Who Goes There!
by Robert W. Chambers · English · Gutenberg #40696 · 451,840 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Who Goes There!
Author: Robert W. Chambers
Illustrator: Arthur Ignatius Keller
Release date: September 7, 2012 [eBook #40696]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHO GOES THERE! ***
[Illustration: "Who goes there!"]
WHO GOES THERE!
BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
[Illustration]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
A. I. KELLER
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Printed in the United States of America
_To_
_J. HAMBLEN SEARS_
_Joseph! I've known you now for many years;
You are the Hero of this pretty story;
In him your every virtue reappears
Lighting his way along the road to glory.
All you possess adorns this Hero gay,
Your fatal beauty, curly hair, and so forth;
Like you he's always ready, night or day,
To pack his doggy clothes and ties and go forth.
No winsome maid beneath a summer sky,
Innured to prudence, modesty, and duty
Would dare demur or hesitate to fly
With such a manly specimen of beauty.
Accept, my friend, this tribute to your worth
As publisher, explorer, lover, fighter,
For men like you were destined from their birth
To make a millionaire of any writer._
_R. W. C._
_WHO GOES THERE!_
_Not with indifferent or with flippant hand
Draw the curtain's corner to disclose
A rose, a leaf, a path through this sad land
Untrampled yet by foes.
Out of the Past--the Heart's last Hermitage--
A wistful Phantom glides to me again
Here where I pace that solitary cage
They call, The World of Men.
In vain she mirrors me the Golden Age;
Vain is her Voice of Spring in wood and glen;
The winter sunlight falls across my page
Gilding a broken pen.
Withered the magic gardens which were mine;
Eden, in embers, blackens in the sun;
Rooting amid crushed roses the Wild Swine
Still root, and spare not one.
Village and spire and scented forest path,
Pastures and brooks, meadows and hills and fens
Heard not the secret whispering in Gath
There where the Gray Boar dens,
Till burst his dreadful clamour on the Rhine
And all the World shrank deafened by the roar
Aghast before the out-rush of Wild Swine
Led by the great Gray Boar._
_Fallen the cloud-capped castles which were mine;
Cities in ashes whiten in the sun;
Rending the ruined shrines, the Rhenish Swine
Still rend, and spare not one._
PREFACE
The Crown Prince is partly right; the majority in the world is against
him and what he stands for; but not against Germany and the Germans.
He professes surprise at the attitude of the United States. That
attitude is the natural result of various causes among which are the
following:
Distrust of any aggressor by a nation inclined toward peace.
Disgust at the "scrap of paper" episode.
Resentment at the invasion of Belgium.
Contempt for the Imperial Government which is industriously screwing the
last penny of "indemnity" out of a ruined nation, which the people of
the United States are taxing their private means to keep from
starvation.
Further back there are other reasons.
For thirty years the press of Germany has seldom missed an opportunity
to express its contempt for Americans. Any American who has ever lived
in Germany or who has read German newspapers during the last thirty
years is aware of the tone of the German press concerning America and
Americans. No innuendoes have been too vulgar, no sneers too brutal for
the editors of these papers, and, presumably for the readers.
Also Americans do not forget the attitude of the Imperial Government
during the Spanish war. The bad manners of a German Admiral are bearing
fruit.
Imperialism we Americans do not understand, but it need not make us
unfriendly to empires.
But we do understand when manners are bad, or when a military caste,
which maintains its traditions of personal honour by violence, becomes
arrogant to the point of brutality.
A false notion of personal honour is alone enough to prevent a
sympathetic understanding between two peoples.
America is not an enemy to Germany, only is it inexorably opposed to any
Government which breaks faith; and which enthrones above all other gods
the god of violence.
For the German soldiers who are dying in this Hohenzollern-Hapsburg war
we have only sympathy and pity. We know they are as brave as any
soldiers; that cruelty in the German Army is in no greater proportion
than it is in any army.
But also we know that the cause of Imperial Germany is wrong; her
civilization is founded on propositions impossible for any American to
accept; her aims, ambitions, and ideals antagonistic to the progress to
communal and individual liberty as we understand the terms. And that
settles the matter for us.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN THE MIST 1
II. THE MAN IN GREY 9
III. TIPPERARY 26
IV. BAD DREAMS 37
V. KAREN 46
VI. MR. AND MRS 62
VII. THE SATCHEL 83
VIII. AT SEA 91
IX. H. M. S. WYVERN 106
X. FORCE 115
XI. STRATEGY 136
XII. IN THE RAIN 150
XIII. THE DAY OF WRATH 170
XIV. HER ENEMY 174
XV. IN CONFIDENCE 176
XVI. THE FOREST LISTENS 196
XVII. HER FIRST CAMPAIGN 217
XVIII. LESSE FOREST 226
XIX. THE LIAR 248
XX. BEFORE DINNER 257
XXI. SNIPERS 271
XXII. DRIVEN GAME 288
XXIII. CANDLE LIGHT 299
XXIV. A PERSONAL AFFAIR 315
XXV. WHO GOES THERE! 326
XXVI. AMICUS DEI 338
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
"Who goes there!" _Frontispiece_
"'If you'll say you'll do it, ... I'll not have those
men shot'" 20
"There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger" 52
"The chauffeur hit him ... two heavy, merciless
blows, hurling him senseless across the stairs" 68
"'Kervyn! Kervyn--Think what you are doing!--'" 120
"Standing so beside the pool, breathing the incense of
the roses, she thought of the dream" 276
"The Pulpit resounded with the rifle-fire of its little
garrison" 296
"The impact hurled von Reiter against the table" 318
"And last of all came Karen with Guild on foot beside
her" 336
WHO GOES THERE!
CHAPTER I
IN THE MIST
They had selected for their business the outer face of an old garden
wall. There were red tiles on the coping; dusty roadside vines half
covered the base. Where plaster had peeled off a few weather-beaten
bricks showed. Bees hummed in the trampled herbage.
Against this wall they backed the first six men. One, a mere boy, was
crying, wiping his frightened eyes on his shirt-sleeve.
The dry crash of the volley ended the matter; all the men against the
wall collapsed. Presently one of them, the boy who had been crying,
moved his arm in the grass. A rifle spoke instantly, and he moved no
more.
There came a low-spoken word of command, the firing squad shouldered
rifles, wheeled, and moved off; and out of the sea-grey masses of
infantry another squad of execution came marching up, smartly.
A dozen men, some in sabots, trousers, and dirty collarless shirts, some
in well-cut business suits and straw hats, and all with their wrists
tied behind them, stood silently awaiting their turns. One among them, a
young man wearing a golf-cap, knickerbockers, heather-spats, and an
absolutely colourless face, stood staring at the tumbled heaps of
clothing along the foot of the wall as though stupified.
Six peasants went first; the men more smartly attired were to wait a
little longer it appeared.
The emotionless and methodical preparations, the brisk precision of the
operation, the cheerful celerity of the firing squad made it the more
terrifying, stunning the victims to immobility.
The young man in the golf-cap and knickerbockers clenched his tied
hands. Not an atom of colour remained in cheeks or lips, and he stood
with face averted while the squad of execution was busy with its
business.
There seemed to be some slight disorder along the wall--a defiant voice
was raised hoarsely cursing all Germans; another, thin and hysterical,
cheered for Belgium and the young King. Also this firing squad must have
aimed badly, for bayonet and rifle-butt were used afterward and some
delay occurred; and an officer, revolver swinging, prowled along the
foot of the wall, kicking inquiringly at the dead heaps of heavy flesh
that had collapsed there.
Houses lining the single village street began to leak smoke; smoke
writhed and curled behind closed window-panes. Here and there a mounted
Uhlan forced his big horse up on the sidewalk and drove his lance butt
through the window glass.
Already the street was swimming in thin strata of smoke; the sea-grey
uniforms of the German infantry seemed part of the haze; only the faces
of the soldiery were visible--faces without bodies, thousands of flat,
detached faces, thousands of little pig eyes set in a blank and foggy
void. And over everything in the close, heavy air brooded the sour
stench of a sweat-soaked, unwashed army.
A third squad of execution came swinging up, apparently out of nowhere,
their heavy half-boots clumping in unison on the stony street.
The young man in the golf-cap and knickerbockers heard them coming and
bit his bloodless lip.
After a moment the rhythm of the heavy boots ceased. The street became
very silent, save where window glass continually fell tinkling to the
sidewalk and the feathery whisper of flames became more audible from
within the row of empty houses.
The young man lifted his eyes to the sombre and sunless sky. High up
there above the mist and heavy bands of smoke he saw the feathery tops
of tall trees, motionless.
Presently through the silence came the clatter of hoofs; Uhlans cantered
past, pennons whipping from lance heads; then a soft two-toned
bugle-call announced an automobile; and presently it loomed up, huge,
through the parted ranks of the infantry, a great grey, low-purring
bulk, slowing, halting, still purring.
A grey-clad general officer sat in the tonneau, a grey-uniformed hussar
was seated beside the grey-liveried chauffeur.
As the car stopped several officers were already beside the
running-board, halted stiffly at attention. The general officer, his
cigar between his gloved fingers, leaned over the edge of the tonneau
and said something in a very quiet voice.
Instantly a slim, stiff infantry captain saluted, wheeled sharply, and
walked straight to the little file of prisoners who stood with their
wrists tied behind their backs, looking vacantly at the automobile.
"Which is the prisoner-hostage who says he is American?" he snapped out
in his nasal Prussian voice.
The young man who wore a golf-cap took a short step forward, hesitated.
"You?"
"Yes."
"Fall in again!"
The officer nodded to a sergeant of infantry, and a squad of men shoved
the prisoners into single file, facing not the fatal wall, but westward,
along the street.
"March!" said somebody. And the next moment again: "Halt!" rang out with
the snapping brevity of a cracked whip. The general officer leaned from
the grey tonneau and looked steadily along the file of hostages until
his glance fell upon the young man in the golf-cap.
"What is your name?" he asked quietly in English.
"My name is Guild."
"The rest?"
"Kervyn Guild."
"You say you are American?"
"Yes."
The general officer looked at him for a moment longer, then said
something to the hussar aide-de-camp.
The aide threw open the car door and jumped out. A lieutenant took
command of the escort. The hussar whispered instructions, turned and
came to attention beside the running-board, then, at a nod from the
general officer, jumped up beside the chauffeur. There came the
soft-toned, mellow warning of the bugle; the grey machine glided off
into the mist; the prisoners and escort followed it, marching briskly.
As they passed the end of the street two houses on their right suddenly
roared up in one vast, smoke-shot tower of flame, and a brassy glare
lighted up the mist around them.
Somewhere near by a woman began to scream; farther down the street, more
windows and doors were being beaten in. From farther away, still, came
the strains of military music, resonant, full, magnificent. A detail
passed with spades to bury the dead who lay under the wall. All was
order, precision, and cheerful despatch. The infantry column, along the
halted flanks of which the prisoners were now being marched, came to
attention. Company after company marked time, heavily; shouldered
rifles. Uhlans in file came spurring through the centre of the street; a
cyclist followed, rifle slung across his back, sitting at ease on his
machine and gazing curiously about.
Out of the end of the village street marched the prisoners and their
escort, but presently halted again.
Directly in front of them stood the grey automobile drawn up by the
roadside before a pair of iron gates. The gates swung from high stucco
walls. On top of the walls were soldiers sitting, rifle on knee; a
machine gun commanded the drive, and across the gravel more soldiers
were digging a trench, setting posts, and stringing barbed wire which
they unwound from great wooden reels.
Through the gates escort and prisoners threaded their way, across a lawn
already trampled by cavalry, and straight on toward a pleasant looking
and somewhat old-fashioned house set amid older trees and shrubbery,
badly broken.
Half a dozen grey-clad staff officers were eating and drinking on the
low stone terrace; their horses picketed on the lawn, nibbled the
crushed shrubbery. Sentries pacing the terrace and on guard at the door
came to attention as the lieutenant in charge of the escort marched his
prisoners in.
At a word from him an infantryman went from prisoner to prisoner untying
the cords that bound their wrists behind them. Then they were marched
into an old-fashioned drawing-room on the left, sentries were placed,
the remainder of the escort sat down on the floor with their loaded
rifles on their laps and their backs against the wall. Their officer,
the lieutenant, walked across the hallway to the room on the left, where
the sentry admitted him, then closed the door and resumed his heavy
pacing of the black-tiled hall.
The sergeant in charge of the escort lifted his helmet with its
grey-cloth covering, scratched his bullet head, yawned. Then he said,
jerking a huge thumb toward the drawing-room: "There's a good wall in
the garden behind the house. They'll make the fruit grow all the
better--these Belgians."
The lieutenant, coming out of the room opposite, overheard him.
"What your crops need," he said in a mincing Berlin voice, "is plenty of
good English filth to spade under. See that you bring in a few
cart-loads."
And he went into the drawing-room where the prisoners stood by the
windows looking out silently at a great pall of smoke which was hanging
over the village through which they had just been marched.
"Which of you is the alleged American?" said the lieutenant in
hesitating but correct English.
The young man in knickerbockers rose from a brocaded armchair.
"Follow me. General von Reiter does you the honour to question you."
The young man looked the lieutenant straight in the eye and smiled,
stiffly perhaps, because his face was still pallid and the breath of
death still chilled it.
"The honour," he said in an agreeably modulated voice, "is General von
Reiter's. But I fear he won't realize it."
"What's that!" said the lieutenant sharply.
But young Guild shrugged his shoulders. "You wouldn't understand either.
Besides you are too talkative for an underling. Do your duty--if you
know how."
"Swine of a Yankee," said the lieutenant, speaking slowly and with
painful precision, "do you suppose you are in your own sty of a
Republic? Silence! A Prussian officer commands you! March!"
Guild dropped his hands into the pockets of his belted jacket. "You
little shrimp," he said good humouredly, and followed the officer, who
had now drawn his sword.
Out into the hall they filed, across it to the closed door. The sentry
on duty there opened it; the lieutenant, very red in the face, delivered
his prisoner, then, at a nod from the grey-clad officer who was sitting
behind a writing desk, saluted, faced about, and marched out. The door
closed sharply behind him.
CHAPTER II
THE MAN IN GREY
Young Guild looked steadily at the man in grey, and the man in grey
gazed as steadily back from behind his desk.
He was a man of forty-five, lean, well built, blond, and of regular
features save that his cheek-bones were a trifle high, which seemed to
crowd his light blue eyes, make them narrower, and push them into a very
slight slant. He had the well-groomed aspect of a Prussian officer, dry
of skin, clean-shaven save for the mustache _en croc_, which his bony
but powerful and well-kept hands absently caressed at intervals.
His forehead was broad and benevolent, but his eyes modified the
humanity and his mouth almost denied it--a mouth firm without
shrewdness, not bad, not cruel for the sake of cruelty, yet moulded in
lines which promised no hope other than that iron justice which knows no
mercy.
"Mr. Guild?"
"Yes, General."
General von Reiter folded his bony hands and rested them on the blotter.
"You say that you are American?"
"Yes."
"How came you to be among the Yslemont hostages?"
"I was stopping at the Hotel Poste when the Uhlans and cyclists suddenly
appeared. The captain of Uhlans took the Burgomaster with whom I had
been playing chess, myself, the notary, and other leading citizens."
"Did you tell him you are American?"
"Yes. But he paid no attention."
"Had you a passport?"
"Yes."
"Other papers to establish your identity?"
"A few business letters from New York. They read them, but told me they
were of no use to me."
"Why did you not communicate with your nearest Consul or with the
American Minister in Brussels?"
"They refused me the use of telephone and telegraph. They said that I am
Belgian and properly liable to be taken as hostage for the good
behaviour of Yslemont."
General von Reiter's hand was lifted meditatively to his mustache. He
said: "What happened after you were refused permission to communicate
with the American representatives?"
"We were all in the dining-room of the Hotel Poste under guard. At the
Burgomaster's dictation I was writing out a proclamation warning the
inhabitants of Yslemont not to commit any act of violence against the
German soldiery and explaining that we were held as hostages for their
good behaviour and that a shot fired at a German meant a dead wall and a
squad of execution for us and the destruction of Yslemont for them--" He
flushed, hesitated.
"Continue," said the general.
