highest officers, for only
they had access to her magazines. That was unthinkable, for all of them
had served France for many years. More than half of them were killed. I
myself investigated the life of every one of these men, for it was
necessary to be absolutely certain--but not a breath could be raised
against them."

"And the second theory?"

"That there had been carelessness of some sort. That, too, was
disproved, for no one had entered the magazines for many hours previous
to the explosion. It is a rule of the service that, except when in use,
the keys of all magazines shall be in keeping of the commander, who is
responsible for them. At the inquiry, the commander of the _Jena_
testified that the keys had not left his possession during the two days
preceding the accident. There had been no occasion to enter the
magazines during that time. The _Jena_, you will remember, was at anchor
in Toulon harbour, just as the _Liberté_ was."

Delcassé glanced at his companion keenly.

"Does that fact suggest nothing to you, Lépine?" he asked.

"Nothing, sir," said Lépine firmly. "I have thought of it all day, and I
can see in it nothing except coincidence."

"Coincidence! Coincidence! I detest the word--I do not believe in
coincidence!" muttered the Minister.

"Nor I," agreed Lépine; "but even less do I believe in vague theories
and vague suspicions. We must have a firm foundation before we begin to
build."

"Well, and the third theory?" said Delcassé, at last.

"The third theory was most interesting. It was that the explosion had
been caused by waves from the wireless telegraph. It was asserted that
these waves had upset the unstable equilibrium, either chemical or
electrical, which sometimes exists in the components of modern powder,
and that the explosion had resulted."

"And this theory also was disproved?"

"The most exhaustive tests failed to confirm it."

"Ah," said Delcassé; "but to fail to confirm a thing is not to disprove
it."

"Our wireless experts agreed in pronouncing the theory absurd."

"Wireless waves penetrate metal, do they not?"

"Every metal except lead."

Delcassé turned this over for some moments in his mind.

"If that had been the cause," went on Lépine, at last, "there would have
been other explosions, many of them--and our navy would not have been
the only one to suffer. The whole atmosphere is charged with such waves,
of every length and every degree of intensity."

"Perhaps you are right," agreed the Minister. "What was the fourth
theory?"

"The fourth theory was that finally adopted by the board. It was that a
certain kind of powder, known as 'B' powder, degenerates under heat, and
becomes, in time, extremely combustible, so that it will sometimes
explode apparently without any exciting cause."

"In what manner was the truth of this theory demonstrated?" demanded
Delcassé.

"In a most convincing manner. A certain amount of this powder, which the
board was examining, did explode in this way, under their very hands.
Had the amount been larger, not a member of the board would have
escaped. But, sir, you know all this as well as I."

"I wish to refresh my memory," Delcassé explained. "I wish to see if
your memory, which I admire so much, agrees with mine. Now tell me this:
what was done to prevent a recurrence of such an accident?"

"The powder in all French magazines was overhauled, and that which there
was any reason to suspect was destroyed. To prevent future
deterioration, the magazines of all our battleships were equipped with
a special cooling apparatus. In this, we were soon followed by all other
nations."

"And yet," said Delcassé, in a low voice, "the latest and best of our
battleships blew up this morning!"

"I have brought my best men with me, as you suggested, sir," said
Lépine. "If there were any suspicious circumstances attending this
explosion, depend upon it, they will be laid before you when you awake!"

"Do not wait for me to awake!" cried the Minister. "If any such
circumstance comes to light, wake me--wake me on the instant!"

Lépine bowed.

"I will do so, sir," he promised.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was some time past midnight when the train reached Toulon; but
apparently no one of her hundred thousand inhabitants had thought of
sleep. The streets before the station were crowded from house-front to
house-front. The carriage containing the President and his Ministers had
the greatest difficulty in proceeding. Everywhere there were cries for
vengeance, shouts of treason, threats, wild imprecations. Men stood with
arms extended cursing the heavens. The Place de la Liberté was massed
with people, facing the fountain in honour of the Revolution,
bareheaded, singing the Ça Ira. It seemed as though the wheels of time
had rolled back a century, and that at any moment the Sea-green
Incorruptible himself might arise to thunder denunciation. But at last
the President and his staff reached their hotel.

M. Lépine, after final instructions to Pigot, joined them there, and
listened to the reports made by the surviving officers of _La Liberté_.
They were in despair, these men, ready to kill themselves at a word;
their faces were blackened, their uniforms in tatters, their hands torn
and bleeding, for they had laboured all day at the work of rescue. They
spoke between sobs, but it was little they had to tell.

Commander Jaurès, it seemed, had been absent on leave, the second in
command was ashore, so that Senior Lieutenant Garnier was in charge of
the ship. Just before dawn, the watch had discovered a small fire in one
of the store-rooms, but it was so insignificant that no one thought of
danger; the fire was not near the magazines; in any event, the magazines
were all securely closed--the officer in charge had seen to that.
Suddenly, apparently without cause, there had been three explosions,
about a minute apart, first of the forward magazine, then of the after
magazine, then of the main magazine--it seemed almost as though they had
been fired at spaced intervals, like a heavy gun. There had been time to
get the crew on deck, but the final explosion had come before the boats
could be lowered. It had broken the ship in two; the forward part had
turned over and sunk with all on board; the after part was a mere mass
of twisted wreckage. The explosion had been so violent, that the
neighbouring ships also suffered--_La République_ so seriously that it
was only by hurrying her to a dry-dock she was kept from sinking. No one
had any theory, any explanation; there had been no warning, no
premonition. An instant, and it was over. But all agreed that the fire
could have had nothing to do with it.

Pigot, meanwhile, had spread his men out along the docks, where they
listened to every one, asked questions of every one. Not a rumour
escaped them, but, alas, for no rumour could they find foundation. The
wreck in the harbour was illuminated by the searchlights of the other
battleships, and Pigot caused himself to be rowed out to it, introduced
himself to Admiral Marin-Dabel, Maritime Prefect of Toulon, who had
taken personal charge of the rescue work, and spent half an hour
inspecting the melancholy scene. Then he landed again, and listened for
a time to the reports of his lieutenants. There was among them not a
single ray of light--not the slightest evidence to show that the
disaster had been anything but an accident. The fire in the store-room
had, it was whispered, been much more serious than the officers would
admit.

Pigot made his way slowly toward the hotel to report to his chief, but
as he crossed the Place d'Armes, a hand was laid upon his sleeve. He
turned, expecting to see one of his men. Instead, he found himself
looking into a face he did not know.

"Pardon, sir," he said. "You are, perhaps, mistaken."

"Oh, no, Pigot," said the stranger, with a little smile, "I am not
mistaken. It is you whom I wish to see."

"I do not remember you, sir," said Pigot, looking at him more closely.
"Have we met before?"

"Many times."

"Many times!" echoed Pigot, incredulously. "Surely not!" and he looked
again to make certain that the stranger was not intoxicated. "Where have
we met?"

"We met last," said the stranger, smiling again, "on _La Savoie_, in the
harbour of New York City. To be sure, I was not in this incarnation, but
I am sure you will recall the incident."[1]

Pigot drew a deep breath, and his face flushed.

"Ah," he said quietly, after a moment. "I remember. I wish you good
evening, M. Crochard."

"One moment," Crochard commanded, his grasp tightening on Pigot's arm.
"Forgive my recalling that meeting to your memory. It was indelicate of
me. Nevertheless you would do well to listen to what I have to say."

Pigot stopped and turned.

"Well," he said, after gazing for a moment into Crochard's eyes, "speak
quickly. What is it you have to say?"

"I wish to say to you, Pigot, that I have come to offer you my help."

"Your help?"

"In solving the mystery of this disaster."

Pigot looked at him coldly.

"We do not require your help," he said, at last.

"Perhaps not; and yet you would be mistaken to refuse it. I was at Nice;
I have been on the ground since morning; I have discovered...."

"Well, what have you discovered?" asked Pigot, as Crochard hesitated.

"I have discovered," Crochard continued slowly, "what I can reveal only
to M. Delcassé himself. I demand that you cause me to be introduced to
him at once."

Pigot shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Impossible!" he said, and started on.

"Wait!" said Crochard sternly. "Consider whether you are willing to take
the responsibility of this refusal!"

"Responsibility!" Pigot burst out, his anger getting the upper hand at
last. "Responsibility! Yes, I take it! Who are you? A notorious
character--a thief...."

Crochard's eyes were blazing, and his hand grasped Pigot's arm with a
vise-like grip.

"And with it all," he sneered, "a better man than you, Pigot! Is it not
so? A better man than you! How often have I proved it!"

Pigot's hand turned and closed like a flash upon the other's wrist.

"You will come with me," he said.

The anger faded from Crochard's face, and an ironic amusement took its
place.

"Where would you conduct me?" he asked.

"To the Prefecture!"

"You are mistaken. You will conduct me to M. Delcassé. You cannot
conduct me to the Prefecture, Pigot; I will not allow it!"

"Allow it!" sneered Pigot, and pressed forward.

"Fool!" hissed Crochard in his ear. "Thick-headed fool! Have you learned
no wisdom yet? I would smite you, Pigot, but that I have need of you.
Listen! I and only I can save France! I demand that you take me to M.
Delcassé."

Pigot felt himself waver; a vague uneasiness stirred within him as he
met his companion's flaming gaze.

"On what pretext can I introduce you to M. Delcassé?" he asked at last.

"You will leave me outside the door," said Crochard rapidly, almost in a
whisper. "You will go in to M. Delcassé alone; you will say to him,
'Sir, I have outside a man who asserts that _La Liberté_ was blown up by
the Germans, and that he can prove it!' Then let M. Delcassé decide
whether or not he will receive me!"

Pigot was staring at the speaker with distended eyes.

"By the Germans!" he repeated, hoarsely. "By the Germans!"

Crochard answered with an impatient pressure of the arm.

"You are wasting time," he said.

"You are right," Pigot agreed. "Come with me," and he led the way across
the square.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: See "The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet."]




CHAPTER III

TWO GREAT MEN MEET


M. Delcassé and M. Lépine were still in conference when Pigot was
announced. He was admitted without delay, and made his report briefly
and clearly. It could have been summed up in a sentence: neither by him
nor by his agents had anything been discovered to indicate, even
remotely, that the catastrophe had been the result of intention; every
rumour to that effect had been sifted and disproved; _La Liberté_ had
been destroyed from within and not from without.

"Another 'accident,' then," grunted Delcassé gloomily. "But I do not
believe it! Something--something here"--and he smote his
forehead--"tells me that it was not an accident!"

Pigot, as a practical detective, had no faith in intuition; but whatever
his thoughts may have been, he managed to mask them behind an
impenetrable countenance.

"Our investigations have but just begun," Lépine pointed out. "They will
be continued without pause. I will conduct them in person. No
circumstance, however trivial, will be overlooked."

"I know you are a good man, Lépine," said the Minister wearily; "I know
there is none more clever. But something more than cleverness is needed
here--we need genius, inspiration." He stopped abruptly and rose from
his chair. "I am sure you will do your best. Remember, if there is any
discovery, I am to be told at once."

Pigot, who had been standing with lips compressed, undergoing a violent
inward struggle, at last managed to open them.

"I have a man outside," he said, as though repeating a lesson, "who
requests an audience with M. Delcassé. He asserts that _La Liberté_ was
blown up by the Germans, and that he can prove it."

Delcassé whirled as on a pivot and stared at the speaker.

"But, name of God!" he stammered, barely able to speak for excitement,
"why have you not introduced this man at once? Why have you wasted our
time...."

He stopped and took a rapid turn up and down the room. When he spoke
again, his voice was quite composed.

"Introduce the man at once," he commanded.

"I think it would be well," said Pigot tonelessly, "that M. Delcassé
should first be informed as to the name and character of this man."

Again Delcassé stared.

"Explain yourself!" he cried. "Who is the man?"

"His name is Crochard, sir," Pigot replied.

Delcassé evidently did not recognise the name, but Lépine's face was
suddenly illumined.

"Crochard," he explained, "is the most adroit, the most daring, the most
accomplished scoundrel with whom I have ever had to deal. Surely
Monsieur remembers the affair of the Michaelovitch diamonds?"

"Ah, yes!" cried Delcassé, his face, too, lighting. "So that was
Crochard!"

"Crochard the Invincible, he calls himself," growled Pigot. "He is a
great braggart."

"And with some reason," added Lépine. "We have never yet been able to
convict him."

"He restored the Mazarin diamond to the Louvre, did he not?" queried the
Minister. "And also the Mona Lisa?"

"The Mazarin certainly," assented Lépine. "As for the Mona Lisa, I have
never been quite certain. There is a rumour that the original is now
owned by an American millionaire, and that the picture returned to the
Louvre is only a copy--a wonderful one, it is true. Where did you meet
him, Pigot?"

Pigot related the story of the meeting, while Delcassé listened
thoughtfully.

"Is he to be trusted?" he asked, when Pigot had finished.

"In this affair I believe so," answered Lépine quietly. "He may be as
good a patriot as you or I. If he is really in earnest, he can be of
immense assistance. He has absolute command of the underworld, and a
thousand sources of information which are closed to the police. At
least, it can do no harm to hear what he has to say."

Delcassé agreed with a nod, and sat down again.

"Bring him in," he said, and a moment later Crochard entered.

If M. Delcassé had expected to perceive anything of the criminal in the
man who bowed to him respectfully from the threshold, he was most
thoroughly disappointed. What he _did_ see was a well-built man in the
very prime of life, with clear and fearless eyes of greenish-grey
flecked with yellow, a face singularly open and engaging, and a manner
as easy and self-possessed as Delcassé's own. The only sign of
approaching age was the sprinkle of grey in the crisp, brown hair, but
this served rather to accentuate the youthfulness of the face, covered
now by a coat of tan which bespoke a summer spent in the open. In any
company, this man would have been notable.

"M. Crochard, I believe," said Delcassé, and involuntarily the great
Minister arose and returned his visitor's bow. "Be seated, sir."

"Thank you," said Crochard, and sat down. "I see that we are going to
appreciate each other," he added, and looked at Delcassé with a friendly
smile.

That gentleman's eyes were twinkling behind his glasses, and his lips
twitched under his heavy moustache.

"It always pleases me to meet a distinguished man," he said, "in
whatever field of endeavour. M. Lépine tells me that you are most
distinguished."

"M. Lépine has every reason to know," agreed Crochard, and glanced
smilingly toward the Prefect.

"Though, since I have eyes, I can see that for myself," added the
Minister. "Why did you wish to see me?"

"I wished to see you, sir," answered Crochard, suddenly serious,
"because I have long recognised in you the only man whom France
possesses who sees clearly the struggle which is ahead of her, who
prepares ceaselessly for that struggle, and who is strong enough to
guide her through it triumphantly."

"To what struggle do you refer?" inquired the Minister, but his shining
eyes belied his careless tone.

"The struggle to regain possession of Alsace-Lorraine and to avenge
ourselves upon the nation which once humiliated us."

A slow flush crept into Delcassé's cheeks, and his lips tightened.

"You foresee such a struggle?" he asked.

"As clearly as you do yourself, sir."

"Well, yes!" cried Delcassé, and smote the arm of his chair a heavy
blow. "I _do_ foresee such a struggle--I have never denied it; and for
twenty years I have laboured to prepare for it. You can understand,
then, what a blow it is to me--how terrible, how disheartening--to have
all my calculations blasted by such accidents as that of to-day!"

"Pardon me, sir," said Crochard, in a low tone, "but the destruction of
_La Liberté_ was not an accident!"

"You assert that?"

"I do. And furthermore I assert that it was the work of Germany!"

Delcassé sprang from his chair, his face livid.

"The proof!" he cried. "The proof!"

"The proof, sir, is this: at five minutes before dawn, this morning, two
strangers, attired as pedestrians, with knapsacks on their backs,
stopped in the recess of the doorway of Number Ten, Quai de Cronstadt.
They stepped well within the shadow, as though not wishing to be seen,
and stood gazing out on the harbour. Directly before them, at a distance
of not more than three hundred yards, _La Liberté_ was moored. It was at
her they stared, with eyes expectant and uneasy. At dawn, _La Liberté_
blew up, and one of these men cried out some words of German."

"What were they?"

"Unfortunately the person who overheard them does not know German. He
understood only the first two words, 'Ach Gott!'"

"And the men?" cried Delcassé. "What became of them?"

"They strode rapidly away along the quay, and were lost to sight."

Delcassé dropped into his chair, his face dark with passion.

"What do you infer from this circumstance?" he demanded.

"There is only one possible inference," answered Crochard. "At five
minutes before dawn this morning, there were, in this city of Toulon,
two Germans who knew that _La Liberté_ was to be destroyed."

A moment's silence followed. Those words, terrible as they were,
astounding as they were, carried conviction with them.

"Tell me," said Delcassé, at last, "how you discovered all this."

"I have been spending the month at Nice," Crochard explained. "I learned
of the disaster as soon as I was up this morning, and I came at once to
Toulon. Monsieur will understand that, in the many years during which I
have been at variance with society, I have made many friends and gained
a certain power in quarters of which Monsieur knows little. One of
these friends is the proprietor of the café which occupies the ground
floor of the house on the Quai de Cronstadt. I stopped to see him,
because his house is close to the scene of the disaster--so close,
indeed, that all of its windows were shattered. It was he who gave me
the first clue."

"Go on," said Delcassé, who had been listening intently. "I need not say
how deeply all this interests me."

"My friend had arranged to go to Marseilles this morning," Crochard
continued, "to make a purchase of wine. The train, he tells me, leaves
at six o'clock. It was about fifteen minutes before that hour when, as
he started to open his door, two men stepped into the little vestibule,
as though to screen themselves from observation. He peered through the
curtain, thinking they might be friends, and found that he did not know
them. Gazing from the darkness of the interior, he could see them very
well. They were staring at _La Liberté_, as I have said, their faces
rigid with emotion; and then came the explosion, which, without
question, they anticipated."

"You have a description of them?" broke in Delcassé.

"An excellent description. They were men of middle age, heavily built
and clean-shaven. Their faces were deeply tanned, as with long exposure,
and had that fulness about the lips which bespeaks the German. They
wore caps and walking-suits with knee trousers. Each had strapped upon
his back a small knapsack."

Lépine, who had been taking rapid notes, looked up with gleaming eyes.

"We shall find these men," he said. "It will not be difficult."

"More difficult than you suppose, M. Lépine," said Crochard dryly.

Lépine looked at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Crochard turned to Delcassé with a little deprecating gesture.

"Before I proceed," he said, "I must be certain of my position here.
With you, sir, no explanations are necessary; we understand each other
and we have no past to prejudice us. But M. le Prefect and I are old
enemies. We respect each other, but we always welcome an opportunity to
try conclusions. Until this affair is ended, I propose a truce."

"I will go further than that," retorted Lépine, "and call it an
alliance. I shall welcome your help. I have already told M. Delcassé
that you are probably as good a patriot as he or I."

"I shall try to prove that you are right," said Crochard, his eyes
shining. "There is one more condition. In this affair, it may be
necessary for me to call to my assistance certain persons for whom the
police are looking. Should they be recognised while so engaged, no
effort must be made to arrest them."

"I agree," said Lépine, instantly.

Crochard leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.

"I am ready to proceed," he said. "Let us, for the time, forget our
differences."

"I have already forgotten them," said Lépine.

Delcassé had listened to this interchange with smiling lips.

"Magnificent!" he cried. "I shall remember this scene all my life. And
now to work!"

"First," said Lépine, "permit me to inquire of Inspector Pigot how it
happened that neither he nor his men heard anything of these two
strangers?"

Pigot flushed darkly and opened his lips to defend himself, but Crochard
silenced him with a little gesture.

"I can explain that," he said. "Pigot is not a genius, it is true, but
neither is he quite a fool, and I should grieve to see him blamed for
something not his fault. I was careful to warn my friend to repeat his
story to no one. That, I think, was the wisest course. Those men must
not know that we suspect them."

Delcassé nodded.

"You are right," he agreed. "Are you possessed of any further
information?"

"I had only a few hours," Crochard apologised; "but I did what I could.
I learned that two men resembling these, and undoubtedly the same, had
been staying since Friday at the Hotel du Nord. The proprietor of that
house informed me that they left before daybreak this morning to walk to
Frejus."

"Ah, then," began Delcassé.

"But they did not go to Frejus," Crochard added. "They stopped at
Salins, which they reached about ten o'clock, boarded a small
steam-yacht which was waiting there, and at once put out to sea. I fear
they are beyond our reach."

Delcassé stamped his foot.

"What, then, is to be done?" he demanded.

"It seems to me most important that we identify these men," said
Crochard; "then we shall know where to look for them."

"Yes," agreed Delcassé; "but how are they to be identified?"

"There are, no doubt, in the files of your department, photographs of
the most prominent German officers, both of army and navy. I believe
these men to be officers--one, at least--the other may belong to the
secret service. I would suggest that these photographs be brought to
Toulon, and that it also be ascertained which officers are on leave of
absence, or not with their commands. Probably it will be necessary to
search only among the general officers. An affair so important would
not be entrusted to a subordinate."

Delcassé made a quick note.

"The photographs will be here to-morrow," he promised.

"I would further suggest that the innkeeper be strictly interrogated,"
Crochard went on. "I ventured to ask him only a careless question or
two; he does not know me, and I did not wish to arouse his suspicions."

Lépine arose.

"I will see him at once," he said.

Crochard rose also.

"And I will accompany you. That is all the information I have at
present, sir," he added to Delcassé.

"It is a great deal," said the Minister quickly. "Just before you came,
I was remarking to Lépine that what we needed in this affair was a man
of genius. Well, I think that we have found him!"

Crochard flushed with pleasure.

"I thank you, sir," he said.

"And I thank you for coming to me," said Delcassé. "You are doing France
a great service. I shall not forget it. Until morning, then."

Crochard bowed and left the room with the two detectives.

Delcassé sat for a moment deep in thought; then he summoned his
secretary, gave the necessary order about the photographs and dictated a
cipher telegram to the chief of his secret service at Berlin. That done,
he bade his secretary good night, dismissed him and went to bed.

But not to sleep. Turning at full length upon his back, his arms above
his head, he stared steadily up into the darkness until his brain, freed
of all lesser problems, all vagrant thoughts, was concentrated upon the
great problem which now confronted it:

How had the destruction of _La Liberté_ been accomplished?

It was, of course, the work of Germany. Those two strangers, who spoke
German in a moment of great excitement, who had arrived five minutes
before the disaster, who had hastened away immediately afterwards, who
had lied about their destination, and for whom a steam-yacht had been
waiting--all this, as Crochard said, could have but one meaning.

And then Delcassé fairly bounded in the bed. Fool that he had been not
to think of it! There was another proof! The telegram from the Emperor!

He lay a moment trembling, then calmed himself by a mighty effort. How
was it the Emperor had learned so promptly of the disaster? There was
only one possible answer: an emissary had hastened to flash the news to
him--an emissary dressed, prepared, who needed to delay for no
investigation, since the roar of the explosion told him everything--one
of the men, perhaps, who had waited on the quay. And Delcassé, biting
his nails, his face wet with perspiration, pictured to himself the
Emperor also waiting, pacing restlessly back and forth, until the word
should come! He gnashed his teeth with rage, this good Frenchman, and
shook trembling fists up into the darkness. Ah, Germany should pay!
Germany should pay!

But again he calmed himself, wiped his forehead, and composed himself
for thought.

How had _La Liberté_ been destroyed? There was the question which must
be answered, and at once.

By a mine, set to explode at a certain hour? Delcassé shook his head. It
was absurd to suppose that a mine could be planted in a harbour as
strictly guarded and policed as that of Toulon. By a torpedo, then,
which could be launched some distance away? But that was even more
absurd. The launching of a torpedo required a complex mechanism; as well
suppose that an enemy would be able to install a cannon on the docks
unobserved. By a submarine? But _La Liberté_ had lain at anchor in an
enclosed basin; besides there were the outer basins, patrol boats,
sentries, the constant coming and going of sailors and marines, of
launches, of boats of all kinds. How could an enemy creep unobserved
past all these?

True, the accident had occurred at dawn, when every one but the sentries
was asleep. But even at that hour the harbour was strictly guarded. An
enemy, to enter unseen, would have to be impalpable, invisible....

Besides, how could a mine or a torpedo or a submarine have caused the
explosion of the magazines, one after the other, at regular
intervals--"spaced," one of the officers had said, "like the reports of
a heavy gun." First one had been fired, and then a second, and then a
third; Delcassé, closing his eyes, had a vision of a ghostly figure
stealing from one to another, torch in hand....

His mind roved back again over his talk with Lépine. Could it have been
done by wireless? Not the ordinary wireless, but some subtle variant of
ether waves, some new form of radio-activity, which in some way caused
combustion? There was an enemy which could flit unseen from magazine to
magazine, which no locks nor bars could guard against....

His heart faltered at the thought. The possessor of such a secret would
have the world at his mercy. No ship would be safe, no fort, no
artillery-caisson. Armies and navies alike would melt before him,
destroyed by the explosion of their own ammunition. Ah, if France
possessed that secret....

He shook his head impatiently and turned on his side.

"I am dreaming foolish dreams," he told himself. "It is time to sleep."




CHAPTER IV

THE ALLIES AT WORK


It was nearly four o'clock when Crochard, Lépine and Pigot took their
leave of M. Delcassé and made their way through the dark and silent
streets in the direction of the Hotel du Nord. The people who had leaped
from their beds at sunrise, wearied at last by the emotions of the day
and dampened by the fine rain which had begun to fall, had gone to bed
again. Only about the harbour were there any signs of life. There the
searchlights of the battleships still played about the wreck, where
squads of marines were searching for the bodies of their comrades.

The three men, their coats buttoned about them, their hats pulled down,
hurried on in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Crochard and
Lépine were planning the campaign; Pigot had not yet recovered from his
confusion at the sight of these two working hand in hand.

Five minutes brought them to the door of the Hotel du Nord, and Lépine
applied to it a vigorous fist. There was no response, and he pounded
again. At last there came the sound of a window being raised, and a
night-capped head was thrust out from the upper story.

"Who is there?" asked a voice.

"Are you the proprietor?" demanded Lépine.

"Yes, sir."

"Then come down at once."

"But what is wrong, sir?" stammered Brisson, to whose frightened eyes
those three dark figures huddled in his doorway appeared most sinister.
"What is it you require?"

"No matter," said Lépine, sternly. "Come down at once and open the
door."

The window was lowered and some minutes passed. Had the three men at the
door been able to see inside the house, they would have been amused at
what occurred there, could anything have amused them at that moment. As
it was, they merely stamped with impatience and crowded closer to the
door, for the rain was falling more heavily.

Brisson retreated from the window, his fat countenance fallen into
creases of dismay, and plunged back into his bedroom, where his wife,
who had also been awakened by the knocking, was sitting up in bed.

"What is it, Brisson?" she asked.

"There are three men below," gasped Aristide, fumbling for his trousers.
"They command that I descend at once and admit them. There is something
which tells me it is the police--the police at this hour!"

"The police?" and Madame Gabrielle cast a rapid mental glance over their
affairs. "Well, admit them; we have no reason to fear the police."

"There is that little matter of the wine from your nephew which did not
pay the octroi," Brisson reminded her.

"Bah!" retorted Madame, who was by far the stronger spirit; "it cannot
be that! No one could suspect that; besides, even if they did, they
would not come hammering here in the middle of the night. Descend at
once and admit them. Assume a bold front, Brisson! Do not let them
suspect that you have fear! Go at once! Hasten! I will come as soon as I
have found a petticoat."

Thus encouraged, Brisson descended and opened the door, holding a
lighted candle above his head and presenting as bold a front as his
not-too-courageous spirit could muster. The three men crowded past him,
without waiting for an invitation or saying a word, and one of them took
the door from his hand and closed and bolted it. The horrible thought
flashed through Brisson's head that they were robbers, bandits, and he
had opened his mouth to cry for help, when one of them, the little,
lean, grey-bearded one, with the fierce eyes, spoke.

"We belong to the police," he said. "We desire a few moments'
conversation with you."

"Certainly, sir," stammered Brisson, thinking, as he met those eyes,
that perhaps he would have preferred the bandits. "Come this way, if you
please, sirs," and he led the way into his bureau.

He placed the candle on the table and dropped into a chair. His visitors
remained standing, facing him. Brisson realised that for him to sit
while they stood was anything but courteous, and he struggled to arise,
but the strength seemed departed from his legs, and he sank helplessly
back again.

"What is your name?" asked the little man, looking at him with those
gimlet eyes.

"Aristide Brisson, sir."

"You have been long in this house?"

"For twenty years, sir. My record is of the best."

"We will investigate it," said Lépine curtly.

"Do so!" cried a voice behind them. "Nothing would please us better!"
They turned to find Madame Brisson on the threshold, her eyes flashing,
her bosom heaving, one plump hand holding together at the throat the
garment which threatened every moment to disclose her still plumper
shoulders. "We are honest people--our neighbours will speak a good word
for us--all of them!"

"I do not doubt it, Madame," said Lépine, courteously, realising that
here he had to do with the head of the house. "Meanwhile we wish to make
certain inquiries of you, which you need not hesitate to answer. But I
wish first to warn you that of these inquiries you must not breathe so
much as a word to any one. Do you understand?"

"We understand, sir; you may rely upon us," said Madame Brisson, and sat
down beside her husband.

"Our inquiry," pursued Lépine, "concerns the two gentlemen who departed
so early yesterday morning."

At the words, Brisson bounded in his chair, and the colour swept back
into his cheeks. He was himself again.

"So!" he cried, and suddenly found that he could stand erect, and did
so. "So! It is about those swine! I knew that all was not right; I knew
that they were not as they pretended!"

"What was it they pretended?"

"That they were of America. But it did not deceive me--no, not for one
instant. They had not the air of Americans. Besides, do Americans go
tramping about the country with knapsacks on their backs? No; only
Germans do that! To Gabrielle, as they departed, I said, 'Americans, no;
Germans perhaps, or Austrians--but not Americans!'"

"Yes, gentlemen, those were his very words!" said Madame Brisson, with
an emphatic nod.

"And there is a final proof," went on Brisson, excitedly; "a proof
conclusive. When I present my bill, the one who takes it grows quite
red with anger. It was a most reasonable bill--ninety-six francs for
three days, with many extras--a most reasonable bill, for Americans. It
was then that I knew there was something wrong--that they were imposters
who feared the police. It was only that which prevented a scene.
'Gabrielle,' I said, as they went away down the street, 'those men have
something to conceal.'"

"Yes, gentlemen," put in Gabrielle, "he said just that."

"There is even worse to come, sirs," and Brisson dropped his voice as
one does in speaking of great horrors. "You will scarcely credit it,
but, after having had us at their heels for three days, upstairs,
downstairs; after compelling us to arise in the dark of night to prepare
their breakfasts--this person handed me a note for a hundred francs and
said with a lordly air, 'You may keep the change.' The change--four
francs! And yet from his manner you would have thought he was giving me
a fortune!"

"Have you still that hundred-franc note?" Lépine inquired.

"But certainly, sir," answered Madame Gabrielle, and, turning her back
to the company, she stooped quickly and arose with the bill in her hand.

Lépine took it and examined it carefully by the light of the candle. It
was a new note, apparently fresh from the bank, and the Prefect's eyes
were shining with satisfaction when he raised his head.

"I shall have to retain this," he said. "One moment," he added, as
Madame Brisson opened her lips to protest; "I shall, of course, give you
another for it," and he drew out his purse, placed the new note
carefully in a flapped compartment, selected another and handed it to
the anxious lady, who received it with a sigh of relief. "And now!" went
on Lépine, "please tell us all that you can remember about these
men--every small detail."

Both Monsieur and Madame Brisson grew voluble at once, for rarely had it
been their fortune to address so attentive an audience. But there were
few grains of wheat among the chaff. The two strangers had arrived, it
appeared, on the evening of the twenty-second, Friday. They were
Americans, they said, on a walking tour. Their names? Brisson did not
remember; but they would be found on the police registration slip which
he had caused them to fill out at once and had sent to the Prefecture
that very evening. He had noticed on the slip that they had come from
Marseilles and were on their way to Nice. Their bags had already arrived
from Marseilles, and, at their direction, he had had them brought up
from the station.

"Where are the bags now?" asked Lépine.

"They directed that they be sent to Nice," explained Brisson. "I
despatched them yesterday morning, as I agreed."

"You have the receipt?"

"But certainly, sir," and Brisson, while his wife held the light,
rummaged in his desk and finally produced the paper in question.

Lépine placed it in his purse beside the hundred-franc note.

"Proceed," he said. "In what way did these strangers occupy themselves
during their stay?"

They were absent from morning till night, it appeared, walking about the
streets, about the docks, visiting the ships in the harbour, climbing
the hills back of the town, and even going as far as Cape Cepet, where
the great fort is--penetrating, in a word, to every nook and corner
which it is possible for visitors to enter. In fact, in the two days of
their stay, they had seen more of Toulon than had Brisson in the twenty
years of his residence.

The details of these expeditions Brisson had learned with the greatest
difficulty, for his guests had talked but little, had kept to
themselves, had discouraged his advances, resented his questions, and
often pretended that they did not understand--all of which was in itself
suspicious. When talking together, they used a language which Brisson
supposed to be English; but he was not familiar with English; knew only
a few words of it, indeed--"money," "damn,"--such words as every one
knows. Their French, also, was very bad,--much worse at some times than
at others....

Lépine finally stopped this flow of language, when it became apparent
that nothing but chaff remained.

"Do any further questions suggest themselves?" he asked, looking first
at Crochard and then at Pigot. "No? You understand, my friends," he
added, turning back to the innkeeper and his wife, "that of all this you
will say nothing--not even to each other. An incautious word, and you
may find yourselves in a most difficult position. On the other hand, if
you are careful, if you are reticent, you will not be forgotten."

"We understand, sir," said they both in a breath, and Brisson added,
with venom in his voice, "They were swine! I rejoice that they did not
get their telegram!"

Lépine jumped as though a pin had been driven into him.

"Their telegram? What do you mean?" he cried.

"About an hour after they were gone," Brisson hastened to explain, "or
perhaps two hours--I do not know--a messenger appeared with a telegram
addressed to a grotesque name--Zhones, Smeet--I do not remember--in
care of the Hotel du Nord. I concluded it was for one of them, and told
the messenger it was too late, that the man had departed--to Frejus, to
Nice--I did not know whither. So he took the telegram back again."

Lépine's eyes were gleaming as he glanced at Crochard.

"I am glad that you have mentioned this detail, M. Brisson," he said. "I
thank you--and you also, Madame!" and with that, he and his companions
bade the worthy couple adieu.

Once in the street, Crochard paused.

"I will leave you now, M. Lépine," he said. "You have your work to
do--but you do not need me. Should I have anything further to
communicate, you will hear from me."

"And if we wish to find you?"

"For the present, I am staying with my friend on the Quai de Cronstadt."

"Very good," said Lépine. "Good night," and in a moment he and Pigot
were lost in the darkness.

The rain had ceased and a chill wind had arisen, but Crochard did not
seem to feel it, as he walked slowly toward the quays, his head bent in
thought. An ironical smile curved his lips, as he pictured Lépine off
upon the scent first to the Prefecture, then to the post-office. He
would follow it well, of course; he would run it to the end. He would
discover, no doubt, the identity of the two travellers; that would not
be difficult. Crochard himself had pointed out the way.

But what then? Even if they were found to be men high in the German
service, that was of small importance. It _proved_ nothing. They were at
liberty to visit Toulon, if they wished to do so; and, after all, their
arrival at the quay five minutes before dawn might have been an
accident; they _might_ have lingered for a last look at _La Liberté_
without any suspicion of what was about to occur. Such a coincidence, if
not probable, was, at least, conceivable; and such, of course, would be
their explanation, if an explanation was ever asked for. There was no
way to disprove it.