"While I was still writing the shots were fired. We all went to the
window and we saw Uhlans galloping across the fields after some peasants
who were running into the woods. Afterward two stretchers came by with
Germans lying in them. After that an officer came and cursed us and the
soldiers tied our hands behind our backs. We sat there in the
dining-room until the Uhlans came riding into the street with their
prisoners tied by ropes to their saddles. Then a major of infantry came
into the dining-room and read our sentence to us. Then they marched us
out into the fog."
The general crossed his spurred boots under the desk and lay back in his
chair, looking at Guild all the while.
"So you are American, Mr. Guild?"
"Yes, General."
"In business in New York?"
"Yes."
"What business?"
"Real estate."
"Where?"
"Union Square, West."
"What is the name of the firm in which you are associated?"
"Guild and Darrel."
"Is that your partner's name?"
"Yes. Henry Darrel."
"Why are you here in Belgium?"
"I was making a foot tour in the Ardennes."
"Your business vacation?"
"Yes. I was to meet my partner in Luxembourg and return to New York with
him."
"You and your partner are both absent from New York at the same time?"
"Yes."
"How is that?"
"Real estate in New York is quiet. There is practically no business
now."
The general nodded. "Yes," he said, "much of what you tell me has been
corroborated. In the Seegard Regiment of Infantry Number 569 you were
recognized by several non-commissioned officers and men while you stood
with the hostages awaiting--ah--justice," he added drily.
"Recognized?" repeated Guild.
"The soldiers who recognized you had served in New York hotels as clerks
or waiters, I believe. The captain of that company, in consequence, very
properly reported the matter to Colonel von Eschbach, who telephoned to
me. And I am here to consider the matter."
Then, folding his arms and looking hard at Guild out of narrowing eyes
that began to slant again:
"The hostages of Yslemont have justly forfeited their lives. Two of my
officers have been murdered there in the streets. The law is plain. Is
there any reason why these hostages should not pay the proper penalty?"
"The Burgomaster was in the act of dictating----"
"He should have dictated faster!"
"These gentlemen did not fire the shots----"
"But those over whom they exercised authority did!"
Guild fell silent and his features paled a little. The general watched
him in silence for a moment and an inquiring expression came into his
narrow eyes.
"Well?" he said at length.
Guild lifted his eyes.
"Well, sir," repeated the general. "I have said that there is no reason
why the hostages taken at Yslemont should not be turned over to the
squad of execution outside there in the hallway."
"I heard you say it."
The general looked at him curiously. "You have nothing to say?"
"No."
"Not for yourself?"
"No."
"As a matter of fact, Mr. Guild, what was your ultimate object in
passing through Yslemont?"
"I have already told you that I had intended to make a foot tour through
the Three Ardennes."
"_Had_ intended?"
"Yes."
"Was that still your intention when you were made prisoner?"
After a moment's hesitation: "No," said Guild in a low voice.
"You altered your plan?"
"Yes."
"You decided to employ your vacation otherwise?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I decided to enlist," said Guild. He was very white, now.
"Enlist?"
"Yes."
"In the British army?"
"The Belgian."
"Oh! So now you do not remind me that, as an American, you claim
exemption from the execution of the sentence?"
"I have said enough," replied Guild. A slight colour showed over his
cheek-bones.
"If I shoot the Burgomaster and the notary and the others in there,
ought I to let you go--on your own representations?"
"I have said enough," repeated Guild.
"Oh! So you refuse to plead any particular exemption on account of your
nationality?"
No answer.
"And you, by your silence, permit yourself to be implicated in the
responsibility of your fellow-hostages?"
No reply.
"Why?--Mr. Guild. Is it, perhaps, after all because you are not an
American in the strictest sense of that often misused term?"
There was no response.
"You were born in America?"
"Yes."
"Your father, perhaps, was born there?"
"Yes."
"Oh! And _his_ father?"
"No."
"Oh! You are, I see, quite candid, Mr. Guild."
"Yes, when necessary."
"I see. Very well, then. Where do you get your Christian name, Kervyn?
Is it an American name?"
"No."
"The name, Guild--is that an American name?"
"Yes."
"But--_is_ it _your_ name?"
"Yes."
"Was it, by chance, ever spelled a little differently--in times gone by,
Mr. Guild?"
"Yes."
"Oh! And how, in times gone by, was it spelled by your--grandfather?"
Guild looked him calmly in the eyes. "It was spelled Gueldres," he said.
"I see, I see. That _is_ interesting. Gueldres, Kervyn Gueldres. Why, it
sounds almost Belgian. Let me see--if I remember--there was such a
family inscribed in the Book of Gold. There was even a Kervyn of
Gueldres--a count, was he not?--Comte d'Yvoir--Count of Yvoir, Hastière,
and Lesse. Was he not--this Kervyn of Gueldres, many, many years ago?"
"I congratulate General von Reiter on his memory for such unimportant
history as that of Belgium," said Guild, reddening.
"Oh, we Germans are studious in our youth--and thorough. Nothing is too
unimportant to ignore and"--he smiled grimly--"nothing is too vast for
us to undertake--and accomplish."
He lifted his hand to his mustache again. "Mr. Guild," he said, "at the
elections in America you--ah--vote of course?"
"No."
"What?"
Guild remained silent.
The general, stroking his mustache, said pleasantly: "The Belgian
nobility always interested me; it is so exclusive and there are so few
families of the _classe noble_. Except for those ten families who are
independent of Court favour--like the Croys and De Lignes--there seem to
be only about thirty families who possess the privileges of the Golden
Book. Is this not so?"
"General von Reiter appears to know."
The general seemed gratified at this corroboration of his own memory.
"And," he went on amiably, "this Belgian nobility is a real nobility.
Once of it, always a part of it. And, too, its code is so rigid, so
inexorably precise that it seems almost Prussian. For example, the code
of the Belgian aristocracy permits none of its members to go into any
commercial business, any trade--even forbids an entry into high finance.
Only the Church and Army are open to it; and in the Army only the two
Guides regiments and the Lancers are permitted to young men of the
aristocracy." He gazed almost mildly at the young man: "You are in
business, you tell me?"
"Yes."
"Oh! Then of course you have never been a soldier."
Guild was silent.
"_Have_ you ever served in the army?"
"Yes."
"Really! In what American regiment have you served?"
"In a militia regiment of cavalry--the 1st New York."
"How interesting. And--you have never served in the regular army?"
"N--" but Guild hesitated.
General von Reiter watched him intently.
"Did you reply in the negative, Mr. Guild?"
"No, I did not reply at all."
"Oh! Then would you be good enough to reply?"
"If--you insist."
"I insist."
"Very well," said Guild, reddening, "then I have served in the--Belgian
army."
The general nodded without surprise: "In what regiment?"
"In the first regiment of Guides."
"You came from America to do this?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"When I became of military age."
"Noblesse oblige?"
No reply.
"In other words, you are an American with all the Belgian aristocracy's
sense of responsibility to race and tradition. You are a good American,
but there are inherited instincts which sent you back to serve two years
with the colours--to serve a country which for ten hundred years your
race has defended. And--the Guides alone was open to a Gueldres--where,
in America, a Guild was free to choose. Monsieur, you are Belgian; and,
as a Belgian, you were properly seized as a hostage and properly
sentenced to pay the penalty for the murderous misbehaviour of your own
people! I approve the sentence. Have you anything to say?"
"No."
The general regarded him closely, then rose, came around the end of the
desk, walked across the room and halted directly in front of Guild.
"So you see there is no chance for you," he said, staring hard at him.
Guild managed to control his voice and speak clearly: "I see," he said.
"Suppose," said von Reiter, still staring at him, "I ask you to do me a
favour?"
Guild's face was marble, but he managed to force a smile: "You ask a
favour of a prisoner a few moments before his execution?"
"I do. Will you grant it?"
"What is it?"
"Nothing dishonourable to a good--American."
"That is not enough; and you know it."
"Very well. I shall tell you then. I have a daughter in England. I can't
get her away from England--I can't get word to her. I--" suddenly his
dry, blond features twitched, but instantly the man had them under iron
control again, and he cleared his throat: "She is in England near
London. We are at war with England. I want my daughter out of the
country. I can't get her out. Go and get her for me!"
For a full minute the two men gazed at each other in silence. Then von
Reiter said: "I know enough of you. If you say you'll do it I'll free
the Burgomaster and the others in there--" he jerked his bony thumb
toward the hallway outside--"If you say you'll do it--if you say you'll
go to England, now, and find my daughter, and bring her here to me--or
conduct her to whatever point I designate, I'll not have those men shot;
I'll not burn the rest of Yslemont; I'll see that you are conducted to
the Dutch frontier unmolested after you carry out your engagements with
me. Will you do it?"
[Illustration: "'If you say you'll do it, ... I'll not have those men
shot'"]
Guild met his intent gaze with a gaze as searching:
"What is your daughter's name?"
"Her name is Karen."
"Where am I to find her?"
"Thirty miles out of London at Westheath. She is known there as Karen
Girard."
"What!" said Guild sharply.
"She chose to be so known in her profession."
"Her profession?"
"She has been on the stage--against my wishes. She is preparing herself
further--contrary to my wishes. Until she disassociates herself from
that profession she will not use the name of von Reiter."
Guild nodded slowly: "_That_ is why your daughter is known as Karen
Girard?"
"That is why. She is a young girl--nineteen. She went to school in her
mother's country, Denmark. She imbibed notions there--and, later, in
England among art students and others. It is the well-born who succumb
most easily to nonsense once the discipline is relaxed. She has had her
way in spite of my authority. Now it is time for such insubordination to
cease. I wish to have my daughter back. I cannot get her. You
are--American--to all intents and purposes, and you would be under no
suspicion in England. Your appearance, your speech, your manners all are
above suspicion. You _can_ do this. I have made up my mind concerning
you, and I trust you. Will you go to England, find my daughter and bring
her back to me here; or, if I am ordered elsewhere, will you escort her
to my country place in Silesia which is called Rehthal?"
"Suppose I do not find her? Suppose I fail?"
"You will return here and report to me."
"If I fail and I return here and report my failure, does that mean the
execution of the gentlemen in the drawing-room yonder?"
"It does."
"And the destruction of Yslemont?"
"Absolutely."
"And--" the young man smiled--"incidentally it means my own execution,
does it not?"
"It does."
They gazed at each other with intense interest.
"Under such circumstances do you think I'll come back if I am not
successful?" inquired the younger man.
"I am satisfied that you will return if you say you will."
"Return to face my own execution?" repeated Guild, curiously. "You
believe that of me?--of a man about whom you know nothing--a man
who"--his animated features suddenly darkened and he caught his breath a
moment, then--"a man who considers your nation a barbarous one, your
rulers barbarians, your war inexcusable, your invasion of this land the
vilest example of treachery and dishonour that the world has ever
witnessed--you still believe that such a man might consider himself
bound to return here if unsuccessful and face one of your murdering
platoons? _Do_ you?" he repeated, the slightest intonation of violence
beginning to ring in the undertones of his voice.
Von Reiter's dry, blond features had become greyer and more set. His
light blue eyes never left the other; behind their pale, steady scrutiny
he seemed to be considering every word.
He drew in his breath, slowly; his very thin lips receded for a moment,
then the fixed tranquillity returned.
"We Germans," he said drily, "care nothing for what Europe may think of
us or say about us. Perhaps we are vandals, Goths, Huns--whatever you
call them. Perhaps we are barbarians. I think we _are_! For we mean to
scour the old world clean of its rottenness--cauterize it, cut out the
old sores of a worn-out civilization, scrape its surface clean of the
parasite nations. ... And, if _fire_ be necessary to burn out the last
traces--" His light blue eyes glimmered a very reflection of the
word--"then let fire pass. It has passed, before--God's Angel of the
Flaming Sword has returned again to lead us! What is a cathedral or
two--or pictures or foolish statues--or a million lives? Yes, if you
choose, we are barbarians. And we intend to plow under the accumulated
decay of the whole world, and burn up its rubbish and found our new
world on virgin earth. Yes, we _are_ barbarians. And our Emperor is a
barbarian. And God, who creates with one hand and destroys with the
other--God--autocrat of material creation, inexorable Over-Lord of
ultimate material annihilation, is the greatest barbarian of all! Under
His orders we are moving. In His name we annihilate! Amen!"
A dead silence ensued. And after it had lasted a little while the tall
Prussian lifted his hand absently to his mustache and touched it
caressingly.
"I am satisfied, whatever your opinion may be of me or of my people,
that you will return if you say you will, successful or otherwise. I
promise you immunity if you return with my daughter; I promise you a
wall and a file of men if you return unsuccessful. But, in either event,
I am satisfied that you will return. Will you go?"
"Yes," said Guild, thoughtfully. They stood for a moment longer, the
young man gazing absently out of the window toward the menacing smoke
pall which was increasing above Yslemont.
"You promise not to burn the remainder of the village?" he asked,
turning to look at von Reiter.
"I promise not to burn it if you keep your promise."
"I'll try.... And the Burgomaster, notary, magistrate, and the others
are to be released?"
"If you do what I ask."
"Very well. It's worth trying for. Give me my credentials."
"You need no written ones. Letters are unsafe. You will go to my
daughter, who has leased a small cottage at Westheath. You will say to
her that you come from me; that _the question which she was to decide on
the first of November must be decided sooner_, and that when she arrives
at Rehthal in Silesia she is to telegraph me through the General Staff
of her arrival. If I can obtain leave to go to Silesia I shall do so. If
not, I shall telegraph my instructions to her."
"Will that be sufficient for your daughter to place her confidence in a
man absolutely strange to her and accompany that man on a journey of
several days?" asked Guild, slightly astonished.
"Not quite sufficient," said von Reiter, his dry, blond visage slightly
relaxing.
He drew a rather plain ring from his bony finger: "See if you can wear
that," he said. "Does it fit you?"
Guild tried it on. "Well enough."
"Is there any danger of its slipping off?"
Guild tried it on another finger, which it fitted snugly.
"It looks like any other plain gold ring," he remarked.
"Her name is engraved inside."
"Karen?"
"Karen."
There came a short pause. Then: "Do you know London?" asked von Reiter.
"Passably."
"Oh! You are likely to require a touring car. You'll find it difficult
to get. May I recommend the Edmeston Agency? It's about the only agency,
now, where any gasoline at all is obtainable. The Edmeston Agency. I use
it when I am in London. Ask for Mr. Louis Grätz."
After a moment he added, "My chauffeur brought your luggage, rücksack,
stick, and so forth, from Yslemont. You will go to the enemies' lines
south of Ostend in my car. One of my aides-de-camp will accompany you
and show you a letter of instructions before delivering you to the
enemies' flag of truce. You will read the letter, learn it by heart, and
return it to my aide, Captain von Klipper.
"There is a bedroom above. Go up there. Food will be sent you. Get what
sleep you can, because you are to leave at sunrise. Is this arrangement
agreeable to you--_Monsieur le Comte de Gueldres_?"
"Perfectly, General Baron von Reiter."
"Also. Then I have the honour to wish you good night and a pleasant
sleep."
"I thank you and I have the honour to wish you the same," said Guild,
bowing pleasantly.
General von Reiter stood aside and saluted with stiff courtesy as the
young man passed out.
A few moments later a regimental band somewhere along the Yslemont
highway began to play "Polen Blut."
If blood were the theme, they ought to have played it well enough.
CHAPTER III
TIPPERARY
At noon on the following day Kervyn Guild wrote to his friend Darrel:
DEAR HARRY:
Instead of joining you on the Black Erenz for the late August
trout fishing I am obliged to go elsewhere.
I have had a most unpleasant experience, and it is not ended,
and I do not yet know what the outcome is to be.
From the fact that I have not dated this letter it will be
evident to you that I am not permitted to do so. Also you will
understand that I have been caught somewhere in the war zone and
that is why the name of the place from which I am writing you is
omitted--by request.
We have halted for luncheon at a wayside inn--the gentleman who
is kind enough to accompany me, and I--and I have obtained this
benevolent gentleman's authorization to write you whatever I
please as long as I do NOT
1st. Tell you where I am going.
2d. Tell you where I am.
3d. Tell you anything else that does not suit him.
And he isn't a censor at that; he is just a very efficient,
polite, and rather good-looking German officer serving as aide
on the staff of a certain German major-general.