As to the yacht on which they had embarked--well, that, too, may have
been an accident--a boat belonging to a friend whom they had come upon
unexpectedly and upon which they had been persuaded to take a cruise.
Suspicious circumstances--yes, many of them; but no proof, no absolute
proof. And nothing, absolutely nothing, to show that the explosion had
been caused by any outside agency.

Arrived at the water-front, Crochard walked on until he was opposite the
wreck. There he sat down, with his legs overhanging the quay. Two or
three searchlights were still focussed on the ruin, but the rescue
parties had been withdrawn, and only a few sentries remained. He could
see how that formidable monster of a ship had been torn and twisted into
an inextricable and hideous mass of iron and steel. One turret remained
above the water, blown over on its side, its great guns pointing
straight at the zenith; but the rest was a mere tangle of metal.

Such destruction could have been wrought only by the explosion of the
magazines; no mine or torpedo could have done it. And as he gazed at the
mass of wreckage visible above the water, he perceived a certain
resemblance to photographs he had seen of the wreck of the _Maine_. The
_Maine's_ forward magazine had exploded; but Crochard knew, as well as
M. Delcassé himself, what had caused that explosion.

Perhaps history was repeating itself, as, proverbially, it is supposed
to have a way of doing. But Crochard shook his head. If the catastrophe
was not an accident, then it was the result of some agency far more
subtle than mine or torpedo. And, also, if it was not an accident, those
two men who had waited in the shadow of the doorway back of him for the
deed to be accomplished, must have had an accomplice. They could not
destroy the ship merely by staring at her! Somewhere, somewhere,
concealed but not far distant, that accomplice must have awaited the
first beam of the rising sun as the signal to hurl his thunderbolt, to
loose his mysterious power!

What was that power? How had the thing been done? Those, Crochard felt,
were the questions to be answered. As to who had done it, or why it had
been done--that could wait. But if there existed in the world a force
which, directed from a distance, noiseless, invisible, impalpable, could
destroy a battleship asleep at her anchorage, then indeed did it behoove
France to discover and guard against it!

At last, his head still bent, Crochard arose, crossed the quay, opened
the door of Number Ten, and entered.

No doubt it would have interested both him and M. Delcassé to know how
nearly parallel the channels of their thoughts had run!




CHAPTER V

AT THE CAFÉ DES VOYAGEURS


M. Delcassé was scarcely out of bed, next morning, when Lépine's card
was brought in to him. He smiled as he read the line scrawled across it:
"My report awaits Monsieur."

"Show M. Lépine into the breakfast-room," said the Minister, "and inform
him that I shall be down at once. Also inquire if he has breakfasted. If
not, see that he is served."

He hastened on with his toilet, and, five minutes later, joined Lépine,
whom he found at his favourite amusement of standing at a window and
gazing into the street--an amusement which occupied every idle moment,
sometimes with the most astonishing results. Chance plays a larger part
in life than most people are willing to admit; Lépine believed in it;
went half-way to meet it--and, more than once, had seen drifting past
him along the pavement the face for which his best men had been
searching vainly.

Lépine, it appeared, had already breakfasted, and, while the Minister
ate, told of the interrogation at the Hotel du Nord. He had sent one of
his men to Nice, with the receipts for the bags, and if, as seemed
probable, they were still uncalled for, they would be examined at once.

"Though, even if they are still there," Lépine added, "we shall probably
discover nothing of moment. One does not place anything of value in a
bag and then abandon it. But I have another clue of the first
importance," and he produced the hundred-franc note. "Here is the note
given to Brisson by one of the strangers. You perceive that it is quite
new. I suggest that you send the number of this note to the Bank of
France, ascertain when and to whom it was issued, and if any other notes
of the series were issued at the same time."

"I will do so," said M. Delcassé, and made a note of the number. "I
agree with you that this is most important."

"One thing more," went on Lépine, replacing the note in his pocket-book
and extracting a slip of paper; "a small thing, but of significance. I
have here the police blanks which the two men filled out upon arriving
at the Hotel du Nord. Their names, you see, are given as George Arnold
and William Smith, their home as New York City, United States of
America. If you will notice the 'S' of the word 'Smith,' you will see
that it is made in the German manner."

"That is true; but it may mean nothing. There are many Germans who are
citizens of the United States."

"Yes; but the German name is Schmidt, not Smith. I conclude that this
man is a German, but was trying to conceal it."

"You may be right," Delcassé assented, with a trace of impatience in his
manner; "no doubt you _are_ right. Is there anything more?"

"There is one thing," said Lépine, colouring a little, "which I have
kept until the last, because it seems to upset M. Crochard's theory."

"What is that?"

Lépine drew two sheets of yellow tissue-paper from his pocket-book.

"An hour after our men left the Hotel du Nord," he said, "a telegram
arrived, addressed to this William Smith. Here it is," and he spread out
one of the sheets on the desk before the Minister.

Delcassé bent forward eagerly and read:

      "_William Smith, Hotel du Nord, Toulon, France._

      "Our mother requests that you abandon trip, cancel all
      arrangements, and return at once.

      "ALFRED."

"Well?" and Delcassé looked up at his companion.

"That would seem to show, sir," said Lépine, "that William Smith was
only an ordinary traveller, after all. You will see that it was filed
at Brussels at noon of Sunday, the twenty-fourth. It was delayed in
transmission, and for some reason was not received at Toulon until nine
o'clock in the evening. Messages here are not delivered on Sunday
evening after eight o'clock, and this was held until seven the next
morning. At that hour, William Smith was no longer at the hotel."

"Well?" asked Delcassé a second time.

"Well," Lépine continued, "at ten minutes past six on Monday morning,
this message was filed at the office here," and he spread out the second
sheet of tissue.

Again Delcassé bent forward, and read:

      "_Alfred Smith, Restante, Brussels._

      "We continue our trip as planned. All well. Next address
      Nice.

      "WILLIAM."

"You will see," Lépine went on, "that these messages are such as an
ordinary tourist would send and receive."

But Delcassé was not listening. He was reading the messages a second
time and yet a third, and there was a wrinkle of perplexity between his
brows. At last he looked up, and the Prefect was astonished at the
expression of his face.

"There is one thing I forgot to tell you last night, Lépine," he said.
"I did not myself see its significance until I had got to bed. The first
telegram received from any foreign power in reference to the disaster
was from the German Emperor."

Lépine smiled.

"The German Emperor was the first to get word of it," he said. "I
examined the other telegrams filed Monday morning. At ten minutes to
seven, the German consul here notified the Minister of State at Berlin
of the explosion. Admiral Bellue did not file his message to you until
forty minutes later. No doubt he wished to assure himself of the extent
of the disaster, in order not to alarm you needlessly. You should have
received it not later than eight o'clock."

"It was, in fact, a few minutes before that hour. And when I reached the
Elysée Palace, I found the President with a message from the Kaiser in
his hand. It struck me as most peculiar."

"It was ironic, certainly," agreed Lépine, "but, under the
circumstances, easily explained."

"You think, then--"

"I think that Crochard has assumed too much; I think that, before we
accuse these men, we need more proof."

Delcassé pushed back his chair and paced for some moments nervously
about the room. At last he sat down again, and rolled and lighted a
cigarette.

"You are right," he said; "we need more proof. It is for you to find it,
if it exists. And at this moment, I am interested not so much in the
movements of these men, as in the cause of the explosion. Even supposing
that they had a hand in it, how was it accomplished?"

Lépine returned the telegrams to his pocket.

"I agree with you," he said, "that that is the vital question. And I am
unable to answer it."

"I shall institute a Board of Inquiry at once," went on the Minister; "I
have, in fact, already summoned the officers who will compose it. I will
arrange for it to visit the wreck and begin to take evidence to-day, as
it is important that the evidence be secured while the event is still
fresh. I would suggest that you place some of your men at the
disposition of the Board."

"Very well, sir," Lépine agreed, and withdrew.

Toulon was awake again, and the streets were thronged as on a fête day.
The first shock of the disaster had passed, and the inborn cheerfulness
of the people was asserting itself. The excuse for a holiday was not to
be overlooked, and every one who could take a day, or even an hour of
leisure, did so, and spent it partly on the quays staring at the wreck,
partly in the Place de la Liberté listening to the orators, partly in
the Place d'Armes watching the men at work draping with black the
Maritime Prefecture, where the Board of Inquiry was to sit, and the
church of Saint Louis, where requiem High Mass was to be celebrated.
Finally as much as remained of the holiday was spent at a café before a
glass of coffee or apéritif, with the satisfaction of a sacred duty
conscientiously performed.

Lépine, as he made his way through the crowd, noticed that there was no
longer any talk of treachery or treason,--even the word "sabotage" was
no longer uttered. Every one agreed that the affair was another
accident, deplorable indeed, but unavoidable and without dishonour, and
so not to be taken too deeply to heart. France could build other
battleships! The mercury in the national temperament was asserting
itself.

For an hour Lépine walked about with thoughtful face, listening to the
talk, watching the crowd, joining a group here and there, catching
chance words from passers-by. He had had only three hours' sleep, but he
showed no trace of fatigue. Certainly nothing was farther from his
thoughts at this moment than that he needed rest.

He made his way at last to the Quai de Cronstadt and joined the crowd
which was staring at the wreck. A barge had been moored alongside, and a
heavy crane was lifting the detached débris into it and clearing the way
for the searching parties. On the quay opposite the wreck, at Number
Ten, was a café, the Café des Voyageurs as its sign announced, and to
this Lépine presently crossed, sat down at a table and ordered a bock.

The café was crowded, for its situation could not have been more
fortunate; a steady stream of money had poured into the pockets of its
proprietor ever since the disaster. The shattered windows were in
themselves an advertisement, and no effort had as yet been made to
replace them. Lépine looked about the place with interest. It was not
large, but it had a certain air of prosperity bespeaking a good
patronage, even at ordinary times. At the Prefecture, Lépine had made
some discreet inquiries concerning its proprietor, who, he was told, had
the reputation of being an honest fellow and had never been in trouble
with the police. Nevertheless, as a friend of Crochard's, Lépine would
have welcomed a look at him; but the place at the moment was apparently
in charge of the head-waiter. It was the head-waiter himself who
responded when Lépine rapped for the "addition," and, as he paid it,
slipped a note into his hand. Lépine opened it, under cover of his hat,
and found that it contained a single line:

      "Monsieur C. will welcome a conference with Monsieur L."

Without a word, Lépine arose and followed the man, who crossed the room,
opened a door at the farther end of it, stood aside for him to pass, and
then gently closed it. Lépine found himself in a little room with a
single window opening upon a court. It was furnished with a table and
three chairs, and at the table sat Crochard. He motioned Lépine to a
seat.

"I was expecting you," he said, with a little smile; "and I am glad you
came. In the presence of that good Pigot, one cannot talk freely.
Indeed, it was with the greatest difficulty that I maintained a sober
countenance. He was so astonished, so overwhelmed, that you and I should
be working together--that we should be able to sit in the same room
without flying at each other's throats. If he only knew--"

"Is it necessary to go into that?" asked Lépine.

"Why not? You have no reason to be ashamed of it. If you have sought my
aid from time to time, it was because you realised that Crochard the
Invincible has sources of information which are closed to the police."

"I said as much to M. Delcassé. It was not of myself I was thinking, but
of you. What if your friends knew?"

"My friends? I have never betrayed my friends, as you know well. Surely,
Lépine, you have understood that, if I assisted you, it was only because
it suited me to do so!"

"Yes, I have understood that," assented Lépine, flushing a little at
the other's tone. "You always had a bargain to propose. What is the
bargain, this time?"

"There is no bargain," retorted Crochard, curtly. "I ask nothing."

Lépine cast at him an astonished glance.

"What!" cried Crochard, his face suddenly red, "you cannot believe the
truth, then? It seems incredible to you that I should love my country?
Well, I _do_ love her, and I am going to prove it by saving her!"

"Is she in need of saving?" queried Lépine, ironically.

Crochard's eyes gleamed; then, in a moment, his anger passed.

"Delcassé believes so; Lépine does not: behold the difference between a
great man and a clever one," he said, and looked at Lépine with pity in
his eyes.

"Well, yes," said the Prefect; "I admit it; I make no claim to
greatness. I perceive no danger--nor, for the matter of that, does M.
Delcassé."

Crochard looked at him for a moment.

"Let me see the registration slip from the Prefecture," he said, at
last.

Without a word, Lépine got out his pocket-book, produced the slip, and
handed it to his companion.

Crochard studied it closely.

"You have, of course, remarked the German 'S,'" he said, at last "I
thought so. Now the telegram which arrived too late."

Lépine passed it over obediently.

Crochard read it and re-read it, a strange light in his eyes.

"And now the other one," he said, finally.

Lépine stared at him.

"How do you know there is another one?" he demanded.

"Of course there is another one!" retorted Crochard, impatiently. "Any
fool would know that!"

Still staring, Lépine handed him the second sheet of tissue.

Crochard took one glance at it; then he looked at his companion.

"Do you mean to say, Lépine," he asked, "that, in the face of these
telegrams, you remain unconvinced--that you do not see the danger?"

"I see no danger," repeated the Prefect, doggedly.

"And yet I tell you, Lépine," said Crochard, leaning forward across the
table and speaking in deadliest earnest, "that the danger is desperate.
You are blind to it, a thing which astonishes me; M. Delcassé can do
nothing--his hands are tied by the red tape of his position. There
remains only Crochard! If I sit idle, if I fold my hands, within a
month Germany will declare war and will sweep over France like a
pestilence. Yesterday she struck the first blow; I tremble to think what
the second may be!"

"But war!" protested Lépine. "Nonsense! For war there must be a cause."

"A pretext will do--and a pretext can always be found. Already Germany
is preparing her pretext: she has demanded equal rights with France in
Morocco--a preposterous demand, and one which France can never grant.
What cares Germany about Morocco? Nothing! But the pretext must be
ready. And now, Lépine," he added, pushing back the papers, and speaking
in another tone, "I will tell you why I have come to you: I should
prefer to work alone; but, in the first place, it was necessary to
provide a means of access to M. Delcassé; in the second place, you got
these papers, where I might have failed; in the third place, there are
certain questions to which you can get an answer more easily than I."

"What are the questions?" asked Lépine, moved, in spite of himself, by
Crochard's manner.

"There are two to which I would ask you to get answers at once. The
first: does the government maintain, or has it authorised, any wireless
stations in the town or in the neighbourhood? The second: have the
wireless operators on any of the battleships noticed any unusual
interference during the past few days? How long will it take you to
secure answers to those questions--authoritative answers?"

"An hour."

Crochard glanced at his watch.

"It is now ten o'clock. At eleven, you will arrange for a conference
with M. Delcassé. There must be no one present but we three."

"M. Crochard," said Lépine, drily, "I do not like your imperatives. I am
not accustomed to them."

"M. Lépine," Crochard retorted, "my way of speaking is my own, and I am
too old to change. In this affair, it is you who work with me, not I
with you. Shall we go on, or shall we stop here?"

Lépine trembled with a severe inward struggle. Crochard impressed and
fascinated him; but his terms were humiliating.

Crochard met his gaze, read what was behind it, and leaned forward again
across the table.

"Lépine," he said, "have I ever failed to do a thing I promised?"

"No."

"I shall not fail this time."

"What is it you promise?"

"I promise," said Crochard, and raised his right hand solemnly, as
though registering an oath, "I promise to find the man who destroyed
_La Liberté_, and to save my country!"

Lépine gazed at him for a moment, then pushed back his chair and rose to
his feet. The patriot in him had triumphed.

"Where shall the conference with M. Delcassé take place?" he asked.

Crochard smiled at the question and at the little man's impassive face.

"Lépine," he said, "on my word, you touch greatness sometimes, and I
find myself admiring you! Let the conference take place at M. Delcassé's
apartment. Oh, yes; you will have a closed carriage waiting at the
private entrance."

"At eleven o'clock," agreed Lépine.

"At eleven o'clock," repeated Crochard, and waved his adieu. Then, as
the door closed behind that erect little figure, he sank back into his
seat with a chuckle and touched a bell.

An inner door, concealed so cleverly in the wall that even Lépine's
sharp eyes had not perceived it, opened and a man looked in.

"He has gone," Crochard said. "Bring some wine, Samson, and two
glasses."

The door closed, but opened again in a moment to admit the man, with
bottle and glasses. He placed them on the table, went back to make sure
that the door was closed, and then sat down opposite Crochard. Why he
should be called Samson, unless in derision, was hard to understand, for
he was a mere skeleton of a man, with a face like parchment. But the
brow was high and the eyes bright and the mouth as tender as a woman's.

Crochard glanced at the label on the cobwebbed bottle, and nodded as he
filled his glass.

"You are good to your friends, Samson," he said. "Your health!"

"Yours!" said Samson, and drained his glass. "Everything I have is
yours, my master; you know that!"

"Even your life?"

"You have only to ask it."

Crochard looked at him with smiling eyes.

"I believe you, my friend," he said. "Some day I may have to ask it--but
not yet. Did you see the man who just left me?"

"It was M. Lépine," said Samson, quietly.

"Did he see you?"

"No; but if he had, it would make no difference. He would not know me
now."

"Perhaps not," Crochard agreed, and glanced at the other's wasted face.
"And yet he has sharp eyes and a wonderful memory."

"I will keep out of his way," said Samson.

"At worst, it is only a question of another rescue; but avoid him, if
you can. You have a good station here, the business pays; you can lead
a quiet life--and, from time to time, be of use to me."

"The last is the most important," said Samson, and filled his glass
again.

"Have you learned anything more of the white-haired man?"

"No; but I _will_ know more before evening."

"I wish especially to find his lodging. If he is no longer there, I must
know when he departed and where he went."

"All that you shall know; I will see to it."