Day before yesterday, after luncheon, I was playing a quiet game
of chess with the Burgomaster of a certain Belgian village, and
was taking a last look before setting out for Luxembourg on
foot, rücksack, stick, and all, when--well, circumstances over
which I had no control interrupted the game of chess. It was
white to go and mate in three moves. The Burgomaster was playing
black. I had him, Harry. Too bad, because he was the best player
in--well in that neighbourhood. I opened with a Lopez and he
replied most irregularly. It certainly was interesting. I am
sorry that I couldn't mate him and analyze the game with him.
However, thank Heaven, I did announce mate in three moves, and
the old gentleman was still defiantly studying the situation. I
admit he refused to resign.
I left that village toward evening in a large, grey automobile.
I and the gentleman who still accompanies me slept fairly well
that night, considering the fact that a town was on fire all
around us.
In the morning we made slow progress in our automobile. Roads
and fields were greenish grey with troops--a vast horde of them
possessed the valleys; they enveloped the hills like fog-banks
turning the whole world grey--infantry, artillery, cuirassiers,
Uhlans, hussars--all mist colour from helmet to heel--and so are
their waggons and guns and caissons and traction-engines and
motor-cycles and armoured cars and aeroplanes.
The latter are magnificent in an artistic sense--perfect
replicas of giant pigeon-hawks, circling, planing, sheering the
air or sailing high, majestic as a very lammergeier, fierce,
relentless, terrible.
My efficient companion who is reading this letter over my
shoulder as I write it, and who has condescended to permit a
ghost of a smile to mitigate, now and then, the youthful
seriousness of his countenance, is not likely to object when I
say to you that what I have seen of the German army on the march
is astoundingly impressive.
(He smiles again very boyishly and says he doesn't object.)
Order, precision, a knowledge of the country absolutely
unhesitating marks its progress. There is much singing in the
infantry ranks. The men march well, their physique is fine, the
cavalry are superbly mounted, the guns--(He shakes his head, so
never mind the guns.)
Their regimental bands are wonderful. It is a sheer delight to
listen to them. They play everything from "Polen Blut" and
"Sari," to Sousa, "Tannhäuser," and "A Hot Time," but I haven't
yet heard "Tipperary." (He seems puzzled at this, but does not
object.) I expect shortly to hear a band playing it. (I have to
explain to my efficient companion that "Tipperary" is a tune
which ought to take Berlin and Vienna _by storm_ when they hear
it. It takes Berlin and Vienna to really appreciate good music.
He agrees with me.)
Yesterday we passed a convoy of prisoners, some were kilted. I
was not permitted to speak to them--but, Oh, those wistful eyes
of Scottish blue! I guess they understood, for they got all the
tobacco I had left. (My companion is doubtful about this, but
finally shrugs his shoulders.)
There is an awesome noise going on beyond us in--well in a
certain direction. I think that all the artillery ever made is
producing it. There's practically no smoke visible against the
clear blue August sky--nothing to see at all except the feathery
cotton fleece of shrapnel appearing, expanding, vanishing over a
hill on the horizon, and two aeroplanes circling high like a
pair of mated hawks.
And all the while this earth-rocking diapason continues more
terrible, more majestic than any real thunder I ever heard.
We have had luncheon and are going on. He drank five quarts of
Belgian beer! I am permitted a few minutes more and he orders
the sixth quart. This is what I have to say:
In case anything should go wrong with me give the enclosed note
to my mother. Please see to it that everything I have goes to
her. My will is in my box in our safe at the office. It is all
quite clear. There should be no trouble.
I expressed my trunk to your care in Luxembourg. You wrote me
that you had received it and placed it in storage to await my
leisurely arrival. In case of accident to me send it to my
mother.
About the business, my share in any deals now on should go to my
brother. After that if you care to take George in when he comes
out of Harvard it would gratify his mother and me.
He's all to the good, you know. But don't do this if the
business does not warrant it. Don't do it out of sentiment,
Harry. If he promises to be of use, and if you have no other man
in view, and if, as I say, business conditions warrant such an
association with a view to eventual partnership, then if you
care to take in George it will be all right.
He has sufficient capital, as you know. He lacks only the
business experience. And he is intelligent and quick and it
won't take him long.
But if you prefer somebody else don't hesitate. George is
perfectly able to take care of his mother and himself.
This is all, I think. I'm sorry about the August fishing on the
Black Erenz. It is a lovely stream and full of trout. All
Luxembourg is lovely; it is a story-book country--a real land of
romance. I wish I might have seen it again. Never were such
forests, such silver streams, such golden glades, such
wild-flowers--never such hills, such meadows, such skies.
Well--if I come back to you, I come back. If not--good-bye, old
fellow--with all it implies between friends of many years.
Say to your kind friends, the Courlands, who so graciously
invited you to bring me with you to Lesse Forest, that I shall
not be able to accept their delightful hospitality, and that my
inability to do so must remain to me a regret as long as I live.
(These guns are thundering enough to crack the very sky! I
really wish I could hear some band playing "Tipperary.")
Good-bye for a while--or indefinitely. Good luck to you.
KERVYN GUILD.
"Is that quite acceptable to you?" asked Guild of the young Death's Head
hussar beside him.
"Quite acceptable," replied the officer politely. "But what is there
remarkable in anybody drinking six quarts of beer?"
Guild laughed: "Here is the note that I desire to enclose with it, if I
may do so." And he wrote:
DEAREST:
You must not grieve too much. You have George. It could not be
avoided, honourably. He and I are good Americans; we are,
perhaps, something else, too. But what the Book of Gold holds it
never releases; what is written there is never expunged. George
must do what I did when the time comes. I would have done
more--was meaning to--was on my way. Destiny has ordered it
otherwise.
While I live I think always of you. And it shall be so until the
last.
This letter is to be sent to you by Harry Darrel only in the
event of my death.
There's a good chance for me. But if things go wrong, then,
good-bye, dearest.
KERVYN.
P. S.
Tell George that it's up to him, now.
K.
He held out the letter cheerfully to the hussar, but the latter had read
it, and he merely nodded in respectful silence. So Guild folded it,
sealed it in an envelope, wrote on it, "For my Mother in case of my
death," and inclosed it in his letter to Darrel.
"Any time you are ready now," he said, rising from the little enameled
iron table under the arbour.
The hussar rose, clanking, and set a whistle to his lips. Then, turning:
"I shall have yet one more glass of beer," he said blandly, but his eyes
twinkled.
The grey car rolled up in a few moments. Over it at a vast height
something soared in hawk-like circles. It may have been a hawk. There
was no telling at such a height.
So they drove off again amid the world-shaking din of the guns
paralleling the allied lines toward the west. Ostend lay somewhere in
that direction, the channel flowed beyond; beyond that crouched
England--where bands were playing "Tipperary"--and where, perhaps, a
young girl was listening to that new battle song of which the young
hussar beside him had never even heard.
As the grey car hummed westward over the Belgian road, Guild thought of
these things while the whole world about him was shaking with the
earthquake of the guns.
"Karen," he repeated under his breath, "Karen Girard."
After a while sentinels began to halt them every few rods. The chauffeur
unrolled two white flags and set them in sockets on either side of the
hood. The hussar beside him produced a letter from his grey
despatch-pouch.
"General von Reiter's orders," he said briefly. "You are to read them
now and return the letter to me before the enemies' parlementaire
answers our flag."
Guild took the envelope, tore it open, and read:
Orders received since our interview make it impossible for me to
tell you where to find me on your return.
My country place in Silesia is apparently out of the question at
present as a residence for the person you are expected to bring
back with you. The inclosed clipping from a Danish newspaper
will explain why. Therefore you will sail from London on
Wednesday or Sunday, taking a Holland liner. You will land at
Amsterdam, go by rail through Utrecht, Helmond, Halen,
Maastricht. You will be expected there. If I am not there you
will remain over night.
If you return from your journey _alone_ and unsuccessful you
will surrender yourself as prisoner to the nearest German post
and ask the officer in charge to telegraph me.
If you return successful you shall be permitted at Eijsden to
continue your journey with the person you bring with you, across
the Luxembourg border to Trois Fontaines, which is just beyond
the Grand Duchy frontier; and you shall then deliver the person
in question to the housekeeper of the hunting lodge, Marie
Bergner. The lodge is called Quellenheim, and it belongs to me.
If I am not there you must remain there over night. In the
morning if you do not hear from me, you are at liberty to go
where you please, and your engagements vis-à-vis to me are
cancelled.
VON REITER, Maj-Gen'l.
The inclosed newspaper clipping had been translated into French and
written out in long-hand. The translation read as follows:
Russia's invasion of East Prussia, Posen and Silesia has sent a
wave of panic over the eastern provinces of the German Empire,
if reports from Copenhagen and Stockholm are to be credited.
These reports are chiefly significant as indicating that the
Russian advance is progressing more rapidly than has been
asserted even by despatches from Petrograd.
A correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_ reports from Stockholm
that the whole of eastern Germany is upset by the menace of
Cossack raids. He hears that a diplomatic despatch from Vienna
contains information that the civilian inhabitants of
Koenigsberg, East Prussia, and Breslau, in Silesia, are
abandoning their homes and that only the military will remain in
these strongholds.
From Copenhagen it is reported, allegedly from German sources,
that Silesia expects devastation by fire and sword and that the
wealthy Prussian landholders, whose immense estates cover
Silesia, are leading the exodus toward the west. The military
authorities have done everything possible to check the panic,
fearing its hurtful influence on Germany's prospects, but have
been unable to reassure the inhabitants. Many of these have seen
bands of Cossacks who have penetrated a few miles over the
border and their warnings have spread like a forest fire.
For a long while the young man studied the letter, reading and
re-reading it, until, closing his eyes, he could repeat it word for
word.
And when he was letter perfect he nodded and handed back the letter to
the hussar, who pouched it.
A moment later the car ran in among a horde of mounted Uhlans, and one
of their officers came galloping up alongside of the machine.
He and the hussar whispered together for a few minutes, then an Uhlan
was summoned, a white cloth tied to his lance-shaft, and away he went on
his powerful horse, the white flag snapping in the wind. Behind him
cantered an Uhlan trumpeter.
Toward sunset the grey automobile rolled west out into open country. A
vast flat plain stretched to the horizon, where the sunset flamed
scarlet and rose.
But it was almost dusk before from somewhere across the plain came the
faint strains of military music.
The hussar's immature mustache bristled. "British!" he remarked. "Gott
in Himmel, what barbarous music!"
Guild said nothing. They were playing "Tipperary."
And now, through the late rays of the afterglow, an Uhlan trumpeter,
sitting his horse on the road ahead, set his trumpet to his lips and
sounded the parley again. Far, silvery, from the misty southwest, a
British bugle answered.
Guild strained his eyes. Nothing moved on the plain. But, at a nod to
the chauffeur from the hussar, the great grey automobile rolled forward,
the two Uhlans walking their horses on either side.
Suddenly, east and west as far as the eye could see, trenches in endless
parallels cut the plain, swarming with myriads and myriads of men in
misty grey.
The next moment the hussar had passed a black silk handkerchief over
Guild's eyes and was tying it rather tightly.
CHAPTER IV
BAD DREAMS
His first night in London was like a bad dream to him. Lying half awake
on his bed, doggedly, tenaciously awaiting the sleep he needed, at
intervals even on its vision-haunted borderland, but never drifting
across it, he remained always darkly conscious of his errand and of his
sinister predicament.
The ineffaceable scenes of the last three days obsessed him; his mind
seemed to be unable to free itself. The quieter he lay, the more grimly
determined he became that sleep should blot out these tragic memories
for a few hours at least, the more bewildering grew the confusion in his
haunted mind. Continually new details were evoked by his treacherous and
insurgent memory--trifles terrible in their minor significance--the
frightened boy against the wall snivelling against his ragged
shirt-sleeve--the sprawling attitudes of the dead men in the dusty
grass--and how, after a few moments, a mangled arm moved, blindly
groping--and what quieted it.
Incidents, the petty details of sounds, of odours, of things irrelevant,
multiplied and possessed him--the thin gold-rimmed spectacles on the
Burgomaster's nose and the honest, incredulous eyes which gazed through
them at him when he announced checkmate in three moves.
Did that tranquil episode happen years ago in another and calmer
life?--or a few hours ago in this?
He heard again the startling and ominous sounds of raiding cavalry even
before they had become visible in the misty street--the flat slapping
gallop of the Uhlan's horses on the paved way, the tinkling clash of
broken glass. Again the thick, sour, animal-like stench of the unwashed
infantry seemed to assail and sicken him to the verge of faintness; and,
half awake, he saw a world of fog set thick with human faces utterly
detached from limbs and bodies--thousands and thousands of faces
watching him out of thousands and thousands of little pig-like eyes.
His nerves finally drove him into motion and he swung himself out of bed
and walked to the window.
His hotel was the Berkeley, and he looked out across Piccadilly into a
silent, sad, unlighted city of shadows. Only a single line of lighted
lamps outlined the broad thoroughfare. Crimson sparks twinkled here and
there--the lights of cabs.
The great darkened Ritz towered opposite, Devonshire House squatted
behind its grilles and shadowy walls on the right, and beyond the great
dark thoroughfare stretched away into the night, melancholy, deserted
save for the slight stirring of a policeman here and there or the
passage of an automobile running in silence without lights.
He had been standing by the window for ten minutes or so, a lighted
cigarette between his lips, both hands dropped into the pocket of his
pyjamas, when he became aware of a slight sound--a very slight
one--behind him.
He turned around and his eyes fell upon the knob of the door. Whether or
not it was turning he could not determine in the dusk of the room. The
only light in it came through his windows from the starry August
night-sky.
After a moment he walked toward the door, bare-footed across the velvet
carpet, halted, fixed his eyes on the door knob.
After a moment it began to turn again, almost imperceptibly. And, in
him, every over-wrought nerve tightened to its full tension till he
quivered. Slowly, discreetly, noiselessly the knob continued to turn.
The door was not locked. Presently it began to open, the merest fraction
of an inch at a time; then, abruptly but stealthily, it began to close
again, as though the unseen intruder had caught sight of him, and Guild
stepped forward swiftly and jerked the door wide open.
There was only the darkened hallway there, and a servant with a tray who
said very coolly, "Thanky, sir," and entered the room.
"What-do-you-want?" asked Guild unsteadily.
"You ordered whiskey and soda for eleven o'clock, sir."
"I did not. Why do you try to enter my room without knocking?"
"I understood your orders were not to disturb you but to place the tray
on the night-table beside your bed, sir."
Guild regarded him steadily. The servant, clean-shaven, typical,
encountered the young man's gaze respectfully and with no more
disturbance than seemed natural under the circumstances of a not unusual
blunder.
Guild's nerves relaxed and he drew a deep, quiet breath.
"Somebody has made a mistake," he said. "I ordered nothing. And,
hereafter, anybody coming to my door will knock. Is that plain?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Have the goodness to make it very plain to the management."
"I'm sorry, sir----"
"You understand, now?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Very well.... And, by the way, who on this corridor is likely to have
ordered that whiskey?"
"Sir?"
"Somebody ordered it, I suppose?"
"Very likely the gentleman next door, sir----"
"All right," said Guild quietly. "Try the door while I stand here and
look on."
"Very good, sir."
With equanimity unimpaired the waiter stepped to the next door on the
corridor, placed his tray flat on the palm of his left hand, and, with
his right hand, began to turn the knob, using, apparently, every
precaution to make no noise.
But he was not successful; the glassware on his tray suddenly gave out a
clear, tinkling clash, and, at the same moment the bedroom door opened
from within and a man in evening dress appeared dimly framed by the
doorway.
"Sorry, sir," said the waiter, "your whiskey, sir----"
He stepped inside the room and the door closed behind him. Guild quietly
waited. Presently the waiter reappeared without the tray.
"Come here," motioned Guild.
The waiter said: "Yes, sir," in a natural voice. Doubtless the man next
door could hear it, too.
Guild, annoyed, lowered his own voice: "Who is the gentleman in the next
room?"
"A Mr. Vane, sir."
"From where?"
"I don't know, sir."
"What is he, English?"
"Yes sir, I believe so."
"You don't happen to know his business, do you?"
"No, sir."
"I ask--it's merely curiosity. Wait a moment." He turned, picked up a
sovereign from a heap of coins on his night-table and gave it to the
waiter.
"No need to repeat to anybody what I have asked you."
"Oh, no, sir----"
"All right. Listen very attentively to what I tell you. When I arrived
here this afternoon I desired the management to hire for my use a
powerful and absolutely reliable touring car and a chauffeur. I
mentioned the Edmeston Agency and a Mr. Louis Grätz.
"Half an hour later the management informed me that they had secured
such a car for me from Mr. Louis Grätz at the Edmeston Agency; that I
was permitted sufficient gasoline to take me from here to Westheath,
back here again, and then to the docks of the Holland Steamship Company
next Sunday.
"I've changed my mind. Tomorrow is Wednesday and a steamer sails from
Fresh Wharf for Amsterdam. Tell the management that I'll take that
steamer and that I want them to telephone the Edmeston Agency to have
the car here at six o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Very good, sir."
"Go down and tell them now. Ask them to confirm the change of orders by
telephone."
"Very good, sir."
A quarter of an hour later the bell tinkled in his room: "Are you there,
sir? Thank you, sir. The car is to be here at six o'clock. What time
would you breakfast, Mr. Guild?"
"Five. Have it served here, please."
"Thank you, sir."
Guild went back to bed. Another detail bothered him now. If the man next
door had ordered whiskey and soda for eleven, _to be placed on the
night-table beside the bed_, why was he up and dressed and ready to open
the door when the jingle of glassware awaited him?
Still there might be various natural explanations. Guild thought of
several, but none of them suited him.
He began to feel dull and sleepy. That is the last he remembered, except
that his sleep was disturbed by vaguely menacing dreams, until he awoke
in the grey light of early morning, scarcely refreshed, and heard the
waiter knocking. He rose, unlocked his door, and let him in with his
tray.
When the waiter went out again Guild relocked his door, turned on his
bath, took it red hot and then icy. And, thoroughly awake, now, he
returned to his room, breakfasted, dressed, rang for his account, and a
few minutes later descended in the lift to find his car and chauffeur
waiting, and the tall, many-medalled porter at salute by the door.
"Westheath," he said to the smiling chauffeur. "Go as fast as you dare
and by the direct route."
The chauffeur touched his peaked cap. He seemed an ideal chauffeur,
neat, alert, smiling, well turned out in fact as the magnificent and
powerful touring car which had been as thoroughly and minutely groomed
as a race-horse or a debutante.
When the car rolled out into Piccadilly the waiter who had mistaken the
order for whiskey, watched it from the dining-room windows. Several
floors above, the man who had occupied the next bedroom also watched the
departure of the car. When it was out of sight the man whose name was
Vane went to the telephone and called 150 Fenchurch Street, E. C. It was
the office of the Holland Steamship Company.
And the waiter who had entered the room unannounced, stood listening to
the conversation over the wire, and finally took the transmitter himself
for further conversation while Vane stood by listening, one hand resting
familiarly on the waiter's shoulder.
After the waiter had hung up the receiver, Vane walked to the window,
stood a moment looking out, then came slowly back.
"Gwynn," he said to the waiter, "this man, Guild, seems to be harmless.
He's known at the American Embassy. He's an American in the real estate
business in New York. It's true that Dart telegraphed from Ostend that
Guild came to our lines in a German military automobile under a white
flag. But he told a straight story. I'll run out to Westheath, and if
his business there is clean and above-board, I think we can give him a
clean bill of health."
Gwynn said, slowly: "I don't like the way he questioned me last night.
Besides, a sovereign is too much even for an American."
"He might have been afraid of robbery."
"He was afraid of _something_."
"Very well. We've passage on the boat if necessary. I'll go out to
Westheath anyway. If I don't care for what he is doing out there we can
hold him on the dock."
"Another thing," mused Gwynn. "The Edmeston Agency may be quite all
right, but the man's name is Grätz."
"He's been under scrutiny. He seems to be all right."
"All the same--his name is all wrong. What was that chauffeur's name?"
"Bush."
"_Busch?_"
"He spells it without a _c_. I saw his signature on the Agency rolls."
"Have you his history?"
"He's Canadian. I've sent for it."
"You'll find that his father spelled his name with a _c_," remarked
Gwynn, gloomily. But Vane only laughed.
"I'm off," he said. "Stick around where I can get you on the telephone
if necessary. But I don't think it will be necessary."
"I do," muttered Gwynn.
CHAPTER V
KAREN
The journey was the usual one through interminable London streets
alternately respectable and squalid; and straight ahead through equally
interminable suburbs with their endless "terraces," semi-detached and
detached villas, and here and there a fine old house behind neglected
garden walls, making its last forlorn stand against the all-destroying
inroad of the London jungle.
There had been a heavy haze in London, but no fog. In the country,
however, beyond the last outstretched suburban tentacle of the inky
octopus the morning sun glimmered low through a golden smother,
promising a glimpse of blue sky.
To Guild, one "heath" has always resembled another, and now, as they
passed through the country at high speed, there seemed to him very
little difference between the several named points which marked his
progress toward Westheath. Hedges alternated with ivy-covered walls on
either side of a wide, fine road; trees were splendid as usual, sheep
fat, cattle sleek. Here and there a common or heath glimmered
bewitchingly where sunlight fell among the whins; birds winged their
way, waters glimmered, and the clean, singing August wind of England
blew steadily in his face strangely reviving within him some ancient,
forgotten, pre-natal wistfulness. Maybe it came from his American
mother's English mother.
Near two villages and once on the open highway policemen leisurely
signalled the chauffeur to stop, and came sauntering around to the
tonneau to question Guild as to his origin, his business, and his
destination; quiet, dignified, civil, respectable men they seemed to be
in their night cloaks and their always smart and business-like helmets
and uniforms.
All seemed satisfied, but all politely suggested that passports were now
becoming fashionable in England. And Guild thanked them pleasantly and
drove on.
"Bush," he said to his chauffeur, "this spy scare was ridiculed by the
newspapers, but it looks to me as though it were being taken rather
seriously after all."
"It is, sir."
"I understand that about thirty thousand German and Austrian reservists
have been arrested in England since war began?"
"I hear so, sir."
"I suppose the country really is swarming with spies. The paper
yesterday said that there was still a great and serious leakage of
military information out of England. One paper, yesterday afternoon,
reported that a number of spies had already been shot in the Tower."
"I have heard so, sir," said the chauffeur smilingly.
He was a blond, good-looking young fellow. Always his lips seemed to
rest in pleasant curves as though his reveries were agreeable.
A few hideously modern detached villas were passed, then hedges, walls,
a wood, a modern bridge.
"How near are we to Westheath now?" asked Guild, leaning forward in his
seat.
"We are there, sir." And the smiling chauffeur slowed the car to a
standstill at a cross-roads where furze and broom grew rankly over the
heath and a few rather tawdry villas appeared among the trees beyond.
Guild looked at his watch. It was only a little after seven, an
unearthly hour for a call upon any young girl, not to mention one to
whom he was personally unknown.
A policeman still wearing his waterproof night cloak, came leisurely
across to learn what was wanted.
"I am looking for the villa of Miss Girard--Miss Karen Girard,"
explained Guild.
"Hyacinth Villa, Number 169. Take the road to the right. It is the only
house."
"Thank you."
The car moved forward, swung to the right. About a quarter of a mile
away stood a small, modern stucco dwelling behind its hedge of privet.
Beyond that there were woods again and dewy uplands glimmering with
furze and brake.
When they arrived they found the driveway closed by a gate.
"Never mind; I'll walk to the house," said Guild.
The smiling chauffeur leaned back and opened the tonneau door; Guild
descended, looked at the iron gate between its ugly stucco posts, peered
through it up the drive with its parallel rows of recently planted lime
trees. Everything about the place was recent if not brand new--ugly with
the ugliness of well-to-do bad taste. Red geraniums and yellow cannas
had been planted in fearsome juxtaposition, salvia flanked a red brick
terrace--a most unholy combination of colour. In the early morning the
sun exposed the place without mercy. It was lonesome and amazingly
depressing.
Glancing up at the gate again he discovered a nickel-plated label
riveted to one of the stucco posts. On it was the name of the place,
"Hyacinth Villa," and its number 169.
There was no lodge, no bell, but the wicket gate was not locked. So
Guild entered.
"Shall I drive up to the house, sir?" inquired the chauffeur.
"No; wait out here."
There seemed to be no sign of life about the house when at last he
arrived in front of it--nobody apparently stirring at that hour. He
hesitated; he still wore the same knickerbockers and cap which he had
worn in Belgium. His sack, which was now in the car, contained only
fresh linen; and he began to wonder what his reception might be in such
a costume and at such an hour. He doubted that the unconventionality of
the daughter of a Prussian aristocrat might extend far enough to accept
him, his rather shabby clothes, and his explanation of the visit.
It was all very well for this young girl to kick over the tradition, cut
home traces in the sacred cause of art, call herself Girard, and live in
an impossible villa for art's sake. Few well-born Fräuleins ever did
this sort of thing, but there had been instances. And anybody in Germany
will always add that they invariably went to the devil.
Guild rang. After he had waited long enough he rang again. After that he
resumed his ringing. Keeping his finger pressed on the electric button
and laying his ear to the door. The bell was doing its duty inside the
house; he could hear it.
Presently he heard a fumbling of chains and locks inside, the door
opened on a crack and a sleepy voice inquired: "Is it you, Anna?"
Guild hesitated: "I wish to see Miss Girard. Is she at home?"
"Who are you?" demanded the voice no longer sleepy.
"My name is Guild. I am sorry to disturb Miss Girard at such an hour,
but I cannot help it. Is Miss Girard in?"
"Yes; I am Miss Girard."
"Are you Miss Karen Girard?"
"Yes. Why do you wish to see me?"
"I can't tell you here. Are you dressed?"
There was a pause, then she said: "No."
"Please dress as quickly as you can. Dress for travel."
"What!"
"If you have a travelling dress put it on. You can pack your luggage
while I am talking to you. But dress as quickly as you can and then
return and let me in."
She said after a moment's silence: "I certainly shall not do any of
those things until I know more about you and about your errand here."
"I have a message for you from General Baron Kurt von Reiter."
"That is possible," she said quietly. "What is the message?"
"I was to say to you that the question which you were to decide on the
first of November must be decided sooner."
"I must have clearer proof that your message is genuine. I am sorry to
distrust you but I have been annoyed lately."
"Very well," he said. "Open the door a little more. Don't be afraid. I
merely wish you to look at a ring which I wear. I want you to draw it
from my finger and look at what is engraved inside."
There was another silence. Then the door crack slowly widened.
"Please extend your hand," she said.
There was just enough of space for him to slip his hand between door and
frame and he did so. There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger.
The ring slipped off.
[Illustration: "There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger"]
When she spoke again her voice was altered: "I shall dress immediately,"
she said. "I shall not keep you waiting long. You will find the door
open. Please come in when I have gone upstairs."
"Thank you."
He could hear her light, flying feet on the stairs; he waited a little
longer, then opened the door.
The hallway was dark, and he left the door open, then entered the room
to the left which seemed to be a library, music-room and living-room
combined. Books, piano, easy chairs and sofas loomed in the dim light of
drawn curtains. An easel on which stood a water-colour drawing occupied
the end of the room, and beside it was a table on which were porcelain
dishes, tubes of colour and scattered badger brushes.
It was evident that Miss Girard's talents were multiple, for he noticed
also a violin and music stand near the piano, and on the violin score as
well as on the score spread across the piano the same hand had written
"Karen Girard."
He stood by the table, mechanically picking up, one after another, the
books lying there. Some of the books were printed in French, some in
German, in Italian, in Danish, in Swedish, in English. Miss Girard's
name was written in all of them. Miss Girard appeared to be
accomplished.
In the dim light Guild began to saunter around the room encountering
various evidences of Miss Girard's taste and mode of living--one or two
Braun photographs of Velasquez, Boucher, and Gainsborough on the
walls--certainly a catholicism of taste entirely admirable;--one or two
graceful bits of ancient Chinese art--blue and gold marvels of Pekin
enamel; a mille-fleur tapestry panel, a bundle of golf clubs, a tennis
bat, and a pair of spurs.
He thought for himself that when a girl goes in for all of these
accomplishments it is because the gods have been otherwise unkind, and
that she has to.
At the same time he remembered the voice he had heard through the
scarcely opened door--the lovely voice of a young English girl--than
which in all the world there is nothing half so lovely.
And it suddenly occurred to him that there had not been in it the
faintest kind or trace of a German accent--that only its childish and
sleepy sweetness had struck him first, and then its purity and its
youthful and cultivated charm.
Yes, truly, the gods had been kind to this young German girl of
nineteen, but it would be a little too much to ask of these same gods
that they endow her with figure and features commensurate with her other
charms and talents.
Then he suddenly remembered her profession, and that she was studying
still for the dramatic profession. And he knew that this profession
naturally required exterior charm of any woman who desired to embrace
it.
While these ideas and speculations were occupying his mind he heard her
on the stairs, and he turned and came forward as she entered the room.
She was a slender, straight girl of medium height; and her face was one
of those fresh young faces which looked fragrant. And instantly the
thought occurred to him that she was the vivid, living incarnation of
her own voice, with her lilac-blue eyes and soft white neck, and the
full scarlet lips of one of those goddesses who was not very austere.
She wore a loosely-belted jacket of tan-coloured covert-cloth, and
narrow skirts of the same, and a wide golden-brown hat, and tan spats.
The gods had been very, very kind to Miss Girard, for she even adorned
her clothes, and that phenomenon is not usual in Great Britain or among
German Fräuleins however accomplished and however well born.
She said: "I beg your pardon for detaining you so long on the outside
door-step. Since the war began my maid and I have been annoyed by
strangers telephoning and even coming here to ask silly and impertinent
questions. I suppose," she added, disdainfully, "it is because there is
so much suspicion of foreigners in England."
"I quite understand," he said. "Being German, your neighbors gossip."
She shrugged her indifference.
"Shall we talk here?" she asked gravely, resting one very white hand on
the back of a chair. "You come from General Baron Kurt von Reiter. The
ring is a credential beyond dispute."
"We can talk anywhere you wish," he said, "but there is little time, and
somebody must pack a traveller's satchel for you. Have you a maid?"
"She went to London yesterday evening. She was to have returned on the
eleven o'clock train last night. I can't understand it."
"Are you alone in the house?"
"Yes. My cook sleeps out. She does not come until half-past nine. My
maid serves my breakfast."
"You haven't had any, then?"
"No."
"Can you fix something for yourself?"
"Yes, of course. Shall I do so now?"
"Yes. I'll go to the kitchen with you while you are doing it. There are
several things to say and the time is short."
She led the way; he opened the kitchen shutters and let in the sunshine,
then stood a moment watching her as she moved about the place with
graceful celerity, preparing cocoa over an alcohol lamp, buttering a
roll or two and fetching cup, plate, spoon and marmalade.
"Have you breakfasted?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.
"Yes--it is very good of you----"
"There will be plenty of cocoa and rolls--if you care for them. The
rolls are yesterday's and not fresh."
She poured the cocoa in two cups and looked at him again in grave
invitation.
"You are sure there is plenty?" he asked, smilingly.
"Plenty."
"Then--I do seem to be rather hungry."
He drew a chair for her; she seated herself and ate with a youthful
appetite. He drank his cocoa, ate his rolls, and tried not to look at
her too often.
"This is why I am here," he said. "I saw General Baron von Reiter four
days ago under somewhat extraordinary circumstances.
"He told me that since the war broke out he had not been able to
communicate directly with you or to get you out of England, and he asked
me to find you and bring you to his estate at Trois Fontaines in
Luxembourg."
"To Quellenheim?" she asked, surprised and disturbed. "Is he there?"
"No, he is with a field army, and he does not know where orders from
staff headquarters may send him."
"Still," she said, hesitating, "I should think that he might wish me to
go to Silesia----"
"Silesia is threatened by the Russian army."
"Silesia!" she repeated, incredulously. "Cossacks in Silesia?" She sat,
her cup of cocoa half raised to her lips, her surprised and disconcerted
eyes on his. Then she set the cup aside.
"He wishes me to go to Quellenheim? With _you_?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Travelling on the continent is precarious."
Her eyes rested on his; she said with a candour which he began to
understand was characteristic of her: "He seems to have confidence in
you. I never heard him speak of you. You are American?"
"Yes."
"That is odd. He never cared for Americans."
Guild said: "He could not send a German into England."
"That is true. Nor an Englishman either. No Englishman would be likely
to do anything to oblige a German."