"No detail is too unimportant."

"I shall remember."

"And perhaps," added Crochard, "if things go well--for this is an affair
of great importance, where for once I am working on the side of the
law--I shall be able to secure for you that for which you have
longed--pardon from the State, rehabilitation, so that you can resume
your own name and live again openly with your family. That is worth
working for, is it not?"

"Ah!" cried Samson, his voice quivering with emotion. "If you could do
that! But it is impossible!"

"It is _not_ impossible!" said Crochard, and struck the table with his
open hand. "I promise it!"

Samson stared at him, his lips working, and two large tears formed
slowly in the corners of his eyes, brimmed over and ran down his
cheeks. If Crochard said "I promise it!" the thing was as good as done.
Suddenly he sat upright and brushed the tears away.

"What is it I must do?" he asked. "Tell me!"

And Crochard, drawing his chair closer, began his rapid instructions.




CHAPTER VI

THE MYSTERIOUS SIGNALS


M. Delcassé was a busy man, that morning, and he snorted with derision
when Lépine, having secured admission for a moment, told him of
Crochard's request for an audience at eleven o'clock.

"Impossible!" he said. "The Board of Inquiry is to convene at that hour,
and I must be present to address them."

"Perhaps it would be possible to adjourn the meeting until afternoon,"
Lépine suggested.

Delcassé stared at him in astonishment.

"Possible, yes," he said; "most things are possible. But do you know
what it is you are proposing?"

"I am proposing," said Lépine boldly, "that you permit nothing to
interfere with the conference which Crochard requests."

"But Crochard--who is Crochard that I should disturb all my arrangements
for him?"

"I will tell you who he is, sir," said Lépine, gently; "he is the man
whom, next to yourself, I consider the most remarkable in France."

Delcassé softened. The compliment was, perhaps, not delicate, but it was
at least deserved.

"You believe that?" he asked.

"Yes, I do believe it. I must tell you more of Crochard, some day.
Beside him, I am a mere bungler--I realise it more deeply each time I
meet him. And I assure you that I am not one to underestimate myself."

Delcassé looked at him with a little smile.

"It seems to me that your note has changed," he said. "This morning--"

"I have seen Crochard since then," explained Lépine, simply.

"And you are in earnest about this conference?"

"In deadly earnest, sir. So is Crochard."

Delcassé pondered a moment.

"You may bring him here at seven o'clock to-night," he said, finally.
"That is the first moment I have at leisure."

"It will not do, M. Delcassé," said Lépine, firmly. "The other inquiry
must wait. It is not that inquiry which is important, it is this one."

Again the Minister stared.

"But it seems to me that you are telling me what I must do," he said.
"Explain yourself."

"Your official inquiry," answered Lépine boldly, "for all the famous men
who take part in it, will discover nothing--it will be like that other
inquiry into the affair of the _Jena_."

"And what will yours discover?"

"It is not mine--it is Crochard's," Lépine corrected. "It is he who is
in command. And it seems to me that he has already made a beginning. I
am convinced that he has something more to tell us. He has charged me to
secure answers to two questions."

"What are they?"

"Whether there are any wireless stations in the town, or in the
neighbourhood, and whether there has recently been any peculiar
interference with the working of the instruments on our battleships."

"Ah!" said Delcassé, whose expression had changed from irritation to one
of absorbed attention. "So he has thought of that, also!" and he fell
into a moment's revery. "Very well, Lépine," he added. "I believe that
you are right. I will arrange for the President to open the sitting, and
I will summon the man who can answer the questions."

He rang for his secretary, and Lépine hastened away to secure the closed
carriage. He smiled to himself as he did so. How incredulous Pigot and
all the rest would be should they ever hear that their chief had obeyed
blindly the instructions of The Invincible, and that the first Minister
of France had altered his plans in accordance with them!

The carriage engaged and one of his own men placed in charge of it,
Lépine took his station at the principal entrance, to watch the crowd
until Crochard should appear. The corridors were thronged with people,
hurrying in and out. Lépine knew many of them, for a whole staff had
been brought from Paris to carry on the business of the State, and more
than one august individual paused for a word with him. But to their
questions he could only respond by a shake of the head.

At the stroke of eleven, Crochard mounted the steps to the door, and, at
a nod from the Prefect, followed him up the stairs into the anteroom of
Delcassé's suite. An attendant, who was evidently on the watch for them,
showed them at once into the Minister's private office. He was deep in
correspondence, but he instantly pushed it to one side and dismissed his
secretary.

"Well, M. Crochard," he said, "Lépine tells me you have more news for
us. Be seated. What is the news?"

"I requested that M. Lépine should make certain inquiries--"

"Yes, about the wireless," and Delcassé looked at him closely. "Tell me,
why did you think of that?"

"I do not know," answered Crochard, rubbing his forehead slowly; "but as
I sat last night gazing at the wreck, a thought came to me--a vague
thought--not to be put into words...."

"Well," said Delcassé, as he paused, "I had the same thought last night,
before I slept. It seems to me a most striking coincidence. Are you
aware that, in the case of the _Jena_, wireless was mentioned as a
possible cause?"

"Yes," answered Crochard; "I am aware of that."

The eyes of the two men met in a long glance. Then Delcassé touched a
bell.

"Introduce General Marbeau," he said to his secretary.

The latter returned in a moment with a dark little man in full uniform.
Then he went out again and closed the door. The little man bowed deeply
to the Minister of Marine.

"Be seated, General," said Delcassé. "M. Lépine, I think you already
know--as who does not! This other gentleman I will not name--I will only
say that he is a coadjutor whose services we value very highly. He has
certain questions to ask you, which I wish you to answer as though I
myself were asking them. Proceed, sir," and he nodded to Crochard.
"General Marbeau is the chief of our wireless service."

"What wireless stations are there in the city of Toulon, General?"
Crochard began.

"None, sir, except the one at the arsenal," Marbeau answered, looking at
his questioner with discreet curiosity.

"And in the neighbourhood?"

"None nearer than Marseilles."

"There are no private installations?"

"The government does not permit private installations."

"Yet there might be some, clandestinely built?"

"That is possible."

"However, you can assure me of this: if any such do exist, they are
outside the law?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Why are private stations prohibited?"

"They are prohibited because they would interfere with the government
stations. You understand, sir, that wireless waves clash in the air, as
it were; when they cross or intermingle, the result is a confusing
chatter, until the sending and receiving instruments have been carefully
tuned with each other. Even that does not always overcome it. A few
private stations have been authorised strictly for scientific purposes,
but there is none nearer than that at the University of Lyons."

"Do you ever suffer from interference here?"

"Oh, yes; the English have a very powerful station at Gibraltar and
another at Malta; their battleships are all equipped with it, as are
those of Italy. So are most of the passenger steamers which enter the
Mediterranean. The air is often filled with messages."

"Has there been any such interference during the past few days?"

"Yes, a great deal of it; one instance in particular of which my
operators have complained."

"Ah!" said Crochard. "Will you tell us exactly what it was?"

"Last Saturday," explained Marbeau, "about three in the afternoon, there
came from somewhere a series of long dashes, lasting nearly half a
second, and spaced about two seconds apart. This continued for perhaps
half an hour."

"You had no idea as to their origin?"

"We thought that perhaps the English were tuning up a new and very
powerful instrument at Gibraltar."

"You had no way of verifying this?"

"We did not try to do so."

"Was this interruption repeated?"

"Yes; our automatic recorder shows that the signals began again a little
before five o'clock yesterday morning and continued for nearly two
hours."

Crochard's eyes were shining.

"At what hour was _La Liberté_ destroyed?" he asked.

"The first explosion was at 5:50. There were two others, a few minutes
apart. The main magazine exploded at very close to six o'clock."

"So that these signals began at least an hour before and continued
nearly an hour past that time?"

"That is so, sir," assented Marbeau, in surprise; "but I can imagine no
connection--"

"Do not imagine anything," broke in Delcassé quickly, his voice
quivering with excitement. "Perhaps there is no connection; but
nevertheless I think these signals should have been reported to me. Come
in," he added, as a tap sounded at the door.

His secretary entered and handed him a telegram. Delcassé's eyes were
positively gleaming as he read it.

"Better and better!" he cried. "Oh, this is a game after my own heart!"
and he tossed the telegram to Lépine. "Read it aloud!" he added, "that I
may be sure my eyes have not deceived me!"

And Lépine picked up the message and read:

      "Note B162864R, one hundred francs, one of series of three
      hundred such notes sent to Imperial Bank, Berlin, September
      8.

      "LINNÉ, Governor Bank of France."

There was a moment's silence, Marbeau staring blankly, but the other
three gazing into each other's faces with shining eyes.

"Perfect, perfect!" murmured Delcassé, and seized the telegram and read
it again.

"The next step, sir," said Crochard quietly, "is to instruct every bank
in France to report immediately the receipt of any of the other two
hundred and ninety-nine!"

Delcassé drew a deep breath, pulled a pad of blanks toward him, and
scribbled a few words.

"See that this is sent at once," he said, and the secretary took the
message and hastened away.

Then Delcassé did something which he had not done since that night, five
years before, when word came that England had signed the secret treaty:
he removed his great glasses, got out his handkerchief, and deliberately
wiped his eyes.

"Your pardon, gentlemen," he said, with a twisted smile. "This is for me
a great moment. You know my dream! I believed it shattered; but now I
think that it may yet come true!" He snapped his glasses on again and
swung around to Crochard. "If it does," he added, "I shall have you to
thank! Proceed with your questions."

"There are no more questions, sir," said Crochard; "but we have a little
excursion to make. It will consume perhaps an hour, and I think that you
will find it interesting. M. Lépine has a closed carriage at the private
entrance. I would suggest that General Marbeau accompany us. He will be
of great service. Can we start at once?"

For answer, Delcassé leaped to his feet and seized his hat. There was
no longer in his mind any question as to the importance of this inquiry,
and the comparative unimportance of that other one, opening with much
pomp at the Prefecture. In fact, he had forgotten all about it!

"The private entrance, you say?" he asked. "Then come this way," and he
led the way down the private staircase. The carriage stood at the curb.

Crochard glanced at the driver.

"He is your man, of course?" he said to Lépine. "Good." And, as the
others entered, he stopped to speak a few words to him. Then he, too,
leaped inside, and slammed the door.

The driver spoke to his horses, and they were off, along the Rue
Nationale, across the Place St. Roche, through the Botanic Gardens, past
the Marine Observatory, under the Porte Nationale, and through the
faubourgs. At the end of twenty minutes, the town was left behind, and
Crochard stopped the carriage, got out, and mounted to the seat beside
the driver.

Then, at a slower pace, the carriage climbed a narrow road leading
toward the hills back of the town. It was apparently little used, for it
was overgrown with grass, over which the carriage-wheels rolled
noiselessly. Inside the carriage, Delcassé spoke only once.

"On this day of surprises, I am prepared for anything!" he declared, and
relapsed into silence.

At last the carriage stopped, and, pulling back the curtains, those
within it saw they were in the midst of a grove of lofty beeches.

Crochard jumped from the seat and opened the door.

"We must get out here," he said; and when the others had alighted, he
started off before them among the trees.

Delcassé kept close at the leader's heels, fairly panting with
eagerness. Lépine followed and Marbeau came last. The rustling of the
dead leaves beneath their feet was the only sound which broke the
stillness. At the end of five minutes, they came to what was apparently
a deserted shed. Its door was secured by a heavy hasp and padlock.
Crochard drew a key from his pocket, opened the padlock, released the
hasp, and threw back the door.

"Enter, my friends!" he cried, and stood aside that they might pass.

They crowded in and stood staring about them. For a moment, in the
semi-darkness, they could see nothing; then certain vague shapes
detached themselves--a table, a chair, strange jars, a queer-looking
clock....

Marbeau uttered a sudden startled exclamation.

"Why, this is a wireless plant!" he cried.

"Precisely, sir!" agreed Crochard. "The plant from which came those
peculiar signals!"




CHAPTER VII

THE HUT IN THE GROVE


General Marbeau bent with the interest of an expert above the rude table
on which the apparatus was installed, and examined it for some moments
in silence. Then he straightened up and glanced at Delcassé.

"Well?" asked the latter.

"It is, indeed, a wireless installation, sir," said Marbeau, "or, at
least, part of one. Most of the instruments of transmission are here,
but there are no recording instruments. In other words, wireless
messages might be sent from here, but none could be received--unless
this is a recorder of some sort," and he pointed to a small instrument
of clock-like appearance which stood on the table.

"No," said Crochard; "that is not a recorder--that is the sender."

"The sender?" repeated Marbeau.

"Yes. You have noticed there is no key?"

"Yes, and I do not understand its absence."

"This device takes the place of it--it was by means of this that the
spaced signals were sent. Listen."

He bent above the clock, and the others heard a sound as of a strong
spring being wound. Then he stood erect: there were two sharp ticks;
then a long white snap of electricity; two ticks and another snap; two
ticks and another snap....

"Yes, that is the signal!" cried Marbeau, and bent again above the
mechanism. In a moment he understood.

Before the clock-face was a single long hand, a second-hand, terminating
in a thin, spring-like strip of platinum. The circumference of the face
was divided into sixty spaces, and at every third space was a slender
copper pin, which the end of the second-hand touched in passing. Two
wires, one connected with the second-hand, the other presumably with the
copper pins, ran from the clock down to the heavy batteries on the
floor. Every three seconds the circuit was automatically closed, and a
long flash sent along the conducting wire out into the air. Marbeau
stood listening for a moment longer, then loosened one of the wires. The
signals stopped.

"Now let us see the aerial," he said, and led the way outside.

But there was no aerial in sight. Then Crochard's finger pointed out a
series of wires among the trees to the left of the hut. Walking directly
beneath them, Marbeau saw that there were three wires parallel with each
other, and that they were stretched between two trees about fifty feet
apart. From each of them dropped a lead-wire, and these were gathered
together into the single wire which led into the hut. An arm of wood had
been secured to each of the trees, and to these the wires were fastened
by means of porcelain insulators.

"But such an aerial would not be effective!" Marbeau protested. "It
would be muffled and deadened by the leaves and branches all about it."

"There are no branches in front of it," said Crochard. "If you will
look, you will see that they have been very carefully cleared away in
that single direction. As I understand wireless, the waves released from
those wires up yonder permeate the atmosphere in every direction."

"That is true."

"With equal intensity?"

"No; they would be most intense in the direction in which the wires
extend."

"Ah!" said Crochard. "And, as we may perceive from the way in which the
trees are trimmed, it was only in that direction that the builder of
this affair desired them to penetrate. Can you not guess what that
direction is? If you will climb this tree and look along the wires, you
will find that they point directly toward the wreck of _La Liberté_."

For a moment, the three stared at Crochard without speaking, then
Marbeau threw off his coat and started up the tree. It was not an easy
climb, but he was an agile man, and at last he reached the arm to which
the wires were affixed. He remained for some moments looking out along
them; then he slowly descended.

"It is true," he said, in a low voice, as he resumed his coat. "The
wires could hardly have been so placed by accident."

"It was not by accident," said Crochard.

"And yet," went on Marbeau, "I do not see what all this can have to do
with the disaster."

"Nor I," agreed M. Delcassé. "And yet as M. Cro----as our friend here
says, all this was not done by accident."

"I would suggest," said Crochard, "that we return to M. Delcassé's
apartment. We can talk there without fear of being overheard--a thing
that is not possible among all these trees."

Marbeau took a last look at the wireless apparatus; then Crochard locked
the door of the hut, and gave the key to the Minister.

"Where did you get this key, my friend?" asked Delcassé, looking at it
curiously.

"About that there is no mystery," smiled Crochard. "I purchased it,
together with that lock yonder, this morning. I found it necessary to
break the original lock before I could enter the hut. It may be well to
station a guard here," he added, "until you are ready to dismantle the
place."

Delcassé nodded, and slipped the key into his pocket; and together they
made their way to the waiting carriage.

The trip back was a silent one. Delcassé and Lépine, their brains aching
with the effort, were trying to understand; Marbeau, convinced that the
explosion could not have been caused by wireless, was marshaling his
reasons; and Crochard--Crochard sat with placid countenance gazing
straight ahead of him--but that placid countenance masked supreme
intellectual effort.

At last the carriage stopped.

"You will wait here," said Delcassé to the driver, and, as soon as he
reached his office, summoned his secretary and directed that a guard of
four marines be sent by the carriage to the hut in the grove. Then he
sat down, rolled a cigarette, and passed tobacco and paper to his
companions. "And now," he said, looking at Crochard, "let us hear what
you have to tell us."

"There is not much to tell, sir," answered Crochard. "I learned of the
existence of this hut yesterday evening. Some children, searching for
mushrooms for a friend of mine, who is a restaurateur, happened to see
the wires among the trees, and told him of their discovery. He thought
it so curious that he at once sent word to me."

"And you, of course, sent word back that he was to tell no one else,"
said Delcassé, with a smile.

"Yes, I thought that best. I paid a visit to the hut as soon as it was
light this morning, entered it, examined it, and convinced myself that
it was really a wireless station. Then I made certain inquiries. The
grove, it appears, is owned by a gentleman of Marseilles, and was once
much larger than it is now. The hut was built for the use of
charcoal-burners, but has not been occupied for more than two years. I
would suggest that the police ascertain whether the owner was aware he
had a tenant."

"We will do so," said Delcassé. "But who was this tenant?"

"There is some doubt on that point," answered Crochard slowly. "That
little road is used but seldom, for a better one now leads around the
base of the hill; and few people ever have occasion to enter the grove.
It was, of course, for this very reason that the hut was chosen for this
installation. I have found no one who saw any man at work there. On the
other hand, a friend of mine, who has a cabaret on the main road just
outside the city gate, has seen pass a number of times within the past
week a man who, from his face and dress, was evidently not a Frenchman,
and whose actions appeared to my friend to be suspicious."

Delcassé smiled.

"You seem to have many friends," he remarked; "and unusually observant
ones."