She rose: "I don't understand why Anna, my maid, is still absent," she
added uneasily. "My maid often goes to London, but never before has she
remained over night. I don't know why she remained. She knew I was alone
in the house."
She lifted her serious blue eyes to Guild, then gazed out of the window,
evidently perplexed to the point of apprehension.
"I am worried," she said, "very much worried. But that doesn't help,
does it?"
"What was her errand in London?" asked Guild.
"She has a brother there. I suppose it's all right or she would have
telephoned me."
He said: "No doubt it is all right. And, may I ask you to hasten?"
She rose: "Where am I to go with you?"
"To London and then to the steamer."
"Today?"
"Today is Wednesday. No other Holland Line boat sails for Amsterdam
before Sunday, and I have yet our passage to secure and I must also go
to the War Office for a few moments. You see we have very little time."
"But I can't pack my boxes then?"
"You will have to leave them."
"You mean I may take only a satchel?"
"A suit-case and satchel if you wish. Leave a note for your maid
instructing her to send by express whatever else you wish sent after
you."
"Is this haste necessary, Mr. Guild?"
"Yes, it is. I want to get out of England. I am not sure that I can get
out if we wait until Sunday."
"Why not?"
"I may be detained. I may not be permitted to leave with you. All
foreigners are under more or less suspicion. I am rather sure that I
have been under surveillance already at the Berkeley Hotel."
They had moved out into the hall together while he was speaking, and
now, together, they went up the stairs.
"If you don't mind," she said, "my room is in disorder, but I'll have to
pack there and you will have to sit there if you wish to talk to me."
It was a white and chintz room in dainty disorder.
She went away and returned in a moment or two with a satchel and
suit-case. These she placed on the bed, opened, and then, dragging out
various drawers of chiffonier and chest, began to transfer her apparel
to the two bags.
"I am extremely sorry," he said, "to hurry you so inconveniently."
"I don't mind," she replied, busy with her packing. "You see I am an
actress and I have travelled with a company in the provinces. That _was_
an experience!" She turned her pretty head and looked at Guild. "I had
no maid then, except at the theatres where we played, and I had to share
her with three other girls. Really, Mr. Guild, it taught me how to pack
things rather rapidly."
Her white hands were flying as she folded and placed garment after
garment in the suit-case, serene, self-possessed, quite undisturbed by
his presence at the rather intimate display of her apparel.
The garments were bewilderingly frail to him; she tucked and packed them
into place; a faint fresh scent seemed to freshen the place.
He said: "I don't think we are going to have any trouble about leaving
England. But, if any trouble does arise, would you have sufficient
confidence in me to do what I say?"
She continued her packing for a few moments without replying, then
turned and looked at him.
And at the same moment the telephone on the table beside her bed
tinkled.
"There is Anna now!" she exclaimed with the emphasis of relief. "Will
you pardon me? No, I don't mean you are to leave the room----"
She lifted the receiver: "Yes, I am here.... Yes, this is Miss Girard.
Yes, Miss Karen Girard.... Mr. Louis Grätz? Oh, good morning!"
At the name of the man with whom she was speaking Guild turned around
surprised. At the same instant the girl's face flushed brightly as she
sat listening to what the distant Mr. Grätz was saying to her.
Guild watched her; perplexity, surprise, a deeper flush of
consternation, all were successively visible on her youthful face.
"Yes," she said to Mr. Grätz. "Yes, I will do whatever he wishes....
Yes, he is here--here in my room with me. We were talking while I
packed. Yes, I will do so." And, turning her head a little she said to
the young man behind her: "The Edmeston Agency desires to speak to you."
He rose and took the receiver from her hand and bent over beside her
listening.
"Are you there?" inquired a pleasant voice.
"Yes."
"I am Grätz of the Edmeston Agency. Get that young lady out of the house
at once. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Her maid is in trouble. This agency may be in trouble at any moment.
She must not wait to pack. Get her into the car and take her to the
wharf and on board at once. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Take her as your wife. Do you understand?"
"I understand what you say," he said, amazed.
"That is sufficient. Do as I tell you if you want to leave England."
"Very well. But I must first go to the War Office----"
"No!"
"I must!"
"No. It is useless; hopeless. It would have been the thing to do
yesterday. An explanation there would have given you credentials and
security. But not today. _She_ could not hope to leave. Do you
understand?"
"No, but I hear you."
"She could not expect permission to leave because her maid has been
arrested."
"What!"
"Yes! The charge is most serious."
"What is it?"
"Get into your car with the young lady and start at once. Don't go to
the steamship office in Fenchurch Street. Don't go to the War Office. Go
nowhere except to the wharf. Your passage has been secured as Mr. and
Mrs. Kervyn Guild of New York. The initials on the baggage will be K. G.
Your steamer tickets will be handed to you. You will pay no attention to
the man who hands them to you, no attention to anybody. You will go
aboard and go to your cabin until the ship is out at sea. Do you
understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Good-bye."
CHAPTER VI
MR. AND MRS.
Guild hung up the receiver, stood a moment in thought then turned around
and looked gravely at the girl behind him. She gazed back at him as
though still a trifle breathless after some sudden shock.
"What did that man say to you over the wire?" he asked in pleasant, even
tones.
"He told me to trust you, and do what you told me to do. He said Anna,
my maid, had been arrested."
"Who is he?" asked Guild grimly.
"Do you mean Mr. Grätz?"
"Yes; who is Mr. Grätz?"
"Don't _you_ know him?" she said, astonished.
"I have never laid eyes on him. Your father recommended to me the
Edmeston Agency and mentioned the name of a Louis Grätz who might be of
use to me. That is all I know."
"My--_father_--you say?"
"Certainly, General Baron von Reiter."
"Oh!... Then it must be quite all right. Only--I don't understand about
my maid----"
"Did Mr. Grätz tell you she had been arrested?"
"Yes."
"On a serious charge?"
"Yes."
"Have you any idea what that charge may be?" he asked, studying her
face.
"I haven't any idea," she said; "have you?"
"I don't know; perhaps I have. Is your maid German?"
"Yes."
"You brought her with you from Germany?"
"Yes."
"Where did you get her?"
"General von Reiter's housekeeper found her for me."
He hesitated, still looking steadily into those violet blue eyes of hers
which seemed to question him so candidly. No, there could be no
dishonesty there.
"Miss Girard," he said, "I find that I am going to be very much more
frank with you than there once seemed any occasion for being. I am also
going to say something to you that may possibly offend you. But I can't
help it. It is this: Have you, through your letters to or from your
father, imparted or received any military intelligence which might be
detrimental to Great Britain or to her allies?"
"Do you mean am I a sort of spy?" she asked, flushing to the roots of
her hair.
"In substance it amounts to that. And I shall have to ask you to answer
me. And I'll tell you why I ask. I didn't intend to tell you; my
personal and private affairs did not concern you. But they do now. And
these happen to be the facts in my case: I was taken prisoner in Belgium
by the cavalry forming the advance of your father's command. It happened
four days ago; I was sentenced to military execution, led out for that
purpose, reprieved by your father himself on condition that I undertake
to find you and conduct you safely to Trois Fontaines near the Grand
Duchy of Luxembourg.
"If I am unsuccessful in the undertaking, I am pledged to go back
voluntarily and face a firing squad. If I am successful I am permitted
to go free, and so are my fellow-hostages. And the little town where I
was arrested is to be spared."
He passed one hand over his eyes, thoughtfully, then, looking at her
very seriously:
"There seemed to be no reason why an honorable man might not accept such
terms. I accepted them. But--things have happened here which I neither
understand nor like. And I've got to say this to you; if my taking you
back to your father means any detriment to England or to the cause
England represents--in other words, if your returning to him means the
imparting to him of any military information gathered here by you,
then--I won't take you back; that's all!"
After a moment, half to herself, she said: "He really thinks me a spy. I
knew it!"
"I _don't_ think so. I am merely asking you!" he retorted impatiently.
"There is something dead wrong here. I was intending to go to the War
Office to tell them there very frankly about my predicament, and to ask
permission to take you back in order to save my fellow-hostages, the
village, and my own life; and now a man named Grätz of whom I know
nothing calls me on the telephone and warns me not to go to the War
Office but to get you out of England as soon as I can do it.
"What am I to think of this? What does this man Grätz mean when he tells
me that your maid has been arrested on a serious charge and that the
Edmeston Agency of a German automobile is in danger?"
The girl stood very still with one slender hand resting on her satchel,
her face pale and quietly serious, her brows bent slightly inward as
though she were trying to remember something or to solve some unpleasant
problem not yet plain to her.
"One thing is clear," she said after a moment, lifting her candid eyes
to his; "and that is, if you don't take me back certain friends of yours
will be executed and a village in which you seem interested will be
destroyed."
"If taking you back means any harm to England," he said, "I won't take
you."
"And--your friends? What becomes of them?"
"My friends and the village must take the same chances that I do."
"What chances? Do you mean to go back without _me_?"
"I said I would," he replied drily.
"You said that if you went back without me they'd execute you."
"That's what I said. But there's no use in speculating on what is likely
to happen to me if I go back without you. If you don't mind I think we
had better start at once. We have had our warning from this man Grätz."
He gave her a searching glance, hesitated, then apparently came to an
abrupt conclusion.
"Miss Girard," he said coolly, "your father once took a good look at me
and then made up his mind about me. And he was not mistaken; I am what
he believes me to be. Now, I also have seen you, and I've made up my
mind concerning you. And I don't expect to be mistaken. So I say to you
frankly I am an enemy to Germany--to your country--and I will not
knowingly aid her--not to save my own skin or the skins of anybody else.
Tell me then have you any military knowledge which you intend to impart
to your father?"
"No," she said.
"Have you any suspicion that your maid has been involved in any such
risky business?"
"I have no knowledge of anything military at all. I don't believe my
maid has, either."
"You can recall no incident which might lead you to believe that your
maid is engaged in that sort of affair?"
The girl was silent. He repeated the question. She said: "Anna has
complained of being followed. I have already told you that she and I
have been annoyed by impertinent telephone calls and by strange men
coming here. Do you suppose they were from Scotland Yard?"
"Possibly. Have you any suspicion why your maid has been arrested?" he
persisted. She hesitated; her straight brows knitted slightly again as
though in a perplexed effort to remember and to understand. Then she
looked up at Guild out of troubled eyes and shook her head:
"I don't know--I don't _know_--whatever my suspicions may be----"
"Suspicions!"
"My personal suspicions could scarcely concern you, Mr. Guild."
The snub was direct; he reddened.
"Very well," he said. "What you say gives me a decent chance for life."
He drew a quick breath of relief. "I'm mighty glad," he said; "I
have--have seen men die. It isn't--an--agreeable sight. I think we'd
better go."
"In a moment."
She took her satchel and went into another room with it, closing the
intervening door. She was gone only a few seconds. When she returned she
had locked the satchel; he closed and strapped her suit-case and took it
in his hand. Together they descended the stairway and started through
the lower hall.
And what occurred there happened like lightning.
For, as he passed the door of the darkened living room, a man jumped out
behind him and threw one arm around his throat, and another man stepped
in front of him and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
It was not even a struggle; Guild was being held too tightly. The girl
shrank back against the wall, flattening herself against it, staring
dumbly at the proceeding as though stunned. She did not even cry out
when the man who had handcuffed Guild turned on her and caught her by
the elbow.
"Come along quietly, miss," he began, when suddenly his voice died out
in a groan and he crumpled up on the floor as Bush, the chauffeur,
sprang from the passage-way behind him and struck him with something
short and heavy.
The man who had thrown his arm around Guild's throat from behind, flung
his handcuffed victim aside and whipped out a revolver, but the
chauffeur knocked it out of his fist and hit him in the face two heavy,
merciless blows, hurling him senseless across the stairs. And all the
while the blond young chauffeur was smiling his fixed and murderous
smile. And he was like a tiger now in every movement as he knelt,
rummaged in the fallen men's pockets, found the key to the handcuffs,
leaned over and unlocked them as Guild held out his manacled hands.
[Illustration: "The chauffeur hit him ... two heavy, merciless blows,
hurling him senseless across the stairs"]
"Please watch them, sir," he said cheerfully. "I must find a curtain or
something----"
He ran into the living-room, ripped off a long blue curtain, tore it
into strips with his powerful blond hands, grinning cheerfully all the
while.
"Best to tie them up, sir--this way--allow me, sir--this is the better
way--the surer----"
Guild, working hard, he scarcely knew why, felt a touch on his arm.
"Are they dead?" whispered Karen Girard unsteadily.
"No--stunned."
"Are they robbers?"
The blond chauffeur looked up, laughed, then rolled a strip of cloth
into a ball for a gag.
"I'm not entirely sure what they are," said Guild. "I'll tell you what I
think when we're in the car."
The chauffeur completed his business, looked over the results of his
efforts critically, rose to his feet, still smiling.
"Now, sir, if you please--and madam--" And he possessed himself of the
luggage.
"Take the door-key, if you please, sir. Lock it on the outside. Thank
you. This way, if you please, sir. I took it upon myself to bring the
car up to the kitchen entrance."
The car stood there; the bags were flung in; Karen Girard stepped into
the tonneau; Guild followed. At the same moment a woman appeared, coming
along the brick walk.
"My maid of all work," exclaimed Karen. "What shall I say to her?"
"Anything, madam, but send her home," whispered Bush.
The girl leaned from the car and called out: "I have locked the house
and am going away for the day, Mrs. Bulger. Please come tomorrow, as
usual."
The woman thanked her, turned and went away again down the brick walk.
They watched her out of sight.
"Now!" said Guild to the chauffeur, "drive to the Holland steamship
wharf at----"
"I know, sir," smiled the blond chauffeur.
Which reply troubled the young man exceedingly, for it was evident to
him now that, if not herself a spy, this young girl in his charge was
watched, surrounded and protected by German agents of a sinister
sort--agents known to her father, in evident communication with him, and
thoroughly informed of the fact that he wanted his daughter to leave
England at once and under the particular escort of Guild.
Nor had Guild the slightest doubt that the two men who had followed and
handcuffed him were British Government agents, and that if this young
girl's maid had really been arrested for espionage, and if the Edmeston
people, too, were suspected, then suspicion had been also directed
toward Miss Girard and naturally also to him, who was her visitor.
Guild's troubled gaze rested once more upon the young girl beside him.
At the same moment, as though he had spoken to her she turned and looked
at him out of eyes so honest, so fearless that he had responded aloud
before he realized it: "It's all right. I know _you_ are not deceiving
me."
"No," she said, "I am not. But could you tell me what all this
means--all this that has happened so swiftly, so terribly----"
"I have a pretty clear idea what it means.... It's just as well that
those detectives did not arrest me.... Tell me, did you ever before see
this chauffeur, Bush?"
"Never, Mr. Guild."
He nodded; he was slowly coming to a definite conclusion concerning the
episode but he kept his own counsel. She said in a low, embarrassed
voice: "You think me cowardly. I know it. But I really didn't know what
to do."
She was very much in earnest, very intent on his expression, and he did
not dare smile.
"What _could_ you have done, Miss Girard?" he asked, pleasantly.
"I don't know. I--I felt as though we--you and I--were allies--and that
I ought to help you. But it all passed too quickly----"
"There was nothing you could have done for me," he smiled.
She said reflectively: "I myself don't quite see how I could have helped
matters. But I didn't wish you to believe me afraid to help you."
He looked into her wistful eyes smilingly: "Somehow," he said, "I don't
believe you are really very much afraid of anything."
A slight shudder passed over her. "Violence is new to me. I am not very
experienced--not very old you know. And I never saw men fight. And
when"--she lowered her voice--"when that chauffeur struck them so
heavily--so dreadfully--I--I have never seen men fight like that--strike
each other in the face as though they--they meant murder----"
"Don't think of it now, Miss Girard. You must keep your nerve." He
forced a laugh; "you'll need all your composure, too, because I've got
something to tell you which you won't like. Shall I tell you now?"
"Yes, please."
"Then--the man, Grätz, says that you must go aboard that steamer as my
wife."
The girl looked at him bewildered. "Somebody," continued Guild, "has
taken passage for us as Mr. and Mrs. Kervyn Guild. Grätz warned me. My
name is Kervyn. Yours is Karen. Our initials are alike. If there is any
suspicion directed toward us there are the initials on your satchel and
suit-case--and presumably on your clothing. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Do you mind?"