"Yes," agreed Crochard; "I am fortunate in my friends; and they find it
greatly to their interest to keep their eyes open."

"Did you secure a description of this stranger?"

"Yes; but there should have been much more than a mere description. Some
of my friends are more intelligent than others. Still, it may be of
service. This stranger was a small man, slightly built, with grey hair
and bright, dark eyes. His complexion was also rather dark, and my
friend hazarded the guess that he was a Spaniard. He was dressed in dark
clothes, cut after a fashion not French, and wore a soft, dark hat."

"But that is a splendid description!" cried Delcassé. "What more did you
want?"

"Ah, sir," replied Crochard, "if it had been some of my friends, they
would have managed to meet this man; they would have engaged him in
conversation, have discovered his business and place of abode; instead
of which, this friend in question merely sits at the door of his cabaret
and watches the man pass! He was not doing his duty--but he will not
make such a mistake again!"

"His duty?" echoed Delcassé. "His duty to whom?"

"His duty to me," replied Crochard.

"But I do not understand," said the Minister, more and more amazed. "Why
should your friends have any such duty to you?"

Crochard hesitated. Lépine's face was fairly saturnine.

"I cannot explain that to you now, sir," said Crochard, finally. "I can
only say that it is part of a system which has existed for a very long
time, and of which I now happen to be the head."

Delcassé pondered this for a moment, his eyes on Crochard's face. Then
he turned to Lépine.

"You must learn more of this stranger, Lépine," he said. "You, also, are
at the head of a system--and a very expensive one."

"Yes, and a good one, sir," said Lépine, quickly. "One which is worth
all it costs. But men will not work for money as they do for
self-interest; and then, my system is a mere infant beside that of our
friend here, which must be at least two hundred years old."

"Oh, much more than that!" said Crochard, quickly, and smiled at
Delcassé's astounded face. "Please understand," he added, "that I do not
assert that this is the man we want. There is as yet no absolute proof,
though I hope soon to have it. But there is one significant fact: when
going from the city he frequently carried a heavy bundle, but never when
returning."

"That is indeed significant," agreed Delcassé. "But it indicates another
thing which astonishes me. If he did all this alone, it was because he
had no one to assist him. But if he had no accomplice, who were the two
men who watched the destruction of _La Liberté_? And, above all, who is
this man who plans, alone and unaided, the destruction of our navy? What
is his purpose? Whence did he come? Whither has he gone? Is he a
madman--an anarchist?" Delcassé ran his fingers through his hair with a
despairing gesture. "He astounds me!" he added. "My brain falters at
thought of such a man!"

But Marbeau, to whom much of this talk had been incomprehensible, began
at last to understand, and shook his head in violent protest.

"Whoever the man may have been," he broke out, "or whatever his
business, it could have had nothing to do with the destruction of _La
Liberté_."

Delcassé wheeled upon him.

"Why do you say that?" he demanded.

"Because, sir, it is absurd to suppose that the magazines of the ship
could be exploded by wireless. Wireless has no such power. And, in this
instance, it is quite easy to prove that they were _not_ so exploded."

"Prove it, then," said the Minister, impatiently.

"In the first place, the signals, which we now know came from that hut
up yonder, were first noted on Saturday. They continued for half an
hour, and yet no explosion occurred. In the second place, we caused them
to be repeated to-day, and again there was no explosion."

"_La Liberté_ was no longer there to explode," Delcassé objected grimly.

"True; but there were other ships near by--_La Patrie_, _La République_,
_La Vérité_. These ships and others were also there at the time of the
explosion, yet they were not affected, although all of them had
precisely the same sort of powder in their magazines that _La Liberté_
had in hers."

"But you have already said that the waves could be intensified in a
certain direction," Delcassé pointed out.

"So they can; but they cannot be confined to a channel nor directed at a
mark, as a bullet is. The hut in the grove is fully three miles away
from the harbour, and I assert that every ship in the harbour felt the
waves with the same intensity as _La Liberté_."

"And what is your deduction from all this?" inquired Delcassé.

"My deduction is that those signals did not and could not cause the
explosion."

"Then what was their purpose? How do you explain them?"

Marbeau made a gesture of helplessness.

"I do not know what their purpose was; I cannot explain them," he said;
"but I am confident that they could not have destroyed _La Liberté_."

"I agree with General Marbeau," said Crochard suddenly.

They all stared at him, astonished that he should admit himself
defeated.

"But I would add one word to his deduction," he added. "The word
'alone.'"

"'Alone'?" echoed Delcassé.

"I would make the statement thus: 'Those signals _alone_ did not and
could not cause the explosion.'"

Delcassé looked at him with puzzled eyes, and again ran his fingers
impatiently through his hair.

"I do not understand," he said. "You are getting beyond me. What is your
theory, then?"

The line in Crochard's brow deepened.

"It is a thing, sir," he answered slowly, "which I find difficult to
express in words. There is, at the back of my mind, an idea, vague,
misty, of which as yet I catch only the dim outlines. My process of
reasoning is this: it is certain, as General Marbeau says, that the
signals from the hut were, in themselves, harmless, or there would have
been other explosions than that on board _La Liberté_. Wireless waves
can be directed and concentrated only to a very limited extent. They can
be made a little stronger in one general direction than in others, that
is all. And, in this case, that general direction would have embraced
all the ships at anchor in the harbour.

"There must, then, have been some other force which, at the appointed
time, struck from this stream of signals a spark, so to speak, into the
magazines of _La Liberté_, one after the other. That there was an
appointed time we cannot doubt--we know that it was the moment of
sunrise yesterday. That the magazines were fired one at a time, and at
spaced intervals we also know. That they could not explode of themselves
in that way seems certain.

"You will remember that the signals began more than an hour before
sunrise, and continued for at least half an hour afterwards. We know
that the signals were sent automatically. Why? Partly, no doubt, because
it was necessary that they be absolutely regular; but also because the
man who did this thing--who is himself, perhaps, the inventor of the
method--chose to make no confidants, to have no accomplices, and he
could not himself be in the hut to send the signals. Again you ask why.
Not because of danger of discovery, since there was no such danger. I
believe it was because it was necessary that he be somewhere else,
directing from an angle, perhaps, that other force, so mysterious and so
deadly. I seem to see two forces, travelling in converging lines, as two
bullets might travel, their point of meeting the magazines of _La
Liberté_. At the instant of their meeting, there is a shock, a spark--as
though flint and steel met--and the magazine explodes--first the forward
magazine, then the after magazine, then the main magazine--one, two,
three! This is all mere guesswork, you understand, sir," Crochard added,
in another tone, "but so I see it. And, after all, it is susceptible of
proof."

"What proof?" demanded Delcassé.

"If my theory is the true one," Crochard explained, "there must have
been, somewhere, another installation to create the intercepting force,
which, of course, must also be transmitted by ether waves, as wireless
is, if it is to penetrate wood and steel. It must have been within an
hour's walk--probably half an hour's walk--of the hut in the grove. For
remember, the mechanism there was set going an hour before sunrise, and
the man had then to reach his other mechanism, and have it ready to
start at sunrise. It is for us to discover the place where this second
mechanism was installed--and where it probably still remains."

"Yes, that would be proof," agreed Delcassé thoughtfully; "and for
myself, I will say that I believe your theory the right one. But you
have not yet explained the part played by the two watchers on the quay."

"Their part was that of watchers merely," said Crochard. "They were sent
there to observe and to report to their master--as they did."

"As they did?"

"Surely it is evident," Crochard explained, "that, if our theory is
true, they would hasten to report. Imagine their master's anxiety until
he heard from them! As a matter of fact, their report was filed within
fifteen minutes after the explosion. M. Lépine has it in his pocket."

Delcassé stared, uncomprehending; but Lépine, his face suddenly
illumined, snatched out his pocket-book and produced the sheets of
yellow tissue.

"Ah, yes, certainly!" he cried. "I was blind not to see it! The report
was in a form agreed upon: 'We continue our trip as planned. All well.'
You will understand now, sir," he added, to Delcassé, "the reason for
the high opinion I entertain of this gentleman!"

"But that message was sent to Brussels," objected the Minister.

"It was sent 'restante.' A man was waiting at the post-office to receive
it and forward it instantly to Berlin."

Delcassé's face was a study, as he turned this over in his mind.

"What is your reading of the other message?" he asked, at last.

"My reading," answered Crochard, slowly, "is that, at the last moment,
the Emperor, appalled at the possible consequences, decided to forbid
the atrocity, to which he had, perhaps, been persuaded against his
better judgment, or in a moment of passion."

"And if the message had not been delayed, _La Liberté_ would have been
saved?"

"Precisely that, sir."

Delcassé's lips were twitching.

"You may be right," he said, thickly; "you may be right; but it seems
incredible. After all, it is merely guesswork!"

"You will pardon me, sir, but it is not guesswork," protested Crochard.
"M. Lépine will tell you that, in a case of this kind, it must be all or
nothing. Every detail, even to the slightest, the most insignificant,
must fit perfectly, or they are all worthless. If I am wrong in this
detail, I am wrong in all the others; if I am right in the others, I am
also right in this. They stand or fall together. And I believe they
will stand!"

The great Minister was gazing fascinated at the speaker; for the first
time, he caught a real glimpse of his tremendous personality.

"You mean, then," he said, finally, "that if any details we may discover
hereafter fail to fit this theory, the theory must be discarded?"

"Discarded utterly and without hesitation," agreed Crochard. "More than
that--"

A tap at the door interrupted him.

"Come in," said Delcassé.

His secretary entered, followed by a courier, carrying a portfolio.

"From Paris, sir," said the secretary, and the courier, with a bow, laid
the portfolio on the Minister's desk.

Delcassé took from his pocket a tiny key, unlocked the portfolio, drew
out a package and glanced at the superscription.

"Ah," he said; "the photographs!" and ripped the package open.

There were some two dozen of them, together with a long typewritten
report, which Delcassé glanced through rapidly.

"These are the result of the first report from Berlin," he said, "of
officers who are absent from their commands and whose present
whereabouts is not definitely known. A supplementary report will
follow."

"We can begin with these," said Lépine, and looked them over.

Crochard had risen and was looking at the photographs over the
detective's shoulder.

"We shall have to shave them first," he remarked.

"Shave them?"

"Divest them of those ornaments," and he indicated the upturned
moustaches, à la Kaiser, with which nearly all the pictured faces were
adorned. "A brush and a tablet of watercolour will do it."

M. Delcassé arose.

"I will leave that in your hands, gentlemen," he said. "I must meet the
Board of Inquiry almost at once. General Marbeau, I thank you for your
assistance. You will, of course, say nothing of all this to any one. As
for you, sir," he added to Crochard, "I shall thank you better another
day. Till this evening, M. Lépine," and he bowed the three men out.

Half an hour later, Lépine and Crochard were closeted with Monsieur and
Madame Brisson in the former's bureau at the du Nord. The little
innkeeper and his wife were inarticulate with excitement, for they had
guessed Lépine's identity from his resemblance to the pictures which
every illustrated paper published at frequent intervals, and they
suspected, from his bearing, that Crochard was a person of even greater
importance. Their faces were glowing with pride, too, for their
proffered refreshment had not been declined. In after days, when the
sentence of silence had been lifted, they would tell the story to their
admiring friends:

"Imagine it. Here we sat, I here, Gabrielle there; in that chair M.
Lépine, Prefect of the Paris Service du Surété, a little thin man with
eyes oh, so bright; and in the fourth chair, with eyes still brighter
and an air distinguished which there could be no mistaking--whom do you
think? None other than the Duc de B----"; or the Prince de R----, or the
Marquis de C----; that was a detail to be filled in later; but a Great
Highness, rest assured of that! And the way that both M. Lépine and the
unknown Highness relished their Château Yquem was a great compliment to
the house.

After these amenities, Lépine produced the demoustached photographs.

"Look well at these," he said; "have care--do not speak unless you are
very sure," and he passed the photographs one by one to Madame
Gabrielle, who handed them on to her husband. Some ten or twelve were
examined without comment, and then Madame uttered a sudden exclamation.

"It is he!" she cried. "It is one of them!"

"One of whom?" asked Lépine.

"One of those men. Behold, Aristide!"

Brisson took the card and looked at it.

"Sacred heart! But you are right, Gabrielle!"

"You are sure?" persisted Lépine.

"Sure! But of a certainty! I would swear to him!"

Lépine put the photograph in his pocket, and turned to the others. But
there was no second recognition. Brisson and his wife went through them
twice, until they had convinced themselves that their other guest was
not among them. Finally Lépine gathered the photographs together.

"I must warn you again, Brisson, and you, Madame," he said, severely,
"that of this not a single word must be breathed--to no one. Let it pass
from your minds as though it had never been. It is an affair of high
diplomacy; and you might suffer much were it known that you are
concerned in it. In behalf of France, I thank you, and I shall have care
that your so great service is brought to the attention of the proper
persons. But remember--not a word!"

Monsieur and Madame were faithful--only in the seclusion of their
bedroom, with the light extinguished, and in bated whispers, did they
ever discuss it. And, as at this point they pass from this story, let
it be added that, some months later, a parcel was delivered at their
door, which, when opened, was found to contain a handsome vase of
Sèvres. Inside the vase was a card, "To Monsieur and Madame Aristide
Brisson, from Théophile Delcassé, as a slight recognition of their
services to France."

It would be impossible to say which this worthy couple value most
highly, the vase or the card. Certain it is that, if you are ever a
guest at the du Nord, you will be shown both of them, the vase in a
velvet-lined case against the wall and the card, neatly framed, just
below it. And, in consideration of their increased importance, Monsieur
and Madame have considered themselves justified in increasing their
tariff ten per cent.

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as Lépine and Crochard were alone together, the former took the
photograph from his pocket, looked at the number on the back, and then
consulted a typewritten list of names. Then, with a hand not wholly
steady, he handed the list to his companion.

"Number eighteen," he said.

Opposite that number Crochard read, "Admiral H. Pachmann, Chief of the
Wireless Service;" and then he gazed at the photograph long and
earnestly, as though impressing it indelibly upon his mind.




CHAPTER VIII

THE SECOND INSTALLATION


The Board of Inquiry began its sessions that afternoon, at the
Prefecture of Marine. It was composed of the most distinguished officers
of France, who had donned for the occasion their most brilliant
uniforms. There was much paraphernalia--secretaries, portfolios,
red-taped papers, reports--all that display so dear to the French
temperament; and every one wore an air of importance and solemnity
befitting time and place.

M. Delcassé opened the session with a ringing speech, forming a notable
contrast to the platitudes uttered by the President in the morning. In
fact, it was so bold in its allusions to an approaching struggle with
"the implacable enemy of the Republic," that the members of the Board
glanced covertly at each other in astonishment. Their astonishment was
the greater because, as they well knew, M. Delcassé was not given to
indiscretions. At least, his indiscretions were always nicely-calculated
ones. He knew when to speak and when to hold his tongue--none better;
and the fact that he thought it necessary to speak now proved that the
affair was serious indeed. At the end of the speech, the Board
proceeded in a body to an inspection of the wreck.

Lépine, meanwhile, armed with the description Crochard had given him,
set his men to work to discover the dwelling-place of the white-haired
stranger who had been seen passing back and forth along the road outside
the city gate. But, to his chagrin, evening came and his men had
discovered nothing. It is true that the investigation was rendered more
than usually difficult by the fact that the town was still in an uproar,
and no one wished to speak of anything but the disaster. For the moment,
the memories of the people went no farther back than dawn of the
previous day. In a day or two, when the first excitement had passed,
there would be a much better chance of success.

So, at least, reasoned Inspector Pigot, whose watchword was always
Patience! But the reasoning did not satisfy Lépine. Patience was not
always a virtue. In this affair, it was impossible to wait a day or two.
With every hour, no doubt, the man they sought was putting fresh leagues
between himself and his pursuers. Crochard, so Lépine told himself
miserably, Crochard would not wait a day or two. Perhaps, already....

He put on his hat and sought the Café des Voyageurs. Choosing the seat
which he had occupied that morning, he ordered a liqueur and sat for an
hour contemplating the crowd. Again he perceived that the proprietor was
absent; but this time the head-waiter did not approach, or even meet his
glance. He thought, for a moment, of calling him and asking for
Crochard; but he finally decided that that would be too great an
indiscretion. Besides, as Crochard had pointed out, in this affair it
was Lépine who followed. It was for him to receive instructions, not to
give them. At last, with a feeling of depression and dependency quite
new to him, the great detective left the café, returned to his hotel and
went to bed.

But early next morning, things began to move again. He had scarcely
finished his breakfast, when a summons came from M. Delcassé to attend
him at once, and when Lépine entered his office, he saw that something
of importance had occurred. Delcassé already had a visitor--a tall, thin
man, dressed severely in black, with the word "banker" written all over
him. Lépine was therefore not surprised when the visitor was introduced
to him as the manager of the Toulon branch of the Bank of France.

"We have something of interest here," said Delcassé, and tossed over to
Lépine two notes for a hundred francs each.

The latter's eyes were shining as he picked them up, glanced at their
numbers, and then compared them with a third note which he took from his
pocket-book.

"They are of the same series," he said. "Where did you get them, sir?"
and he turned to the bank manager.

"They were deposited with us by the cashier of the central railway
station."

"When?"

"On the afternoon of Monday, the twenty-fifth."

"How did you discover them?"

"We received instructions yesterday from Paris to report immediately the
receipt of any notes of this series. Our cashier, while checking up our
deposits yesterday evening, happened upon these notes, and identified
them as a part of the railway deposit of the day before. The matter was
reported to me, and I at once forwarded the report to Paris. This
morning I received a telegram instructing me to report in person to M.
Delcassé, and I hastened to do so."

"You have done well, sir," said the Minister, "and I thank you. We will
ask you to exchange these notes for two others, and furthermore to say
nothing to any one of this discovery or of having seen me."

The exchange was made, the banker departed, and Lépine, with the notes
in his pocket-book, hastened away to the Gare Centrale. Arrived there,
he asked for the chief, introduced himself, and stated his business.

"I have here two notes," he said, "which were deposited by your cashier
last Monday afternoon. It is most important that I find out from whom
this money was received, and to what point tickets were purchased. The
purchase was made, no doubt, some time during Monday."

"The money might have been received Sunday," the chef-du-gare pointed
out. "Since the bank is closed Sunday, we can make no deposit on that
day."

"I have reason to believe it was not received until Monday," said
Lépine. "May I interrogate the cashiers, beginning with the one who was
on duty at daybreak Monday?"

"There are two men on duty at all hours," explained the chief; "and each
trick is eight hours in length. The first begins at six o'clock in the
morning. At what hour was daybreak on Monday?"

"At five o'clock and forty-nine minutes."

"The clerks who were in the bureau at that hour are not here now, but I
can have them called."

"Let us interrogate the ones who are here," suggested Lépine. "Perhaps
it will not be necessary to disturb the others."

The chief pressed a button and summoned the ticket-sellers, one after
the other. The first had no recollection of having received the notes,
but with his companion Lépine was more successful.

"Yes, yes, I remember them perfectly," he said, when they were shown to
him. "My attention was called to them because they were both quite new.
I looked at them closely to make certain that they were genuine, and
noticed that they were numbered consecutively. Another detail which
caused them to remain in my memory was the striking appearance of the
person who gave them to me."

Lépine's heart was throbbing with triumph.

"Describe this man," he said.

"Ah, sir," said the clerk, "that is just it. It was not a man, but a
girl--a girl of eighteen or twenty. That is what drew my attention. It
is not usual to have a girl like that ask for two tickets, second-class,
to Paris."

"A girl!" stammered Lépine. "You are sure?"

"Perfectly sure, sir."

"Well, describe her, then."

The clerk half-closed his eyes in order the better to visualize his
memory.

"She was, as I have said, of about nineteen, and she was not a
Frenchwoman."

"How do you know that?"

"Because, in the first place, she spoke French not very well; and, in
the second place, there was in her manner an assurance, a freedom from
embarrassment, which a French girl of her station would not possess."

"Was she light or dark?"

"She was dark, sir, with bright black eyes, with which she looked at one
very steadily. She was slightly built, of medium height, simply dressed,
so far as I could see through the little window, not fashionably, but
with good effect. However, what impressed me most was her calm
assurance--almost American; but she was too dark to be of America."

Reading between the lines, Lépine suspected that the clerk had attempted
to start a flirtation with the self-possessed unknown, and had been
rebuffed. And yet, what he said was true--young girls in France were
not, ordinarily, entrusted with the buying of railway tickets,
especially for so considerable a journey.

"You are sure the tickets were to Paris?"

"Yes, sir; second-class. I remember distinctly giving her sixty-four
francs in change."

"At what hour was this?"

"About eight o'clock, sir."

"Of Monday morning?"

"Yes, sir; of Monday morning."

"At what hour was the next train for Paris?"

"At eight-fifteen, sir, the express departs."

"The girl had no companion?"

"I saw none, sir."

"She certainly had a companion, or she would not have bought two
tickets."

"Perhaps the inspector at the gate can tell us something," the chief
suggested, and the clerk was dismissed and the inspector summoned. But
he could give them no information. There had been many passengers for
the express, and, besides, every one, himself included, was so
distressed and overwrought by the catastrophe of the morning that there
had not been the usual attention to detail. The inquiry was extended to
the baggage-porters, but with no better success. They, too, had been
upset by the disaster and had thought of nothing else. Some of them had
frankly deserted their posts in order to hasten to the harbour-front.
None of those who remained had noticed a white-haired man and a
dark-haired girl.

"Come!" said Lépine savagely to himself, as he left the station. "This
is not getting ahead--we must try the cabs. But first...."

He turned toward the Prefecture and quickened his step, for suddenly he
scented a new danger. This white-haired man, then, was in the pay of
Germany. He had destroyed _La Liberté_ for a price--an immense price, no
doubt! And now he had gone to Paris. From there, where would he go? To
Brest, perhaps, to work similar mischief there. Lépine shivered a
little. The best men he had left at Paris must be sent to Brest with
instructions to arrest the fugitives at sight. Two people, so unusual in
appearance, would find it difficult to avoid the police in so small a
town. But in Paris--that was different. Yet even there something might
be done. And then there was always chance, divine chance, which might,
at any moment, deliver them into his hands. Ah, if only he were
strolling along the Boulevards, looking into this face and that!

"Decidedly, I must be getting back!" Lépine murmured; and, having
arrived at the Prefecture, he sent a long telegram to his assistant at
Paris and another to the Prefect at Brest. Then he summoned Pigot. "You
will interrogate the cabmen at the Gare Centrale," he said, "as to which
of them drove a white-haired man and a dark-haired girl to the station
for the Paris express, Monday morning. And, understand well, Pigot,
there must be no failure this time!" Then, as the door closed behind
Pigot's retiring figure, he slapped himself smartly on the forehead. "I
am a fool!" he cried, and hurried from the building and called a cab.

There are many dealers in electrical supplies at Toulon, and it was not
until he reached the fourth one that Lépine found a ray of light. No;
its proprietor had no recollection of any sales to strangers. A little
white-haired man? No. But stay--there _had_ been a white-haired man!
No, he had bought nothing. He had had a battery recharged--a heavy
battery of an unusual type. Yes, it had been delivered. One moment, and
the man slowly turned the pages of his ledger, while Lépine bit his lips
with impatience. Here it was--the address--80 Rue du Plasson, fourth
floor.

In another moment, Lépine's cab was rattling over the cobbles in the
direction of the quays.

"Faster! Faster!" he urged.

And then they were in the Rue du Plasson.

"Behold Number Eighty, sir," said the cabman, and pulled up sharply.

There was already a cab at the curb, and as Lépine jumped out, the door
of the house opened and Pigot appeared on the threshold. He stared at
his chief in astonishment.

"I was just coming to report to you, sir," he said. "The birds have
flown."

"Indeed!" sneered Lépine. "So you have discovered that, have you? But
the installation is here, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," answered Pigot, very red. "On the fourth floor."

Lépine bounded up the stairs, and Pigot followed in silence. He felt
that he had been used unjustly; after all, he was not a wizard--what did
the Chief expect!

At the top of the house, Lépine glanced first into the narrow room which
we have already seen; then he returned to the landing and opened the
other door. It led into a still narrower room, also extending to the
front of the house, and lighted by a single window. Lépine went to the
window and looked out. Over the roof of the low market across the way,
he could see the harbour, the warships, and the wreck of _La Liberté_.
Then he turned to an examination of the room.

A heavy box stood before the window, and on the floor beside it were
three large batteries. Some pieces of copper wire were lying about, but
there was nothing else. In the top of the box, however, four holes had
been bored, as though for the reception of bolts, and one side of the
box was badly burned. The sill of the window was also scorched and
blistered.

"You have the proprietor of this house?" Lépine inquired.

"He is below," Pigot announced, and went to fetch him.

But from the proprietor, a nervous little man with a dirty beard, Lépine
learned little. He lived at the rear of the ground floor, and ten days
or perhaps two weeks before, a man had knocked at the door and asked if
the upper floor was to rent.

"What sort of man?" Lépine inquired.

"A dark man, with white hair, sir; not a bad-looking man, but not a
Frenchman."

"A German, perhaps."

"No, most certainly not a German; an Italian or a Spaniard."

"What was his business?"

"He said he was an inventor and desired the top floor for his
experiments. I told him that in that case I should have to charge extra,
as experiments were always dangerous. He did not object, and paid a
month in advance. He seemed a very harmless person."

"Was he alone?"

"At that time, yes, sir. But when he returned with his baggage, his
daughter accompanied him."

"How do you know it was his daughter?"

"He told me so, sir. The resemblance was very evident. Besides, he
insisted that I supply material to curtain off a portion of the room for
her bed."

Lépine recognised the cogency of this reasoning and nodded.

"Continue," he said.

"She was a dark, slim girl, of about twenty. They gave me no trouble.
She scarcely left the house except for the marketing. But her father was
away a great deal."

"Did he bring much baggage?"

"Two pieces of hand-baggage, sir, and that box yonder by the window. The
box was very heavy--almost as if filled with iron--and we had great
difficulty in getting it up the stairs, even with the assistance of the
truck-man."

"Did you enter this room while he was here?"

"No, sir; I entered neither of the rooms. My rule is never to interfere
in the affairs of my tenants--they do not like it. But on one occasion,
as I passed the door, I heard him at work on his invention."

"Heard him, you say?"

"Yes, sir; there was a deep humming noise as of a huge top, or perhaps
of a motor. It occurred to me that it was a flying-machine which he was
inventing. Then, on Sunday, came a telegram."

"A telegram?"

"Yes, sir; I brought it up myself. He read it and his face grew very
grave. He informed me that he would be compelled to depart next
day--that his sister was dying. But he assured me that he would return
as soon as possible to continue his experiments, and that I was to hold
the apartment for him--at least until the month for which he had paid
had expired."

"And he did depart?"

"Yes, sir; quite early in the morning. I called a cab and assisted to
carry down his baggage. The box, as you see, remains against his return,
also his apparatus," and he indicated the batteries.

"Oh, certainly," agreed Lépine, with irony, "there can be no doubt of
his intention to return." And then his face grew dark and his eyes
flashed. "How does it happen," he demanded sternly, "that you did not
cause him to fill out a registration blank for the police?"

The little man twisted his hands nervously.

"In that I admit I was most culpable, sir," he said. "But when I looked
in my desk for a blank, I found that I had none. Every day I intended
going to the Prefecture to get a new supply, but every day something
occurred to prevent me. And then came the day of his departure."

Lépine's face was very stern.

"You have, indeed, been culpable," he said, "and I shall see that you
are punished. You have broken one of the laws of your country. You have
aided a malefactor!"

The little man's face was livid.

"Oh, do not say so, sir!" he protested. "There must be some mistake!
That kind gentleman, absorbed only in his invention--"

"I _do_ say so," broke in Lépine, savagely. "Did he receive any
letters?"

"One, sir, on the Saturday before the arrival of the telegram. No doubt
it, too, spoke of the illness of his sister."

Lépine put his hand wearily to his head.

"At least you noticed the address on the letter?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, sir. It was 'Monsieur B. Séguin, 80 Rue du Plasson, Toulon.'
Séguin, that was the name of my lodger."

"But you said he was not a Frenchman!"

"Perhaps he was a Belgian, sir. I have heard that they are sometimes
dark."

Lépine threw up his hands.

"Head of a pig!" he cried, and then controlled himself. "M. Pigot," he
said, "you will take this idiot to his rooms and remain in charge of him
until you hear from me."

And then, as Pigot and his prisoner started down the stairs, Lépine
turned to an investigation of the two rooms. Every nook, every crevice,
every inch of the floor, every drawer--all these he examined with a
minuteness of which only the French police are capable, but his search
disclosed nothing which shed any new light on the mystery. At last, he
descended the stairs and left the house.

There was still one hope, the telegram. He hastened to the post-office,
inquired for the clerk of telegraphs, apologised for again disturbing
him, and asked to see the telegram received for B. Séguin, 80 Rue du
Plasson, the Sunday before. At the end of five minutes it was in his
hands, and he read it with dismay. It had been sent from Brussels, and
this is the English of its contents:

      "Our sister is very ill and asks for you. Come if you would
      see her alive.

      "CHARLES SÉGUIN."




CHAPTER IX

CHECKMATE


"It is evident that this affair was not lightly arranged," said M.
Delcassé, and ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

Lépine nodded gloomily.

"You may well say so!" he agreed.

The two sat together in Delcassé's room, and Lépine had just finished
his report. Evening was falling, and the room was growing dark, but
neither desired a light.

"Everything has been thought of and provided for," said the Prefect, at
last, "even to the telegram which gave an excuse for this man's abrupt
departure. Perhaps the other telegrams were also intended to mislead
us--just as they did mislead me--to convince us that those other men
were only ordinary travellers. They must have foreseen that the police
would investigate the presence of every stranger in Toulon. It was
careless to send both telegrams from Brussels, but a coincidence so
small might easily be overlooked. On one point only was there an
oversight--they did not foresee that we might trace them by means of the
money. There is our hope. Sooner or later, the man with the white hair
will spend another of his hundred-franc notes. There is a certain
justice in it," he added, "that he should be betrayed by his
blood-money."

"Yes, blood-money!" cried Delcassé. "That is the word for it! Oh, that I
had my hands on the monster--for he _is_ a monster, Lépine; he must be a
monster! There he sat, in cold blood, and loosed the power that killed
three hundred men! Have you considered, Lépine, that the finding of this
second installation furnishes, as Crochard foresaw, proof of his
theory?"

"Yes," said Lépine, in a low voice; "this is the proof."

Delcassé was on his feet, striding savagely up and down the room.

"But it is absurd," he cried, "it is incredible that here, under our
very noses, such things should take place! What are our police for,
Lépine--our secret service?"

"It is the fault of that miserable landlord," Lépine pointed out.

"Of him an example shall be made. But that does not help us. This man
must not escape! Think what it may mean for France if he escapes!"

"I have thought, sir!" and Lépine's voice was trembling.

Delcassé turned on him fiercely.

"Where is Crochard?" he demanded. "What is he doing all this time?"

"I do not know, sir. I have not seen him since yesterday."

"Rest assured that he has not been idle. Do you know where to find him?"

"I have his address."

"Go to him, then, and say I wish to see him. We must lay these
discoveries before him--though no doubt he has already made them for
himself. Tell him he must not desert us--that without him, we are lost!"

Lépine was grateful for the darkness, for his cheeks were red with
humiliation. But, after all, M. Delcassé was right. He rose with a sigh.

"I will seek him at once, sir," he said.

"Understand well, Lépine," said the Minister, more gently, "it is not
you I blame. You have done all that is possible with the means at your
command. But we cannot afford to fail. In an affair of this kind, the
public is not reasonable. Should we fail, and should our failure become
known, as it almost surely would, the ministry might find itself swept
away before the storm. So we must find Crochard."

"I agree with you, sir," said Lépine, and took his leave.

The Café des Voyageurs was crowded when he reached it, and he had some
difficulty in finding a seat. The marines who had been searching the
wreck had, at last, been released from duty, and had, with one accord,
hastened ashore to refresh themselves at the expense of a populace eager
to listen to every detail. The café hummed with talk; weird and
revolting stories of the search were told with gusto; the completeness
of the destruction was described; the survivors dwelt upon their
sensations at the moment of the explosion; the heroism of the rescuers
was not forgotten; but, and Lépine noted this with a little sigh of
relief, nowhere was there an intimation that the disaster was other than
an accident.

He sat there for half an hour, listening to all this, and then, as
Crochard made no sign, he summoned the head-waiter and requested a word
with the proprietor. With a nod, as of one who expected the request, the
man turned and again led the way to the door at the rear of the room.

"In there, sir," he said, and closed it when Lépine had entered.

A single candle burned on the table in the centre of the little room,
and beyond it sat a man. At the first glance, in the semi-darkness,
Lépine fancied it was Crochard; then he saw that this man was slighter,
that his face was bloodless, and that he was staring with hunted eyes.

With a little start of surprise, he looked again; then he sat down.

"So, Samson, it is you!" said Lépine, quietly.

"Yes, sir," answered Samson. "I was expecting you. But I did not think
you would recognise me so readily."

Lépine laughed shortly.

"I have a good memory," he said. "Crochard told you, perhaps, that I
might come?"

"Yes, sir; and he directed that I give you this."

He handed Lépine a note. The latter broke the seal, held it to the light
and read it carefully:

      "_My dear M. Lépine:_

      "I have found it necessary to leave Toulon, in the pursuit of
      a certain business, whose nature you can guess. I hope soon
      to have good news for M. Delcassé and yourself. Meanwhile, I
      would remind you of our agreement as to my friends. Samson
      is one of them. He has already been of some service in this
      affair, and may be of more. We can discuss his future upon
      my return. I will answer for him.

      "CROCHARD, L'Invincible!"

Lépine refolded the note and slipped it into his pocket.

"When did Crochard leave?" he asked.

"He gave me the note at four o'clock yesterday afternoon, sir, and
stated that he was about to depart. I have not seen him since."

"Did he mention his destination?"

"No, sir."

Lépine regarded his companion thoughtfully.

"There is one thing that perhaps you _can_ tell me, Samson," he said.
"Previous to his departure, did he visit the house at 80 Rue du
Plasson?"

"I think it very probable," answered Samson, after a moment's
hesitation. "I myself furnished M. Crochard with that address, when he
returned to the café yesterday for his lunch."

"Ah!" said Lépine. "So it was you discovered it!"

He fell a moment silent, studying the other's countenance.

"You have indeed changed, Samson," he said, at last. "I suppose it was
Crochard who arranged your escape?"

Samson made no reply.

"You have a good business here?"

"Very good, sir."

"You know, of course, that it is my duty to denounce you as an escaped
criminal?"

"Yes, I know that, sir."

"Crochard tells me that he will answer for you--in other words, he
guarantees that you will not run away. Do you understand that?"

"Do not fear," said Samson, huskily. "Monsieur will always find me here
when he requires me."

Lépine looked at him for a moment, then got abruptly to his feet.

"Very well," he said; "I shall do nothing for the present," and he left
the café.

It was nearly eight o'clock, and, feeling the need of dinner, Lépine
made his way back to his hotel; but his hunger was destined to go
unsatisfied, for, as he stepped through the door, Pigot touched him on
the arm.

"M. Delcassé wishes to see you at once," he said, and Lépine, with one
regretful glance in the direction of the dining-room, hurried up the
stairs to the Minister's apartment. He found him dictating to his
secretary, a great pile of letters before him.

Without pausing in his dictation, Delcassé picked up a telegram which
lay at his elbow, and handed it to Lépine. It was dated from Paris, and
had been filed but an hour before. It read:

      "Seven notes one hundred francs B162810R to B162816R
      deposited to-day by Thomas Cook & Son.