"I mind a little--yes. But I'll do what is necessary," she said,
confused.
"I think it is necessary. This man Grätz who seems to know more about my
business than I do, tells me so. I believe he is right."
She raised her tragic eyes to his but said nothing.
He leaned nearer to her and spoke in a low voice:
"I've been trying to reason it out," he said, "and I'll tell you what my
conclusion is: A German automobile took me to the British lines under a
white flag. No doubt Government agents had been informed by telegraph
and they followed me as soon as I landed on English soil.
"At the Berkeley Hotel I felt very sure that I was being watched. Now,
it appears, that this maid of yours has been arrested, and, from what I
suspect in regard to the Edmeston Agency--the agency to which your
father directed me--I feel very certain that somehow your maid has been
involved in the espionage maintained here by the German Government.
"That chauffeur in front of us is from the Edmeston garage; you see what
he did to those two detectives! It's very plain to me now that, innocent
as you are, you never will be permitted to leave England, even if they
don't arrest you, unless you can get out today with me.
"And if you don't leave England it means for me something very serious.
It means that I shall have to keep my word and go back alone."
"I know," she nodded, looking up at him very earnestly.
He said without the slightest dramatic emphasis: "It really does mean my
death, Miss Girard. I think, knowing your father, that there could be no
possible hope for me if I go back there without you.... And so, knowing
that, I am naturally most anxious to clear out of England while I can do
so--get away from here with you--if I can take you with a clear
conscience. And"--he looked at her, "I feel that I can do that because
you have told me that you have gathered no information for the enemies
of England. And"--he smiled--"to look into your face, Miss Girard, is to
believe you."
Some of the pretty color faded from her cheeks; she said: "You asked me
if I were a spy. I am not. You asked me if, knowingly, I carry any
military information which might aid the enemies of England. And I
answered you that, knowingly, I do not carry any such information."
"That is sufficient," he concluded, smilingly.
"No, it is not sufficient," she said. "I wish to say a little more. Let
me go to Trois Fontaines alone. I am accustomed to travel. There is no
need to involve you. As long as I arrive there what difference does it
make whether or not you accompany me?"
"I promised to accompany you."
"You promised that I should arrive safely at Trois Fontaines. It doesn't
matter whether you accompany me. Please--please don't. I had rather you
did not go."
He said, gravely: "I know how you must feel about travelling as my
wife----"
"It isn't that."
"What is it then?" he asked, surprised.
"I don't wish you to take the risk of travelling with me."
"What risk? The worst that could happen to you would be your arrest and
detention. If you are not a spy, you can not be proven one."
Her blue eyes gazed absently out across the sunny landscape through
which they were speeding.
"You are not a spy," he replied; "what risk do you run--or I?"
She said, still gazing into the sunlit distance: "What is done to
spies--if they are caught?"
"It usually means death, Miss Girard."
"I have--" she swallowed, caught her breath, breathed deeply; then--"I
have heard so.... It is possible that I might be suspected and
detained.... I had rather you did not attempt to go with me....
Because--I do not wish you to get into any difficulty--on my--account."
"Nothing serious could happen to either you or me through anything that
you have done."
"I am not sure."
"I am," he said. And added in a lower voice: "It is very generous of
you--very kind."
Her own voice was lower still: "Please don't go with me, Mr. Guild. Let
me go to the wharf alone. Let me take my chances alone. If there is any
difficulty they will arrest you, too. And if I--were convicted----"
"You could not be. That is utterly impossible. Don't think of such
things, Miss Girard."
"I _must_ think of them. Will you tell me something?" She turned and
looked at him curiously, almost wistfully.
"I want to ask you something. You--you said to me that if you thought me
a spy, you would not help me to escape from England. You said so, didn't
you?"
"Yes."
"You mean it, don't you?"
"I am afraid I do."
"Why? You are not English. You are an American. America is neutral. Why
are you an enemy to Germany?"
"I can't tell you why," he said.
"_Are_ you an enemy to Germany?"
"Yes--a bitter one."
"And if I were a spy, trying to escape from England--trying to
escape--death--you would refuse to help me?"
She had turned entirely toward him on the seat beside him; her
child-like hands clasped on the robe over her knees, her child-like
face, pale, sweet, wistful, turned to his.
"Would you abandon me?" she asked.
"The situation is impossible----"
"Yes, but tell me."
"I don't care to think of such a----"
"Please answer me. Is your partisanship so bitter that you would wash
your hands of me--let me go to my death?--go to your own, too, rather
than help me?"
"Miss Girard, you are losing your composure----"
"No; I am perfectly composed. But I should like to know what you would
do under such circumstances with a girl nineteen years old who stood in
danger of death."
"I can't tell you," he said, perplexed and impatient. "I can't tell now
what I might do."
"Would you denounce me?"
"No, of course not."
"Would you feel--sorry?"
"Sorry!" He looked at her; "I should think I would!"
"Sorry enough for me to help me get away?"
"Yes."
"Even if I carried military information to Germany?"
He looked into her eyes searchingly for a moment. "Yes," he said; "I'd
do what I could for you to get you out of England."
"Even if I had lied to you?"
"You couldn't lie to anybody."
"But if I could? If I have lied and you found it out, would you still
try to help me to get away?"
"You are asking something that----"
"Yes, you can answer it. You can think a while first and then answer. I
want you to answer. I want to know what you'd do with me."
"You make it a personal matter?"
"Yes. I don't want to know what you'd do in theory; I wish you to tell
me what you, personally, would do with me, Karen Girard, if you believed
me to be a spy, and if you came to the conclusion that I had lied to
you."
"Why do you ask all this? You are over-wrought, unstrung----"
"I am absolutely mistress of myself. And I wish to know what you would
do with _me_? Would you let me die?"
"No."
"You'd stand by me still?"
"Yes. There's no use mincing matters. Yes, I would."
"You'd help me to leave England?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
There fell a silence between them, and his face slowly reddened.
"I am not sure why," he said slowly.
"I am. Shall I tell you?"
"Yes, tell me," he said, forcing himself to meet her clear gaze.
"Very well, I'll tell you. It is because we are friends. And that is the
real truth. I realize it. From the very beginning it was a friendship,
without effort, instantly and mutually understood. Is it not true?"
"Yes."
"And that--the instant liking--was the basis for our confidence in each
other. Was it not?"
"It must have been. I trusted you without hesitation."
"And I you.... And I did tell you the truth.... But not all of it."
"What have you left untold?" he asked.
"Enough to--to frighten me--a little. I am beginning to be afraid--just
enough afraid to feel troubled--rather deeply troubled about--you."
"About _me_!"
"Because--we are friends. I don't understand how it has happened so
quickly. But it has happened to us--hasn't it?"
"Yes," he said, "it has. I--I am already--devoted to--our friendship."
"I am, too. It seems odd, doesn't it. I have had no friends among men.
This is new to me. I don't know what to do about it. I want to be so
loyal about it--I wish to be what a man--such a man as you are--desires
of a friend--what he requires of friendship.... _Do_ you understand? I
am really a trifle bewildered--with the surprise and pleasure of
friendship--and with its obligations.... But I am very sure that
unselfishness is one of its obligations and that truth is another."
"Both are part of you."
"They seem to be now. And so--because we are friends--don't go to the
wharf with me. Because I think I may be--arrested. And if I am--it may
go hard with me."
She said it so gently, and her eyes were so clear and sweet that for a
moment he did not grasp the subtler significance of her appeal.
"You _can't_ be involved seriously," he insisted.
"I'm afraid it is possible."
"How?"
"I can only guess how. I may be wrong. But I dare not risk involving
you."
"Can't you tell me a little more?"
"Please don't ask."
"Very well. But I shall not leave you."
"Please."
"No. You ask too little of friendship."
"I do not wish to ask too much. Let me get clear of this affair if I
can. If I can't--let me at least remember that I have not involved you
in my--ruin."
"Your ruin!"
"Yes. It may come to that. I don't know. I don't know exactly what all
this tangle means--what really threatens me, what I have to dread. But I
am afraid--afraid!" Her voice became unsteady for a moment and she
stared straight ahead of her at the yellow haze which loomed nearer and
nearer above the suburbs of London.
He slipped one arm under hers, quietly, and his hand fell over both of
hers, where they rested clasped tightly on her lap.
"This won't do," he said coolly. "You are not to be frightened whatever
happens. We must go through with this affair, you and I. I know you have
plenty of courage."
"Yes--except about you----"
"I stand or fall with you."
"Please, you must not----"
"I must and shall. Within the next few minutes you must regain your
composure and self-command. Will you?"
"Yes."
"Because our safety may depend on your coolness."
"I know it."
"Will you remember that we are married?"
"Yes."
"Will it be difficult for you to carry out that rôle?"
"I--don't know what to do. Could you tell me?"
"Yes. If you speak to me call me by my first name. Do you remember it?"
"Kervyn," she said.
"You won't forget?"
"No."
"I think you had better say 'no, dear.' Try it."
"No--dear."
"Try it again."
"No, dear."
"Letter perfect," he said, trying to speak lightly. "You see you look
about seventeen, and it's plain we couldn't have been married very long.
So it's safer to say 'yes, dear,' and 'no, dear,' every time. You won't
forget, Karen, will you?"
She flushed a trifle when her name fell from his lips. "No, dear," she
said in a low voice.
"And if anybody addresses you as Mrs. Guild--will you try to be
prepared?"
"Yes--dear. Yes, I will--Kervyn."
He laughed a trifle excitedly. "You are perfect--and really adorable in
the part," he said. And his nervous excitement in the imminence of
mutual danger subtly excited her.
"I ought to do it well," she said; "I have studied dramatic art and I
have had some stage experience. It's a part and I _must_ do it well. I
shall, really--Kervyn, dear."
He laughed; the dangerous game was beginning to exhilarate them both,
and a vivid colour began to burn in her delicate cheeks.
Suddenly the blond chauffeur pulled the car up along the curb in a
crowded street and stopped.
"It is better, sir, to take a hansom from here to the wharf."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, sir.... Pardon, sir, here are passports for madam and yourself."
And he handed the papers very coolly to Guild.
The young man changed colour, realizing instantly that the papers were
forged.
"Had I better take these?" he asked under his breath.
"Yes, sir," said Bush, smiling his eternal smile and opening the car
door for them.
Guild descended. Bush set the luggage on the curb, touched his cap, and
said: "Walk south, sir, until a cabby hails you. Good-bye, sir. A
pleasant trip, madam." And he sprang back into the car, started it, and
rolled away grinning from ear to ear.
Guild took the luggage in both hands; Karen walked beside him. At the
end of the square the driver of a hansom held up one hand inquiringly,
then smiled and drew in to the curb.
"Fresh Wharf, sir?" asked the cabby.
"Yes," said Guild, calmly, red with surprise.
"Thanks, sir. I understand all about it."
CHAPTER VII
THE SATCHEL
It was only a short drive to Fresh Wharf by London Bridge. A marching
column of kilted Territorials checked them for a while and they looked
on while the advanced guard of civilians surged by, followed by pipers
and then by the long leaf-brown column at a smart swinging stride.
When the troops had passed the hansom moved on very slowly through the
human flotsam still eddying in the wake of the regiment; and after a few
more minutes it pulled up again and Guild sprang out, lifted the young
girl to the sidewalk, and handed the fare to the driver.
The latter leaned over and as he took the coins he thrust a parcel into
Guild's hands. "Your change, sir," he said genially, touched his top hat
and drove off, looking right and left for another fare.
Guild's surprised eyes fell on the packet. It contained two steamer
tickets strapped together by a rubber band.
Pushing through the throng where policemen, wharf officials and soldiers
in khaki were as numerous as civilians, Guild finally signalled a porter
to take the luggage aboard. Karen retained her satchel. A brief scrutiny
of his tickets detained them for a moment, then the porter led them up
the gang-plank and aboard and a steward directed them to their
stateroom. At the same moment a uniformed official stepped up to Guild.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir," he said politely, "but may I have your
name?"
"My name is Kervyn Guild."
The official glanced over the steamer list. "You have papers of
identification, Mr. Guild?"
Guild handed him his forged passports. The official took them, glanced
at Karen, at the luggage which the porter bore.
"Where do you go from Amsterdam, Mr. Guild?"
"Through Holland."
"Naturally. And then?"
"To the Grand Duchy."
"Luxembourg?"
"Yes."
"Where in Luxembourg?"
"I have been invited to visit friends."
"Where?"
"At Lesse Forest."
"Where is that?"
"Partly in the Duchy, partly in Belgium."
"Who are your friends?"
"Mrs. and Miss Courland of New York and a Mr. Darrel."
"Madam goes with you?"
"Yes."
The official began to unfold the passports, while he looked sideways at
the luggage. Holding the passports partly open in one hand he pointed to
Karen's satchel with the other.
"Please open that," he said, and began to examine the passports. A
deadly pallour came over the girl's face; she did not stir. Guild turned
to glance at her and was stricken dumb. But she found her speech.
"Dear," she said, with white lips, "would you mind stepping ashore and
getting me something at a chemist's?" And under her breath, pressing
close to him: "Go, for God's sake. I am afraid I shall be arrested." A
terrible fear struck through him.
"The satchel!" he motioned with his lips.
"Yes. Go while you can. Go--go--dear."
"I'll be back in a moment, Karen," he said, coolly took the satchel from
the porter, turned with it toward the gang-plank.
The official raised his eyes from the passport he was scanning.
"One moment, sir," he said.
"I'll be back directly," returned Guild, continuing on his way.
"Where are you going, Mr. Guild?"
"To a chemist's."
"Be kind enough to leave that satchel and remain here until I have
finished," said the official coldly. And to Karen: "Mrs. Guild, will you
kindly open that bag?"
"Certainly. I have the key somewhere"--searching in her reticule. And as
she searched she lifted her eyes to Guild. Her face was dead white.
"Dearest," she said in a steady voice, "will you go to the chemist's
while I am opening my bag. I _must_ have something for this headache."
Her agonized eyes said: "Save yourself while you can; I am caught!"
But Guild turned and came back to her, close, standing beside her.
"I'll open the luggage," he said quietly. "You had better step ashore
and get what you need." And, in a whisper: "Go straight to the American
Ambassador and tell him everything."
She whispered: "No; I beg of you go. I beg of you, Kervyn."
He shook his head and they stood there together; he grave and silent,
assailed by a terrible premonition; she white as death, mechanically
fumbling in her reticule with slim, childish fingers.
The official was deeply immersed in the passports and continued so even
when Karen's tremulous fingers held the key. "Give it to me," whispered
Guild.
"No--" She beckoned the porter, took the satchel, and at the same moment
the official looked up at her, then holding both passports, came over to
where they were standing.
"Your papers are in order, Mr. Guild," he said. "Now, Mrs. Guild, if you
will open your satchel----"
"I'll attend to that, Holden," broke in a careless voice, and the
satchel was taken out of Karen's hands by a short, dark young man in
uniform. "I want you to go forward and look at a gentleman for The Hague
who has no papers. He's listed as Begley. Do you mind?"
"Right," said Holden. "Here, Mitchell, these papers are satisfactory.
Look over Mr. Guild's luggage and come forward when you're finished.
What's his name? Begley?"
"Yes, American. I'll be with you in a moment."
Holden hastened forward; Mitchell looked after him for a moment, then
calmly handed back the unopened satchel to Karen and while she held it
he made a mark on it with a bit of chalk.
"I pass your luggage," he said in a low voice, stooping and marking the
suit-case and Guild's sack. "You have nothing to fear at Amsterdam, but
there are spies on this steamer. Best go to your cabin and stay there
until the boat docks."
The girl bent her little head in silence; the porter resumed the luggage
and piloted them aft through an ill-lighted corridor. When he came to
the door of their cabin he called a steward, took his tip from Guild,
touched his cap and went away.
The steward opened the stateroom door for them, set the luggage on the
lounge, asked if there was anything more he could do, was told that
there was not, and took himself off.
Guild locked the door after him, turned and looked down at the girl, who
had sunk trembling upon the lounge.
"What is there in that satchel?" he asked coldly.
"I don't know."
"_What!_" he said in a contemptuous voice.
"Kervyn--my friend--I do not know," she stammered.
"You _must_ know! You packed it!"
"Yes. But I do not know. Can't you believe me?"
"How can I? You know what you put into that satchel, don't you?"