      "LINNÉ, Governor Bank of France."

Lépine laid the telegram on his desk and glanced at his watch.

"I must be in Paris in the morning," he said.

Delcassé nodded.

"Yes," he agreed. "And Crochard?"

"Is no doubt already there," and he handed Delcassé the note which
Samson had given him.

Delcassé read it, and looked up with an amused smile, in which there
lurked a trace of malice.

"What a man!" he said. "Nevertheless, Lépine, I think you would better
go. You may be able to assist him! Give him my compliments, and keep me
informed," and he turned back to his secretary.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Paris office of the Messrs. Cook is at the corner opposite the Opera
House, and here, about ten o'clock on the morning of Thursday, September
28, a little grey-bearded man descended from a fiacre, entered, and,
after a short delay, was admitted to the presence of the manager, who
made it clear at once that he was entirely at the service of his
distinguished visitor.

Lépine sat down and produced from his pocket seven notes of the Bank of
France, for one hundred francs each. They were quite new and had not
even been folded.

"These notes were deposited by you yesterday afternoon," he said. "I
should like to know from whom they were received."

The manager took the notes and glanced at them.

"That will not be difficult, sir," he said. "Our cashier can no doubt
tell us from which of our clerks he received them. Excuse me a moment."

He hurried from the room with the notes in his hand, and Lépine,
strolling to the window, relapsed into his favourite amusement. At no
other corner in the city could it be practised so profitably, for here,
at the meeting of the Boulevards, all Paris, sooner or later, passed;
and not Paris only, but vagrants from every nation. So Lépine watched
the crowd intently, his bright eyes skipping from face to face--a mere
glance at one, a longer glance at another, a close stare at a third.
Perhaps, at the back of his mind, there was the hope that some
incredible good-fortune might send past this corner a shrunken,
white-haired man, leaning on the arm of his dark-haired daughter....

The opening of the door behind him broke into his thoughts, and he
turned to find that the manager had brought another man back with him.

"This is the clerk who received the money," said the manager, and
returned the seven notes to the detective.

Lépine motioned the clerk to be seated, and himself sat down facing him.

"Tell me all that you remember of the transaction," he said.

"It was Tuesday afternoon, sir," the clerk began, "about four o'clock, I
should say, that a man came to the counter and stated that he desired a
stateroom, with two berths, second-class, for the _Prinzsessin
Ottilie_, the sailing of yesterday."

"What sort of a man?" asked Lépine.

"A thin man, past middle-age. His hair was quite grey and he was of a
dark complexion, with very bright eyes."

"What language did he use?"

"He spoke in English, sir."

"Fluently?"

"Quite fluently, sir."

"Very well; proceed."

"I was in some doubt as to whether such a stateroom was available, as
this is the busy season; but on reference to our list, I found that
there was such a stateroom. A customer to whom we had sold it had just
called at the office, saying that he would not be able to sail, and
leaving his tickets with us to resell, if possible. When I told the man
of this, he seemed very pleased, took the tickets, and gave me the seven
hundred-franc notes. My attention was called to them because they were
quite new and unfolded. He took them from a long envelope which he
carried in an inner pocket, and which seemed to contain a large sum of
money."

"Do you remember the number of the stateroom?"

The clerk spread out before Lépine a cabin-plan of the ship.

"It was this one, sir," he said, and placed his finger on 514; "an inner
room, you see, on the upper deck."

"You asked the man's name, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I caused him to fill out the usual blank. Here it is."

Lépine took the blank and looked it over. It stated that stateroom No.
514, on the _Prinzsessin Ottilie_, for the sailing of September 27, two
berths, second-class, had been purchased of Thomas Cook & Son by Ignace
Vard, of New York City, the berths to be used by himself and his
daughter; and that he had paid for these berths the sum of six hundred
and forty francs, being payment in full, the receipt of which was
acknowledged. The blank also stated that Mr. Vard was a naturalised
citizen of the United States, and had lived in that country for ten
years.

"The sailing was from Cherbourg?" Lépine inquired, when he had
assimilated all this.

"Yes, sir."

"At what hour?"

"About four o'clock, sir--four o'clock yesterday afternoon."

"How did it happen, sir," Lépine asked, turning to the manager, "that
the notes were not deposited until yesterday?"

"Our deposit is made up at three o'clock each afternoon," the manager
explained. "The notes came in too late for Tuesday's deposit, and were
placed in our safe until the next day."

Lépine made a brief entry in his notebook, handed back the blank and
rose.

"I thank you very much, gentlemen," he said. "You have been most
obliging. The information you have given me will be of the very greatest
service."

And with that he took his leave, returned light-heartedly to his office
and sent a wireless to the captain of the _Ottilie_. The fugitive could
not escape him now; it was merely a question of arresting him as he left
the boat at New York; soon, soon, Lépine would have the pleasure of
putting him on the grill, and, once there, the detective felt sure that
there would be some important revelations before he got off again. One
fact surprised him--that Vard should be an American citizen; but perhaps
that was not the truth. If it was the truth, it would make the arrest at
New York a little awkward; a formal complaint would have to be made, a
charge of some kind trumped up. But there was no hurry--a week remained
in which to mature the plans.

So Lépine, after sending a brief report in cipher to M. Delcassé, turned
to the work which had accumulated during his absence in a happier and
more contented frame of mind than he had enjoyed for some days.

"I shall relish my lunch to-day!" he reflected; but, alas! it was just
as he was preparing to sally forth for it that the blow fell.

"A message for you, sir," his secretary said, and handed him a
light-blue envelope.

"Ah!" said Lépine, "a wireless!" and he ripped it open eagerly. Then he
remained staring at it with astounded eyes. Here is the message:

      "PRINZSESSIN OTTILIE, September 28, 11:10 A. M.
      _Radio via Cherbourg._

      "_Lépine, Paris._

      "No record of Ignace Vard and daughter on _Ottilie_.
      Stateroom 514 unoccupied.

      "HAUSMANN, Captain."




CHAPTER X

THE LAND OF FREEDOM


The old town of Cherbourg was experiencing its semi-weekly apotheosis.
For five days of the seven a duller place would be difficult to find,
but on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when the great trans-Atlantic liners
were due to pause in the outer harbour and take aboard the multitudes
homeward-bound to America, the town was transfigured. The
transfiguration, indeed, began on the previous evenings, for it was then
that the less-knowing and more timid of the tourists began to arrive.

The knowing ones, having once tasted the Lethe of Cherbourg, remained in
Paris until the last minute, and stepped from the boat-train to the
waiting tender. But the less well-informed came on the day before--and
never, for the remainder of their lives, forgot the dulness of their
last day in Europe. Then there were the nervously-anxious, their peace
of mind already wrecked by the vagaries of the European baggage-system,
who dared not run the risk of arriving at the last moment. So they, too,
journeyed to Cherbourg the day before the sailing-date, in order to have
a clear twenty-four hours in which to search for the pieces which were
certain to be missing. That day at Cherbourg was always an expensive
one, for the hotel-keepers of the place, having to live for seven days
on the proceeds of two, arranged their rates accordingly.

At the edge of the narrow strip of rock-strewn sand which constitutes
the beach at Cherbourg, stands the Grand Hotel--familiar name to every
traveller in Europe, where even the smallest hamlet has its "Grand." The
one at Cherbourg is a rambling, three-storied frame structure, with a
glass-enclosed dining-room overlooking the harbour, and here, at ten
o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-seventh of September, in
the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eleven, Daniel Webster was
disconsolately eating that frugal meal which is the French for
breakfast. Not the great Daniel--all well-informed persons are, of
course, aware that he passed to his reward some sixty years ago--but a
well-built, fresh-faced, rather good-looking young fellow, still on the
right side of thirty, who had most inadvisedly chosen to appear in this
world of trouble on the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of the
great Daniel, and who had forthwith been handicapped with his name.

John Webster, an honest farmer of the Connecticut valley, had always
been a worshipper at the shrine of the eloquent New Englander, to whom
he fancied himself related, and when, having taken to himself a wife,
that wife presented him with a son on the very day when the centenary of
his hero's birth was being celebrated, the coincidence appeared to him
too momentous to be disregarded, and the boy was christened Daniel.

It was a thing no thoughtful father would have done, and as Dan grew
older, he resented his name bitterly. It was the subject of brutal jests
from his playmates, resulting in numberless pitched battles, and of
still more brutal hazing when he pursued his predestined way through the
portals of the university at New Haven. Here he was promptly
rechristened Ichabod, and his real name was gradually forgotten.

In the depths of his heart, John Webster may perhaps have hoped that
this was to be a real reincarnation. If so, he was doomed to
disappointment, for the younger Daniel gave no promise of being either a
statesman or an orator. But he took to ink as a duck to water, was never
so happy as when his pen was spoiling good white paper, was elected
editor of the _News_, and, commencement over, took the first train for
New York, stormed the office of the _Record_, for which he had acted as
college correspondent, and demanded a job.

He got it; and began anew the task of living down his name. Always, when
introduced or introducing himself, he saw in the eyes opposite his own
that maddening glimmer of amusement. Then he gritted his teeth and
waited for the joke. There were fourteen possible forms that it might
take. Tempted often to return to that rocky Connecticut hillside, he
nevertheless stuck it out, and, as time passed, found he didn't mind so
much. He even reached the point where he made bets with himself as to
which of the fourteen it would be. And he progressed in other ways: the
material symbol of the progress being that, instead of cub reporter at
twelve dollars a week, he was now one of the trusted members of the
staff at six times that salary.

Also he was seven years older, and this had been his first long
vacation--six weeks in England, Belgium, Holland and France--glorious
weeks; but his eyes were aching for the lights of Broadway and his
fingers itching for the pencil. The most exacting and bewitching of all
professions was clamouring for him again.

Having disposed of the rolls and coffee, he rose reluctantly, stepped
out upon the beach, and filled and lighted his pipe--with a grimace at
the first puff, for French tobacco is the worst in the world, outside of
Germany. Before him lay the mighty breakwater which guards the harbour,
with its lighthouse in the middle and its fort at either end, while to
his left were the great naval basins, hewn from the solid rock. To the
right, below the high sea-wall, the narrow beach stretched away, empty
and uninviting.

Dan felt depressed. Cherbourg, evidently, was not an exciting place. He
had never seen an uglier beach, but, after a moment's hesitation, he
started off along it. Perhaps, farther on, it might improve.

The tide was going out, and in the little basins in the sand minute
crabs and strange sea-midgets scuttled about panic-stricken at finding
themselves marooned; here and there a stranded jelly-fish glowed like an
iridescent soap-bubble, and, farther out, an ugly mud flat began to be
revealed by the retreating water. Some distance ahead, a ridge of
tumbled rocks ran from the sea-wall down into the water, and, as he drew
nearer, he saw that on one of the rocks a girl was sitting.

He glanced at her as he passed, and would have liked to glance again,
for he had never met more arresting eyes, but he was going on with face
rigidly to the front, when her voice startled him.

"_Pardon, monsieur_," she said. It was a contralto voice, of a quality
that made his pulses leap.

He stopped short and turned toward her, incredulous that it could be he
to whom she had spoken. But there was no one else in sight; and then he
saw that her hands were gripped tightly in her lap and that her lips
were quivering.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, and took a step toward her. "Is there
anything I can do?"

"Oh!" she cried, her face lighting, and a wave of colour sweeping into
her cheeks. "Then you are an American!"

"Yes; thank God!"

"So say I!" she echoed. "For myself, I mean. I also am an American. We
will speak English, then."

"I should much prefer it," he smiled. "My French is wholly academic--and
covered with moss, at that. It doesn't even enable me to get my eggs
turned!"

She looked at him, the colour deepening in her cheeks. Dan, looking
back, decided that he had never seen such eyes; he could scarcely
believe that she was an American. She did not look in the least like
one. But she was speaking rapidly.

"I am in trouble," she said, "as the result of my own carelessness. I
was crossing these rocks, without watching sufficiently where I was
going, and my foot slipped. See," and she swept aside her skirts. "I
cannot get it out."

Dan was on his knees in an instant.

"Is it hurt?" he asked.

"I think not; or at most only a little strained. But it is wedged
between these big rocks, and I cannot move it."

Dan touched the foot, and found that it was, indeed, wedged fast. Then
he examined the rocks, and finally, bending above the smaller one,
placed his arms firmly about it, braced his feet and lifted. It would
have been worth while to have seen the play of his back and shoulder
muscles as the strain tightened, but it was over in a moment. For the
rock rose slowly, slowly, and the foot was free. He let the rock drop
softly back, stood up and brushed the sand from his sleeves. The girl
bent and rubbed her ankle.

"Is it all right?" he asked.

"I think so," and she took an experimental step or two. "Yes; not even
sprained. That reminded me of Porthos," she added, looking up at him,
her eyes very bright.

He laughed.

"Porthos would have done it with one hand," he said, "while saluting you
with the other."

She hesitated a little, looking along the beach; and he, guessing her
thought, raised his cap and started to walk on. But again her voice
stopped him. Perhaps she, too, was something of a mind-reader.

"I owe you some thanks, you know," she said. "You mustn't go off till
I've paid them!"

Dan swung around, his face glowing.

"Not thanks!" he protested. "But if you would take pity on a lonely
exile and talk to him a little, you'd certainly be doing a noble
action!"

"Is it as bad as all that?" and Dan noticed how the corners of her eyes
crinkled when she smiled.

"You can't imagine how lonely I've been!" he said. "Especially the past
few days. I didn't feel it so much till I was starting home. America!"
and he took off his hat.

"The land of freedom!" she added, softly.

"Do you feel it that way, too?" he asked eagerly. "I've never been much
of a patriot--just took things as a matter of course, I guess; but six
weeks in Europe is enough to make a patriot of any American. Whenever I
see the old flag, I feel like going down on my knees and kissing it.
I've just begun to realise what it stands for!"

She had turned back toward the hotel, walking slowly with Dan beside
her, and her face was beaming as she looked up at him.

"You are right--oh, so right!" she cried. "And how much more would you
realise it if, like me, you had been born in another country and felt
for yourself the injustice, the oppression, of which you have seen only
a little! For such as I, America is indeed the Promised Land!"

So she was foreign-born! Dan glanced at her with a shy curiosity.

"You are a Russian?" he asked. "Pardon me if I seem intrusive."

"You do not. No, I am not a Russian. Worse than that! I am a Pole!"

The words were uttered with a tragic emphasis which left him speechless.
He could think of nothing to say that was not banal or superficial, and
he realised that here were deep waters! He glanced once or twice at her
face, which had grown suddenly dark and brooding; then, with a little
motion of her hands, she seemed to push her thoughts away.

"You do not know much of Polish history, perhaps," she said, in a
lighter tone. "But if you are fond of tales of heroism, you should read
it, for it is one long heroism. It will help you to realise more fully
what your flag stands for. It is my flag, too; I have lived in America
nearly ten years; and never do I grow so angry as when I hear an
American speak slightingly of his country. Here is the hotel. Forgive me
for talking like this; but it has done me good to meet you!"

"And me!" he said. "Must you go in?"

"Yes; my father will be wondering where I am. Good-bye."

She held out her hand and gave his a frank little pressure. Then she
turned and left him.

He watched until the door swung shut behind her; then he walked on
slowly, past the great basins, over the drawbridge, along the crooked
streets of the old town, past the station, and finally he stopped in the
shadow of a crag of rock which sprang abruptly three hundred feet into
the air. Its summit was crowned by the frowning walls of the great fort
which commands the harbour, and along the face of the cliff, blue with
heather, a narrow footpath wound deviously upward. He ascended this for
a little way, and then stopped, his elbows on the wall which guarded it.
Before him stretched the bay, shielded by its jetty, and beyond rolled
the white-capped ocean. That way lay America.

"The land of freedom!" he murmured, and his eyes were bright. "The land
of freedom!"




CHAPTER XI

SHIPMATES


When Dan got back to the hotel for lunch, he found that there had been
many arrivals during the morning. The _Adriatic_ was to sail that
afternoon, as well as the _Ottilie_, and the long dining-room at the
hotel was a busy place. As the head-waiter led him to a seat, he caught
a glimpse, far off, of the girl of the morning. She was sitting at a
table with a white-haired man--her father, of course--with whom she was
talking earnestly. She did not look up, and, in another instant, Dan's
guide had pulled out a chair, and he found himself sitting with his back
toward the only person in the room who interested him.

He told himself this deliberately, after a glance at his neighbours; and
then, in the next moment, he called himself a cad, for every human-being
is interesting, once you get below the skin. But degrees of interest
vary, and Dan felt that he had never met any one who promised so much as
this outspoken girl, with the shining eyes and sensitive mouth. Which
boat was she sailing by, he wondered? It was an even chance that, like
himself, she would be on the _Ottilie_. Yes--but second class? That
would be asking too much of Fortune! Let it be added here that Dan was
returning in the second-cabin not because--as he was to hear so many
times on that voyage!--there was no room in the first, but because by
doing so, he had saved the money for an extra week of travel.

He found more arrivals in the office when he left the table, and a
formidable array of baggage, which was presently loaded on vans and
trundled away toward the waiting tender. He paid his bill, collected the
two suit-cases which constituted his total impedimenta, saw them safely
off for the pier, tipped the porter, and left the hotel. The whistle of
the tender was blowing shrilly, and, when he reached the pier, he saw
far out at sea the smudge of smoke against the sky, which told that one
of the steamers was approaching. He boarded the tender, assured a
medical inspector that he was an American citizen and so did not need to
have his eyes examined, dug his suit-cases out of the pile of luggage,
and found himself a seat near the bow of the boat. Presently the special
boat-train rolled in along the pier and disgorged the final quota of
passengers.

Ten minutes later, with a shrill toot, the tender backed away and headed
out across the harbour. With a queer feeling, half of sorrow, half of
joy, Dan looked back at the receding shore, telling himself that the
next soil his feet touched would be that of America.