"I--put in toilet articles--night clothes--money."
"What else? You put in something else, didn't you? Something that has
made you horribly afraid!"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"Kervyn--I don't _know_ what it is. I must not know. It is a matter of
honour."
"If you don't know what it is you carry in that satchel you evidently
suspect what it might prove to be."
"Yes."
"You have very strong suspicions?"
"Yes, I have."
"Why did you take such a thing?"
"I promised."
"Whom?"
"I can't tell you. It is a matter of honour. I--I didn't want to involve
you if things turned badly. I asked you to leave me.... Even at the last
moment I tried to give you a chance to go ashore and escape. Kervyn,
I've tried to be honourable and to be loyal to you at the same time.
I've tried--I've tried--" Her childish voice faltered, almost broke, and
she turned her head sharply away from him.
He dropped onto the lounge beside her, sick with anxiety, and laid his
hand over hers where it lay in her lap.
"I'm afraid that you have papers in that satchel which might mean the
end of the world for you," he said under his breath. "God alone knows
why you carry them if you suspect their contents.... Well, I won't ask
you anything more at present.... If your conscience acquits you, I do. I
do anyway. You have given me plenty of chances to escape. You have been
very plucky, very generous to me, Karen."
"I have tried to be," she said unsteadily. "You have been far too kind
to me, Kervyn.... I--I don't mean to tremble so. I think I am, feeling
the--the reaction."
"Lie down. I am afraid I'll have to stay here----"
"Yes; don't go out on deck. Don't take any more risks.... I'll lie down
if I may." She rose, looked around with eyes still darkly dilated by
fear:
"Oh!" she breathed--"if we were only out of British waters!"
He looked at his watch, and at the same moment a deep blast from the
steamer vibrated through the cabin.
"They've cast off," he said calmly.
The girl had flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow.
Her brown velvet hat had fallen to the floor, her thick brown hair
clustered in glossy disorder over neck and cheek. One slim hand clutched
convulsively a tiny handkerchief crushed into a ball.
"We have every chance now," he said very gently, bending over the
pillow--"barring a wireless to some British guard-ship. Don't give way
yet, Karen." He laid a cool, firm hand over hers and tried to speak
jestingly. "Wait until there's no danger at all before you go all to
pieces," he whispered.
As he bent above her, he became conscious of the warm fragrance of
tears. But no sound came, not a quiver. And after a while he went over
to the sofa and sat down, staring at the locked satchel on the floor,
vaguely aware that the boat was in steady motion.
"Karen," he said after a moment.
"Yes--dear."
"You know," he said, forcing a laugh, "you needn't say it when we're
alone--except for practice."
"Yes, dear, I know."
"May I ask you something?"
"Yes, please."
"Did you know that official named Mitchell?"
"Yes."
"Who was he?"
"Mr. Grätz."
CHAPTER VIII
AT SEA
The funnel smoke blew low, burying the afterdecks, and a hurricane of
scud and spindrift swept everything forward, drenching the plunging
steamer to the bridge. Stanchions, davits, hatches were all a-dip, decks
a-wash, and the Dutch ensign whipping aloft in a thick grey sky that
seemed to speed astern as though in chase of the heaving grey waste of
waters that fled away beneath.
Here and there a trawler tossed and rocked; lean, melancholy wanderers
on the face of the waters; twice the raking stacks of destroyers,
smothered in foam, dashed eastward running full speed on some occult
trail twixt sky and sea.
The grey world grew duller, duller; one by one the blinding searchlights
on coast-guard ships broke out, sweeping sky and ocean as though in
desperate appeal to the God above and in menacing warning to the devils
that lurked below.
For they said the North Sea was full of them; legions of them tossed
broadcast from the black hell of some human mind. And beneath them,
deeper, lying as still as death on the Channel's floor, waited the human
submarines in unseen watery depths--motionless, patient, awaiting the
moment to strike.
Night came; the white level glare of searchlights flooded the steamer,
lingered, shifted, tossed their dazzling arms heavenward as though
imploring the Most High, then swept unseen horizons where the outermost
waters curve with the curving globe.
* * * * *
Only one light burned in the stateroom, but the port was not covered.
Karen lay on the bed, unstirring save for a slight tremor of her
shoulders now and then. Her brown hair, half loosened, had fallen in
thick burnished curls on the pillow; one hand covered her eyes, palm
outward. Under it the vivid lips, scarcely parted, rested on each other
in a troubled curve.
Guild brooded silently on the lounge under the port. Sometimes his
sombre gaze rested on her, sometimes on the locked satchel which had
rolled to the side of the bed.
Every time the arrowy beam of light from a warship flooded the cabin
with swift white splendour his heart seemed to stop, for the menace of
the wireless was always a living dread; and the stopping of a neutral
ship and the taking from it of suspects had become a practice too common
even to excite comment, let alone protest.
Twice they were stopped; twice Ardoise signals twinkled; but no cutter
came alongside, and no officer boarded them. It was an eternity of
suspense to Guild, and he stood by the open port, listening, the satchel
in his hand ready to fling it out into the turmoil of heaving waters.
The steward came, and Guild ordered something served for them both in
the stateroom. Karen had not awakened, but her hand had slipped from her
eyes and it lay across the edge of the bed.
On the bridal finger glimmered the plain gold band--his credentials to
her from her father.
He went over and looked down into the white, childish face. Faultless,
serene, wonderful as a flower it seemed to him. Where the black lashes
rested the curve of the cheek was faintly tinted with colour. All else
was snowy save for the vivid rose of the scarcely parted lips.
Nineteen!--and all those accomplishments which her dim living-room at
Westheath had partly revealed--where books in many languages had
silently exposed the mind that required them--where pictures, music--all
the unstudied and charming disorder of this young girl's intimate
habitation had delicately revealed its tenant.
And what her living-room had foreshadowed was only, after all, but a
tinted phantom of the girl he had come to know in the flesh--the real
mistress of that dim room quickened to life--a warm, living, breathing
reality, low-voiced, blue-eyed, winsome and sweet with the vague
fragrance of youth incarnate clinging to her, to every gesture, every
movement, every turn of her head--to her very skirts it seemed--youth,
freshness, purity unblemished.
As he stood there he tried to realize that she was German--this young
girl with her low and charming English voice and her accentless English
speech.
He had listened in vain for any flaw, any indication of alien birth.
Nothing betrayed her as a foreigner, except, possibly, a delightfully
quaint formality in accepting any service offered. For when he asked her
whether she desired this or that, or if he might do this or that for
her, always her answer in the affirmative was, "Yes, please," like a
little girl who had been carefully taught to respect age. It amused him;
for modern English young women are less punctilious with modern youth.
There came a dull clatter of crockery from the passageway; Guild turned
and opened the door. The waiter produced a folding table, spread it, and
arranged the dishes.
"That will be all," whispered Guild. "Don't knock again; I'll set the
tray outside."
So the waiter went away and Guild closed the door again and turned back
to the bed where Karen lay. Her delicate brows were now slightly knitted
and the troubled curve of her lips hinted again of a slumber not wholly
undisturbed by subconscious apprehension.
"Karen," he said in a low voice.
The girl opened her eyes. They had that starry freshness that one sees
in the eyes of waking children. For a moment her confused gaze met his
without expression, then a hot flush stained her face and she sat up
hurriedly. Down tumbled the thick, burnished locks and her hands flew
instinctively to twist them up.
"I didn't realize that I had been asleep. Please, will you turn your
back"--her glance fell on the table--"I shall be ready in a
moment--Kervyn."
"Had I not better give you the place to yourself?"
"Yes, please."
"I'll do a sentry-go in the corridor," he said. "Open the door when
you're quite ready."
So he went out and walked up and down until the stateroom door opened
and her low voice summoned him.
"I can't eat," she said.
"Do you feel the sea?"
"No"--she smiled faintly--"but the excitement of the day--the
anxiety----"
"We'll have some tea, anyway," he said.
They ate a little after all, and the hot and rather vile tea stimulated
her. Presently he set tray and table outside in the corridor and came
slowly back to where she had gathered herself in a corner of the sofa.
"The sea is rather rough," he said. "You seem to be a good sailor."
"Yes, I am. My father had a yacht and my mother and I always went when
he cruised."
This slightest glimpse of personal history--the first she had
vouchsafed--the first slight lifting of the curtain which hung between
them, aroused his latent curiosity.
What else lay behind that delicate, opaque veil which covered the
nineteen years of her? What had been the childhood, the earlier life of
this young girl whom he had found living alone with a maid and a single
servant at an obscure heath outside of London?
Gently born, gently bred young girls of aristocratic precedents, don't
do that sort of thing. Even if they desire to try it, they are not
permitted. Also they don't go on the stage, as a rule.
Neither the sign manual, the sign visible of the theatre, nor yet that
occult indefinable something characteristic of the footlights appeared
to taint her personality.
Talented as she was undoubtedly, cultured and gently nurtured, the sum
total of all her experience, her schooling, her development, and her art
had resulted only in a charming harmony, not a personality aggressively
accented in any single particular. Any drawing-room in any country might
have contained this young girl. Homes which possess drawing-rooms breed
the self-possession, the serenity, the soft voice, the winsome candour
and directness of such girls as she.
She was curled up in the corner of the sofa where he had placed behind
her the two pillows from the bed, and her winning blue eyes rested every
few minutes upon this young man whom she had known only a few hours and
whom she already, in her heart and in her mind, was calling a friend.
She had never had any among young men--never even among older men had
she experienced the quiet security, the untroubled certainty of such a
friendship as had begun now--as had suddenly stepped into her life, new,
yet strangely familiar--a friendship that seemed instantly fully
developed and satisfactory.
There appeared to be no room for doubt about it, no occasion for
waiting, no uncertainty in her mind, no inclination and no thought of
the lesser conventionalities which must strew elaborately the path of
first acquaintance with the old, old-fashioned garlands--those prim,
stiff blossoms of discretion, of propriety, of self-conscious concession
to formula and tradition.
No; when her eyes first fell on him her mind and heart seemed to
recognize what neither had ever before beheld--a friend. And from that
moment the girl had accepted the matter as settled, as far as she
herself was concerned. And she had lost very little time in acquainting
herself with his views upon the subject.
That he had responded to the friendship she had so naïvely offered did
not surprise her. She seemed to have expected it--perhaps in the peril
of the moments when they were nearing London and doubt and suspicion in
her mind concerning the contents of her satchel were becoming an agony
to her as they grew more definite--perhaps even then the sudden and deep
sense of gratitude for his response had made courage a new necessity and
had armoured her against panic--for friendship's sake.
All she realized in that moment was that this friendship, so sudden, so
vital, was already so strong in her, so real, that even in the terror of
that instant she thought of the danger to him, and asked him to let her
go on alone.
Perhaps they both were thinking of these things--she, curled up in her
corner, looking thoughtfully at him; he, knees crossed, gazing
restlessly from object to object in the unsteady stateroom, but his eyes
always reverting to her.
Then the duet of silence ended for a while. He said: "You must not
suppose that I am not keenly alive to the kindness, the fearless
generosity you have shown me all through this affair. What you suffered
is lodged forever in my mind--and in my heart."
"What you have done for me is in my--heart," she said in her sweetly
modulated voice.
"I have done very little----"
"You would not leave me!"
"My own life was forfeit if I did----"
"No! You did not reason that way! Besides, had I managed to get through
alone, you should have had your life back again to do with as you
pleased. No; you did not reason that way. You stood by a friend in
peril--at your own peril."
She drew a deep, tremulous breath. "More than that," she said, "you
stood by me when you almost believed I had lied to you--lied
shamefully."
"I had my plans ready--in that event," he said, forcing a laugh.
"You _did_ doubt me?"
"Yes."
She bent her head, looked thoughtfully at her hands, which clasped one
knee, then, lifting her eyes: "I forgive you," she said gravely.
He flushed: "I did not know you--did not realize--what you are----"
"You were slower than I."
"What?"
"I trusted _you_--from the first."
He was silent; she watched him for a few moments, then:
"When you concluded that I had lied to you, what plans had you ready?"
"I had rather not say----"
"Please do."
He bit his lip: "I had decided to take your satchel from you."
"Against my wishes?" she asked, amazed.
"Yes."
There was no resentment, only a childish surprise: "Why?"
"I told you that I am an enemy to your country."
"Yes, I know----"
"I told you that I would not knowingly permit you to take out of England
anything which might be detrimental to England's interests. And I made
up my mind that if you had deceived me--and although I stood by
you--because you are only a young girl--and were in danger from those
who make no allowance for youth and sex--nevertheless, as soon as you
were in personal safety, I meant to take from you whatever you had
concealed from me and which might have been of service to England's
enemies."
"Would you have done that?"
"Yes, if you had been untruthful to me."
She bent her head, thoughtfully; then looking up at him: "Yes; that
would have been just.... But I have not been untruthful."
His perplexed and slightly careworn eyes met hers.
"I can't doubt you," he said. "I know you have been truthful. But--what
_is_ in that satchel? Forgive me, I _must_ ask you. Because there is
evidently enough there to terrify you at the thought of British eyes
inspecting it."
"Kervyn--can't you believe me when I tell you that I don't _know_ what
is in that satchel?"
"I _do_ believe you. But tell me what you are afraid it might be."
"I can't--truly I can't tell you. Don't you understand? Don't you
realize that I must have promised?"
"Promised?"
"Yes--not to unlock or open the satchel. I _did_ promise."
"To whom did you make that promise?" And, as she did not reply: "Was the
promise made to anybody I ever met?"
She looked at him in a distressed way, but his face darkened and his
determination increased.
"Did you make that promise to a German? An officer? Did you make it to
General von Reiter?"
"Yes."
"I see. And there _are_ papers in that satchel!"
"Yes."
"Where did you get them?"
"From--Mr. Grätz."
"You were accustomed to receive papers from Mr. Grätz?"
"Sometimes."
"At certain intervals?"
"I don't know. Whenever Mr. Grätz telephoned, Anna, my maid, went to
London and usually brought back the--the plans."
"Plans!"
"Yes. I understood that they were plans of a new automobile which was
being designed by the Edmeston Agency for their Berlin branch. Mr. Grätz
mentioned it as the Bauer-Schroeder car."
"To whom were these plans to go, ultimately?"
"I sent them to New York."
"To whom?"
"To Schimmel and Company, Broadway."
"Have you any idea where Schimmel and Company sent those plans?"
"Yes. I never thought much about it then, but today I realized that
sooner or later the plans were sent to General von Reiter--in Berlin."
"You are sure?"
"Yes. I saw them when I was there last April. He said that those were
the plans which I had sent to Schimmel and Company."
"You _saw_ the plans?"
"Yes."
"Were they plans of an automobile?"
"I--thought so then. They were on very thin paper. I supposed them to be
drawings of detached machinery in sections. They looked to me like
fragments of something."
"And now--in the light of what happened today--what do you believe those
drawings represented?"
"I have no idea--really I haven't. Only--" She hesitated, troubled,
twisting her fingers on her knees.
"Only--" he prompted her.
She said, with a tremulous intake of breath: "I think I had better tell
you, Kervyn. This is what frightened me--what the experience of today
seemed to suddenly make plain to me--I mean your coming to Westheath,
Mr. Grätz telephoning about obeying you, and informing me of the arrest
of my maid--these things, and the war, and what I have read about German
spies in England--all this flashed up in my mind at the same time when
you turned from the telephone and asked me such terrible questions.
"It made clear to me, or seemed to, something else that I had not
understood at the time--" She hesitated, her gaze concentrated as though
in an effort to recollect and visualize some scene--
"It was last April, in Berlin.... General Baron von Reiter said
something to me as I was waiting for his car to take me to the
station--I was departing for England again--and he said--he said----"
"Yes, Karen?"
"He said something about war--the possibility of it. And he said that in
case war ever came while I was in England, and if, when it came, I had
in my possession any automobile plans from the Edmeston Agency--from Mr.
Grätz--that I was to bring them with me to Germany--not to show them to
anybody, not to send them by mail, but to bring them back and deliver
them to him."
"Yes, Karen."
"I promised.... He made me promise again. He was very serious. He said
that on my obedience in this matter might depend the lives of many
people. I had no idea what he meant by that--until today.... And what I
fear has happened is that Anna, who went yesterday to London because Mr.