A mile out, the great liner lay waiting, impressively huge as seen from
the deck of the little tender, and presently they were alongside and
filing through an open port. A steward grabbed his suit-cases, the
instant he was on board, asked the number of his room, led him to it
along interminable passages, and left him to make himself at home.

There were two berths in it, and, as he had paid for only one of them,
he knew that, at this crowded season, he could scarcely hope to have the
whole room to himself. But there was as yet no sign of any other
occupant, so Dan, thrusting his bags under the lower berth, went on deck
again. The last of the baggage and mail was being lifted aboard by a
block and tackle, worked by a donkey engine, and, even as Dan looked,
the tender tooted its whistle, cast loose, and backed away, and suddenly
beneath his feet Dan felt the quiver which told that the screws had
started. Slowly the great ship swung around and headed away into the
west toward the setting sun--and toward "the land of freedom." How that
phrase was running in his head!

He made a little tour of that portion of the boat set aside for
passengers of the second class, and realised that the frugal Germans
were much less generous in their provision for those humble ones than
was the English line on which he had come to Europe. There the second
class was well amidships, with a deck-room almost equal to that given
the aristocrats at the bow. Here the second class was at the very stern,
and the deck-room was limited indeed. Of course, Dan told himself, the
_Ottilie_ was a crack boat, designed to cater to the most exclusive
trade; but he looked forward at the long stretches set apart for the
first cabin with a little envy.

The boat was crowded, but he saw nothing of the black-haired girl, and
finally, after finding that there was no hope of getting a deck-chair,
he sought the dining-room steward, got his table-ticket, and made his
way back to his stateroom. But on the threshold he paused. A man was
lying in the upper berth, the light at his head turned on and a paper in
his hand. He raised his head and looked down, at the sound of the door,
and Dan had the impression of a bronzed countenance lighted by a pair of
very brilliant eyes.

"Ah," said a pleasant voice, "so this is my shipmate," and the stranger
swung his legs over the side of the berth and dropped lightly to the
floor. Again Dan had the impression of the bright eyes upon him.

"It looks that way," he said. And then a sudden compunction seized him.
"I didn't mean to be a pig and take the lower berth. You are quite
welcome to it."

"Oh, no, no," protested the other. "The choice is always to the first
comer. That is the rule of the sea."

Dan noticed that, though he spoke English well, it was with the clipped
accent which betrayed the Frenchman.

"Then I choose the upper one," he said, laughing.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"I can but thank you," he said. "After all, you are younger than I. My
name is André Chevrial, very much at your service," and he held out his
hand.

If he had announced himself to be a prince of the blood, Dan would not
have been surprised, for there was that in his bearing which bespoke the
finished gentleman, and a magnetism in his manner to which Dan was
already yielding.

"Mine is Webster--Dan Webster," he said, and took the outstretched hand
warmly.

M. Chevrial looked a little puzzled.

"The name seems somehow familiar," he said; "but I cannot quite place
it."

Dan laughed.

"My father made the mistake of naming me after the great Daniel--a
hundred years after," he explained.

"Oh, so that is it! Daniel--Daniel Webster. A statesman, was he not?"

"One of our greatest."

"Though it did not need that to tell me you are an American. You of
America have an atmosphere all your own. Shall we go on deck and have a
cigarette?"

So presently Dan found himself seated beside M. Chevrial, talking very
comfortably. The Frenchman, to Dan's surprise, proclaimed himself to be
nothing more important than a wine-jobber who visited America every
autumn to dispose of his wares; but, whatever his business, he was
certainly a most entertaining companion. And then, suddenly, Dan quite
forgot him, for coming toward them down the deck was the dark-eyed girl,
arm in arm with a man whose burning eyes strangely belied his snowy
hair. Dan sat staring at them, scarcely able to credit such stupendous
good fortune, and, as they passed, the girl looked at him, smiled and
nodded.

M. Chevrial, whom no detail of this little scene had escaped, lighted
another cigarette.

"A very striking-looking young lady," he said. "The gentleman, I take
it, is her father?"

"Yes, I think so," said Dan. "I met her for a moment on the beach at
Cherbourg this morning, and she mentioned that she was with her father."

"Ah!" commented Chevrial. "And now tell me more about this journalism of
yours, of which we hear so much. Is it really free? Is it not true that
most of your papers are controlled by wealthy syndicates, who use them
for their own purposes?"

This was a red flag to the bull, and Dan plunged into a defence of
American journalism, citing instances and proofs, telling of incidents
in his own experience showing that most editors really have consciences
by which they are guided, and a high conception of their duty to the
public.

"There are exceptions, of course," Dan went on, carried away by his
subject; "there are scoundrels in the newspaper business, just as in all
businesses; but it is one of the beautiful laws of compensation that,
just as soon as a newspaper goes wrong, its influence begins to slip
away from it...."

He stopped suddenly, for he had glanced at M. Chevrial and found him
inattentive. His head was turned a little aside and his eyes were fixed
with a peculiar and intent expression on two men who stood together by
the rail, a little distance away. One of them was the man with the white
hair. The other was evidently a tourist, from his costume, and though he
was clean-shaven, some instinct caused Dan to classify him as a German.
He glanced back at Chevrial at last, but the latter was gazing dreamily
out over the water and stifling a little yawn with his hand.

"Your pardon, M. Webster," he said. "But I arose very early this
morning, in order to catch my train, and I am tired. I think that I
shall lie down for a few moments before dinner. Au revoir."

Dan sat on by himself for a little while; then it suddenly occurred to
him that, if he looked about, he might find the dark-eyed girl alone
somewhere. He leaped to his feet and began the search. She was not on
the promenade deck, nor in the library, and he had about decided that
she had returned to her stateroom, when it occurred to him that she
might be on the boat-deck. So he climbed the narrow stair and emerged
upon that lofty eyrie. No, she could not be here--it was too windy;
then, as he glanced around, he saw, through the deepening twilight, a
dark figure sitting on a bench in the lee of one of the boats.

Could it be she? He hesitated to approach near enough to be sure; but at
last he mustered up courage to stroll past. And then, in an instant, his
cap was off and his hand extended.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you are on the boat!" he began.
"May I sit down?"

"Certainly," and she moved a little, looking up at him, smiling. "I am
glad, too."

"Are you? It's nice of you to say so, anyway. A voyage is so dull if
there is no one to talk to. Of course, there is always some one to talk
to--but I don't mean that kind of talk. I mean plumbing the depths--you
know, that sort of thing."

"You think I can plumb the depths?"

"You certainly plumbed mine this morning. Not that I have any great
depths," he added, laughing; "but your line touched bottom, and gave me
a new feeling which I think was good for me. Now, since we're going to
know each other, I want to introduce myself. My name is Webster--named
after the great Daniel, but called Dan so that future historians can
distinguish between us--and I earn a precarious living by chasing news
for a New York paper."

"And my name," she responded instantly, "is Kasia Vard; and I have
earned a precarious living in many ways--I have worked in a factory, I
have sold papers--I have even cleaned the streets."

"Cleaned the streets?" he repeated incredulously.

"Oh, that was not in America," she said. "It was at Warsaw. In Poland,
just as in many other countries of Europe, the streets are cleaned by
the women and children. The men, you see, are needed for the army."

There was a bitter irony in her voice which drew him closer.

"I have seen women and children working in the fields; in Holland I saw
them helping tow the boats and working in the brickyards. That was bad
enough. But I never have seen them cleaning the streets."

"Did you go to Munich?"

"No."

"You would have seen them doing it there--as they do it all over
Germany. Had you gone to Chemnitz, you would have seen them carrying the
hod."

She fell silent, and Dan leaned back, strangely moved. How young he was;
how little he knew! Here was this girl, certainly not more than twenty,
who had lived more, felt more, thought more than he had ever done; who
had ideals....

"Miss Vard," he said finally, in a low voice, "permit me to tell you
something. I am just an average fellow with an average brain, who has
gone about all his life with his eyes only half open--sometimes not even
that. I have walked up and down Broadway, and fancied I was seeing life!
I must seem awfully young to you--I feel a mere infant--intellectually,
I mean. But I want to grow up--it isn't good for a man of twenty-nine to
be a mental Peter Pan. Will you help me?"

She smiled, the bright, sudden smile, which he had grown to like so
much, and impulsively she held out her hand.

"Yes," she said, "I will help, as far as I can. The best thing I can do
for you is to introduce you to my father. He can help far more than I!"

"Thank you!" and he took her hand and held it. "It was your father I saw
you with?"

"Yes. You will like him. He is the most wonderful man in the world. Now
I must be going. He will be looking for me."

He went with her to the lower deck, then returned to the bench, and
stared thoughtfully out over the dark sea. What a woman she was! And
then he smiled a little as he recalled her last words, "The most
wonderful man in the world!" He did not suspect that the time would come
when he would echo them!




CHAPTER XII

UNDER RUSSIAN RULE


When Dan found his seat in the dining-saloon, that evening, he glanced
up and down the long table, in the hope that Miss Vard and her father
might be among his neighbours. But they were not, and it was not until
he was half through the meal that he descried them at one of the tables
on the other side of the room. At his own table there were the usual
assorted types of the middle-class tourist, his wife and family, most of
them frankly glad that they were homeward bound, with the greatest part
of their pilgrimage accomplished.

The sea was smooth and the great boat forged ahead with scarcely any
motion, so that every seat was occupied and every one in good spirits.
There was a hum of talk and rattle of dishes; the white-coated stewards
scuttled back and forth, and the scene was as pleasant as the wholesale
human consumption of food can ever be.

Dan went on with his dinner with one eye on the far table where Miss
Vard and her father were seated; but his attention was distracted for a
time by a discussion which an Anglomaniac across the table started as
to the relative merits of England and America, and to which he could not
resist contributing a few remarks. When he glanced across the saloon
again, he saw that Miss Vard and her father were no longer there.
However, he finished his dinner with the comfortable consciousness that
the second-class quarters were limited, and that she could not escape
from them except by jumping overboard; and when the meal was ended, he
made his way leisurely through the lounge and along the decks in search
of her. There were girls, girls everywhere, but not the one he sought;
and finally, with a little smile, he mounted the ladder which led to the
after boat-deck.

Already other couples, scouting about the ship, had discovered the
advantages of its dim seclusion, and most of the benches in the lee of
the boats and about the little wireless-house were occupied; but, on
that one bench, in the shadow of the after life-boat, Dan descried a
solitary figure. He advanced without hesitation.

"I was hoping I should find you," he said.

She moved a little aside, as an invitation for him to share the bench.

"I like it up here," she said, "with no light but the stars, and that
strange luminous glow along those wires up yonder."

Looking up, Dan saw that the gridiron of wires stretched between the
masts was, indeed, faintly luminous against the sky.

"That's the wireless," he said. "Listen--you can hear it," and from the
open window of the wireless-house came the vicious snap and crackle of
electricity. "The operator is sending a message."

She looked up again at the glowing wires.

"I think it the most wonderful thing in the world!" she said. "I can't
understand it--I can't believe it--and yet, there it is!"

"Yes--and I suppose it has become an every-day affair to the operator in
there; it isn't wonderful to him any more. We forget how wonderful a lot
of things are, when we get used to them."

"How wonderful everything is," she corrected; "the sunrise, the
ocean...."

They sat for some time in silence, gazing out across the dark and
restless water, touched here and there with white, as a wave combed and
broke. Then Dan's gaze wandered to her face. Seen thus, in the dim
light, framed by her dark hair, it, too, seemed wonderful to him; there
was about it a mystic allusiveness, a subtle charm, far more compelling
than mere beauty ever is; her eyes had depths to them....

She felt his gaze upon her and turned her face to him and smiled.

"You may smoke, if you wish," she said. "I can feel that at the back of
your mind."

"I believe I _was_ thinking about it," Dan admitted, and got out his
pipe; but he had himself been scarcely conscious of the thought, and it
amazed him that she should have detected it. There was the flare of a
match, and he sat back again, exhaling a long puff. "Now," he said, "you
are going to begin my education. I am ready for the first lesson."

"How shall I begin?"

"I think an excellent way would be to tell me something about yourself,"
he suggested.

She considered him gravely.

"Are you really in earnest?" she asked.

"Indeed I am," he answered quickly, colouring a little under her
searching eyes. "Forgive me if I seemed not to be. And please begin in
any way you think best."

"I will tell you something about Poland," she said, "and then you will
understand a little what I and all like me feel for America. You know, I
suppose, that there is no longer any such land as Poland?"

"I know that Russia and one or two other powers divided it, about a
hundred years ago."

"Yes; but you cannot know what that division meant! The Poles were a
brave and patriotic people; they loved their country as few peoples do;
and all at once, great armies were flung upon them; they were
overwhelmed, and their country was taken away. They lost more than
their country: they lost their language, their history, their national
life. But in spite of it all, they remained Poles.

"I was born in Russian Poland, not far from Warsaw. From the very first,
I was taught that I was a Pole, not a Russian. But only at home, under
my own roof, could I be a Pole. The teaching of Polish was forbidden in
any school--every word spoken must be Russian. If children were
overheard talking in Polish, they were arrested by the police and their
parents summoned and fined. On every public building there was a painted
notice: 'It is forbidden to speak Polish.' All trials were conducted in
Russian, although none of the peasants understood Russian, and so had no
idea of what was being said. No official was permitted to answer a
question in Polish--I have known a tramcar conductor to be heavily fined
for doing so.

"We were taught history in which the name of our fatherland was never
mentioned, but where Russia was treated as the wisest, best, and most
powerful of nations, with the Czar second only to God himself. We could
not leave our native village without permission from the police. No Pole
could fill any public office. No Pole was permitted to publish a book or
a newspaper or even a handbill, until a Russian censor had passed upon
it. If you ever visit Poland, you will notice, here and there, groups of
tall wooden crosses. They mark graves. But if one of those crosses
decays or falls down, it may not be replaced without permission from the
government. One night, the cross over the grave of my father's mother
was struck by lightning; and for two years it lay there, until
permission to replace it had come from Petersburg. It was among such
surroundings that my childhood was passed."

Kasia did not seem to realise that, instead of telling about Poland, she
was telling about herself; and Dan was deeply moved. He had listened, in
his day, to many stories, but never to one like this. It was as though
the dead wrappings of history were stripped away, and its seething,
desperate, tragic heart laid bare.

"Go on," he said thickly, and folded his arms tightly across his breast.

"My father had hoped to be a student of science," she went on; "but he
was refused admission to the university because of some absurd
suspicion, and after that he could study only secretly. When he married,
he rented a little farm near Warsaw; and there he and mother toiled all
day long, and the children too, as soon as they were old enough. There
were four children--two boys and two girls. I was the youngest. Twice
every year, my mother, my sister and I walked in to Warsaw, and spent a
week there helping to clean the streets; this service was required of
all families in the villages about Warsaw, and could be escaped only by
paying a heavy tax. We had also to assist in keeping the roads in
repair, and for this, too, the women and children were employed, since
the men could not be spared from the work of the farm. At nightfall we
were always exhausted, and would swallow our soup and black bread
hastily, and then fling ourselves down, dressed as we were, on a heap of
straw in one corner. We were very poor, and yet not so poor as we
seemed; but to have added one little comfort to our home would have
meant a visit from the tax-inquisitor, and perhaps a search. The only
way to escape this was to live in miserable poverty.

"In spite of all this, my father still kept up his studies. At night,
after carefully closing the shutters and stuffing the cracks with rags,
so that no ray of light could be seen outside, he would light a little
tallow dip and sit reading for hours. He read the same books over and
over, for books were very hard to get. The ones he wanted were almost
always forbidden. To be found possessing one meant banishment. So all of
his books he kept concealed even more carefully than he did his money.
Indeed, he valued them more!

"Sundays he devoted to the education of his children, always with one of
us on guard outside the door. It was then that I learned to read
English. Father had taught himself with great thoroughness, because he
was determined some day to go to America. America--that was his dream!
But how to get there! It seemed certain that he could never save money
enough to pay for so many. That problem was soon to be settled."

She paused and put her hand to her throat, shivering a little.

"Are you cold?" Dan asked.

"No; I am trembling at the thought of what remains to tell. A case of
cholera appeared in our village. It was reported to the magistrate. At
once all the Russian officials removed to Warsaw, and a cordon of
Russian troops was thrown about the village. No one was permitted to
enter or to leave. The cholera spread. The people were ignorant; they
did not know what to do, and there was no one to tell them; they could
only wait and pray. At the end of a month, the disease had spent itself,
but of those who had lived in the village, only one in ten remained. Of
our family, there were left only my father and myself."

Dan's hand went out to hers. She did not draw away.

"For a time," she went on, "father was stunned by the blow; I have
always believed that he was very near madness. But he shook off his
sorrow and decided that the time had come to seek America. We could not
depart openly; that was not permitted; so one night he dug up the little
hoard of money he had concealed, cut off my hair and dressed me in boys'
clothes, arrayed himself in the rags of a goat-herd, and about midnight
we set off. I was eleven years old at the time, and I remember every
incident distinctly. We could travel only at night, hiding at every
sound. By day, we concealed ourselves under culverts, in ditches, under
heaps of brush. Luckily, Polish people are eager to help each other, so
we did not starve, and we got forward a little every night. At the end
of six weeks, we crossed the frontier and were safe.

"There is not much more to tell. We reached New York; and I was placed
in school--I wish you could realise all that meant to me! For a long
time, I could not go out into the street without being afraid. It seemed
impossible that there was no longer anything to fear. When at last I
understood, it was as though a great load were lifted. That was ten
years ago. For the past three years, I have been a teacher in the Hester
Street school."

She sat silent for a moment, then with a long breath, drew her hand
away.

"Do you wonder that I love America?" she asked.

"No," said Dan; "and you have made me a better patriot."

She turned to him, with a little smile.

"And now I think of it," she added, "it was my story I told you, after
all!"

"Your story helps me to understand Poland's. That is the way history
should be written."

"I think so, too. There is not enough in most histories of

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