Grätz telephoned, was arrested while in possession of papers delivered
to her by Mr. Grätz.... And that these papers were _not_ what I had
always supposed. And that is why I was suddenly afraid--afraid--Oh,
Kervyn!--I cannot describe the fear that leaped up and seized me when
you asked me those dreadful questions! Suddenly everything, every detail
in the entire matter seemed to grow clear and terrible to me.... I--I
went into my dressing-room--and steadied myself against the
wall--feeling faint for a moment.
"Then I took from my dressing-table the papers which I had from Anna's
last visit to Mr. Grätz. They had remained there in the drawer because I
had been told not to mail them, and no word had come for me to go back
to Berlin. So I had them on my hands. But until you came I gave them no
thought--merely conscious that I had promised to take them back with me.
"But--in that terrible moment when I stood there leaning against the
wall, I remembered what was said to me about the lives of many people
depending upon my keeping my promise. It was a hideous thing to remember
at such a time.... But I could not break my word--for the sake of these
imperilled people also--could I, Kervyn?... So I took the papers and
locked them in my satchel. And afterward I--I _asked_ you to leave--"
Her voice quivered; she bent her head and sat twisting her slim fingers
on her lap.
"That is all I know," she faltered--"all I know about it. I have tried
to be true to my word, and loyal to--you."
Her emotion was reflected in his own face; he bent forward, laid his
hand over her restless fingers.
"Karen," he said, "you are the pluckiest, straightest, whitest woman I
ever knew."
"I'm only--honest," she whispered.... "And I want you to think me so."
"I do!--Karen, dearest, sincerest, most fearless of women!"
"Do you believe me--that?"
"Karen, I----"
A sharp knocking at the door cut him short. They looked at each other,
startled. At the same moment he realized that the ship had stopped.
"Could it be the stewardess?" she whispered.
"I don't know."
He rose, picked up the satchel and went to the open port.
"If a British guard-ship has stopped us to search us, we can't have this
thing found," he said.
She stared at him in frightened silence.
"They may have found those men we tied up and left in your house at
Westheath!" he whispered. "A wireless would set a score of warships
ready to intercept us. If they board us they must not find that
satchel."
The sharp, loud rapping came again.
Guild went to the open port, pushed the satchel through it, leaned out
himself. As he did so something brushed his head, and, looking up, he
saw a rope's end dangling there.
In an instant he had tied it to the handle of the satchel, stepped back,
screwed the heavy glass fast, and then, motioning Karen to fling herself
on the bed, he went to the door, opened it, and stood yawning in the
face of a ship's officer.
"Don't wake my wife," he said drowsily. "What is the trouble?"
"The trouble is," replied the officer coldly, "that a British cruiser
has signalled us to stop, and has asked whether an American named Guild
is aboard."
CHAPTER IX
H. M. S. WYVERN
"Well," said Guild coolly, "have you any idea what a casual British
cruiser might want of _me_?"
"I have not," said the officer, "so perhaps you had better tell _me_
what is wanted of yourself and your wife by the captain of that warship.
It might save some argument between him and our own captain. We are due
in Amsterdam at noon tomorrow," he added meaningly.
"Do you mean to say that the officer in command of this British ship
desires to speak to my wife?"
"His signals stopped us and his wireless told us to detain you and your
wife."
"What ship is it?" demanded the young man, so nervous now that he
scarcely knew what he was saying.
The Dutch officer remained icy and precise: "The ship is the light
cruiser _Wyvern_, of the 'Monster' class. Her consorts yonder are the
_Hippogriff_ and _Basalisk_--if this information enlightens you, Mr.
Guild."
"It does not. But I know this much: You can't detain an American!
Neither can that British captain take a neutral from a neutral ship! And
that settles the matter."
"Be good enough to come on deck," said the Hollander in his correct and
fluent English. "The captain desires to speak with you."
"Very well. I'll follow you in a moment"--and turning to Karen:
"Dearest, are you awake?"
"Yes, dear."
"The captain wishes to see me. I'll be back directly." He stepped out
into the corridor, hesitated, excused himself to the officer, and
returned to Karen, closing the door and locking it.
She was sitting up on the bed, very still and white, and when he came
over to her she instinctively laid both chilled hands in his. He held
them in a firm and reassuring clasp; but he was terribly disconcerted.
"Listen, dear. I think a British officer is coming aboard for us. I
don't know whether he has any right to take us off this ship, but I'm
afraid that the law in the matter won't worry him.
"Now listen to me, dear. If I come back and knock and call to you by
name, open. If somebody knocks, and there is no voice--or if it is not
my voice, go to that port, open it, untie your satchel, which is hanging
outside at a rope's end, take out the papers, and drop them into the
sea. And not until you have done this shall you open the door to
anybody."
"Yes, Kervyn."
"Then," he said, "if we've got to go back to England on a warship, we'll
go clean-handed."
"Yes."
"And you had better take these passports, too." He drew them from his
breast pocket. "They're forged. Throw them out with the other papers."
"Yes, I will."
"Then--I'm going.... Don't worry--dear. Don't tremble so, Karen--dear
Karen----"
"I'll try not to. I'll not be cowardly. It--it has been a long--day....
I'm thinking of Anna, too. You know, if she had any papers, she was
bringing them to me. That will be against me."
"I forgot that," he said, appalled. Then he squared his shoulders and
forced a smile: "Anyway, whatever faces you faces us _both_!...
Dear--keep every atom of courage you have. I shall stand by you, always.
But I must go now. Do you promise me to keep up courage?"
"Yes--dear----"
They were excited, their every nerve now stretched to the breaking, yet
both were striving for self-control in the instant menace of this new
peril confronting them. Neither knew just what they said or did; he bent
over her; she lifted her face to his, closing her eyes as his lips
touched her forehead. Then he went away swiftly, and she sprang to the
floor and locked the stateroom door. The next moment the awful flare of
a searchlight turned the room to a pit of silvery fire, and she cringed
against the bed under the fierce white glory, covering her bloodless
face with both hands.
On deck, the Dutch captain, who was awaiting Guild at the companionway,
came forward hastily and drew him aside.
"They've boarded us already," he said; "there comes their lieutenant
over the side. Tell me, Mr. Guild, are your papers in order and your
conscience clear? Can I make a fight over this affair?"
"I have no papers, but my conscience is in order. Don't let them take us
if you can help it."
"You have no papers?"
"None that can help me or my wife."
"Then it's no use fighting."
"Fight all the same!" whispered Guild, as they both turned to meet the
young naval officer who had just stepped aboard. He and the Dutch
captain exchanged civilities stiffly, then Guild stepped forward into
the lantern light.
"Kervyn Guild!" exclaimed the slim young officer in surprise. "Is it
_you_!"
"Jamison!" ejaculated Guild, astonished. "Well this is lucky! I'm
tremendously glad! I am indeed!"
They exchanged a warm impulsive hand-clasp, smiled at each other--then
the quick smile on the youthful lieutenant's features altered, and his
face fell.
"Guild," he said soberly, "I am afraid I shall have to inconvenience you
and--your wife. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to come aboard the
_Wyvern_ with me. I'm sorry; I know it must inconvenience you
fearfully----"
"Jamison! We _can't_ go aboard your ship! What on earth are you thinking
of?"
"Orders," returned the young fellow gravely. "I've no discretion, you
see."
As by common consent they had stepped aside from the group of ships'
officers and, standing in the shadow of a lifeboat, they now gazed at
each other very seriously.
Guild said: "There must be some mistake about this. I have no wife on
board this boat."
"Did you not board this boat in company with your wife?" asked Jamison
in a low voice.
"No."
"Our information is otherwise."
"Jamison, you know whether I am likely to lie to you. And I say to you
on my word of honour that I did not come aboard this boat with my wife."
"Is she not on board?"
"She is not."
Jamison said regretfully: "No good, old fellow. We know she is not your
wife. But we want her. I think you had better prepare her to come with
us."
"Jamison, will you listen to me and believe me?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then, on my word of honour, the woman you have come to take from this
ship is absolutely innocent of any--intentional--crime."
"I take your word for it, Guild."
"You can guess _my_ sentiments in regard to this war, can't you?"
insisted Guild.
"I think I can."
"Then listen, Jamison. I pledge you my word that through this young
girl, and through me, nothing shall ever happen that could in any manner
be detrimental to your country or its allies. Don't press this matter,
for God's sake!"
"Guild," he said quietly, "I believe you absolutely. But--both you and
this young lady must come aboard the _Wyvern_ with me. Those are my
orders, old fellow. I can't go back on them; I have no discretion in
this matter. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes."
After a silence, Guild linked his arm in the gold-laced arm of his
old-time friend and walked back to where the captain stood fidgeting.
"I won't go, Jamison," he said, loudly but pleasantly. "I am not obliged
to go aboard your ship. Captain Vandervelde, I claim the protection of
your flag for myself and for my wife."
"Captain Vandervelde knows that it means only trouble for him," said
Jamison, forcing a smile. "He is not likely to defy the _Wyvern_, I
think."
They all turned in the sudden glitter of the _Wyvern's_ searchlight and
gazed across the darkness where the unseen cruiser was playing on them
from stem to stern.
"Will you come with me, Guild?" asked Jamison quietly.
"No, Jamison, I'm hanged if I do.... And that's too close to the truth
to be very funny," he added, laughingly.
"The _Wyvern_ will merely send a guard for you. It's no good bluffing,
Guild. You know it yourself."
"International law is no bluff!"
"International law is merely in process of evolution just now. It's in
the making. And we are making it."
"That remark is very British."
"Yes, I'm afraid it is. I'm sorry."
"Well, I won't go aboard the _Wyvern_, I tell you. I've _got_ to stay on
this ship! I--" he leaned over and said under his breath--"it may mean
death to me, Jamison, to go aboard your ship. Not because of anything I
have to fear from _your_ people. On the contrary. But they'll shoot me
in Germany. Can't you tell your captain I'm trustworthy?"
"What is the use, Guild?" said the young man gently. "I have my orders."
Guild looked at him, looked about him at the grave faces of the captain
and the second officer, looked out across the black void of water where
the long beam of the searchlight had shifted skyward, as though
supplicating Heaven once more.
Only a miracle could save Karen. He knew that as he stood there, silent,
with death in his heart.
And the miracle happened. For, as he stood staring at the heavenward
beam of the unseen cruiser's searchlight, all at once the ship herself
became grotesquely visible, tilted up oddly out of the sea in the centre
of a dull reddish glow. The next instant a deadened boom sounded across
the night as though from infinite depths; a shaft of fire two hundred
feet high streamed skyward.
"That ship has been torpedoed! Oh, my God!" said a voice.
"The _Wyvern_ has hit a mine!" roared the Dutch captain. "I'm going to
get out of this _now_!"
Jamison's youthful face was marble; he swayed slightly where he stood.
The next instant he was over the side like a cat, and Guild heard him
hailing his boat in an agonized voice which broke with a dry, boyish
sob.
From everywhere out of the blackness searchlights stretched out
tremulous phantom arms toward the _Wyvern_, and their slender white
beams crossed and recrossed each other, focussing on the stricken
warship, which was already down by the stern, her after deck awash, and
that infernal red glow surrounding her like the glow of hell around a
soul in torment.
Passengers, seamen, stewards crowded and crushed him to the rail,
shouting, struggling, crying out in terror or in pity.
Guild caught an officer by his gold sleeve. "We ought to stand by her,"
he said mechanically. "Her magazine is afire!"
"There are boats a-plenty to look after her," returned the officer; "the
British destroyers are all around her like chicks about a dying hen.
She's their parent ship; and there go their boats, pulling hell for
sweeps! God! If it was a mine, I wish we were at Amsterdam, I do!"
The steamer was already under way; electric signals sparkled from her;
signals were sparkling everywhere in the darkness around them. And all
the while the cruiser with her mortal wound, enveloped in her red aura,
agonized there in the horrible sombre radiance of her own burning
vitals.
Far away in the black void a ship began to fire star-shells.
As the awed throng on the moving liner's decks gazed out across the
night, the doomed cruiser split slowly amidships, visibly, showing the
vivid crack of her scarlet, jagged wound. For a second or two she fairly
vomited hell-fire; lay there spouting it out in great crimson gouts;
then she crashed skyward into incandescent fragments like a single
gigantic bomb, and thunderous blackness blotted out sea and sky once
more.
CHAPTER X
FORCE
He knocked sharply at the stateroom door and called, "Karen! It is I!
Open!"
She flung open the door, satchel in hand, and he entered, closed the
door, relocked it, and dropped down on the lounge, staring at space.
"Kervyn! What is it?" she asked faintly, one hand against her breast.
"It is all right," he said--"as far as we are concerned--for the
present, anyway. God! I can't realize it--I can't get over it----"
"What, Kervyn?" she faltered, kneeling on the lounge beside the half
dazed man. "What happened? Why are you so ghastly pale? Are we really
quite safe? Or are you trying to make it easier for me----"
"No; you and I are safe enough for the moment," he said. "But men are
dying out yonder. The sea is full of dead men, Karen. And--I saw it
all."
"I heard guns. What has happened?"
"I don't know. It was a mine perhaps, perhaps a torpedo. A ship has been
blown up." He lifted his head and turned to her: "But you are not to say
such a thing to anybody--after I leave you at Trois Fontaines."
"No, Kervyn."
"Not to anybody. Not even to your father. Do you understand me, Karen?"
"No. But I won't tell anybody."
"Because," he explained wearily, "the Admiralty may have reasons for
concealing it. If they mean to conceal it, this ship of ours will be
stopped again and held for a while in some French or British port."
"Why?"
"So that the passengers cannot talk about what they saw tonight."
His haunted glance fell on the satchel at their feet. "As for that," he
said, "I've had enough of it, and I'll take no further chances. Where
are our passports?"
"Locked in with the other papers. I was all ready to throw them out of
the port when you knocked."
"Unlock the bag now. I'll get rid of the whole business," he said
bluntly.
"Kervyn--I can't do that."
"What?" he exclaimed.
"I can't destroy those papers if there is a chance of getting through
with them. I gave my promise, you know."
The dull surprise in his eyes changed gradually to impatience.
"If another ship stops us, they'll have to go overboard, anyway."
"We may not be stopped again. If we are, we have time."
"Karen."
"Yes--dear?"
A slight flush came into his haggard face; he hesitated, looked up at
her where she was kneeling on the sofa beside him. "Dear," he said
gently, "I have never intended that you should carry those papers to
your father, or to anybody else."
"I don't quite understand you."
"Try to understand. I am a friend to England--even a closer friend
to--Belgium."
"I know. But you are _my_ friend, too."
"Devotedly, Karen." He took hold of her hand; she slipped down to the
sofa and settled there beside him with a little air of confidence which
touched and troubled him.
"I _am_ your friend," he said. "But there is another friendship that
demands first of all the settlement of prior obligations. And, if these
obligations conflict with any others, the others must give way, Karen."
"What do you mean?"
"The obligations of friendship--of--of affection--these must give way
before a duty more imperative."
"What duty?"
"Allegiance."
"To--whom?"
"To the country in which my race had its origin."
"Yes.... But America is neutral, Kervyn."
"I mean--Belgium," he said in a low voice.
"Belgium! Are you then Belgian?" she asked, amazed.
"When Belgium is in trouble--yes."
"How can you be loyal to two countries?"
"By being loyal to my own manhood--and to the God who made me," he
answered in a low voice.
"You feel so deeply about this war?"
"Nothing on earth could stir me as deeply, Karen. Unless--America were
in danger."
"I--I can't understand."
"Let me help you. My family was Belgian. For many years we have been
good and loyal Americans. America means home. But, nevertheless, we
inherit obligations toward the country of our origin which, so far, time
has not extinguished.... When I became of military age I went to Belgium
and served my time in the Belgian army. Then I went--home. My father did
it before me. My grandfather before him. My younger brother will do it,
God willing. It is our custom to fulfill our obligations," he added with
a faint smile, "even when those obligations seem to others a trifle
fanciful and old-fashioned."
She bent her fair head in silence, considering for a space, her hand
resting rather lifelessly in his. And, after a few moments: "But how
does all this interfere with our friendship?" she asked innocently.
"It does not.... Only I could not let you take those papers to Germany,
Karen."
"But I've promised."
"You promised to do it if it were possible." He lifted her hand to his
lips. "But--it has become impossible, Karen."
"Another ship may not interfere."
"No. But I must--interfere."
"You! _Kervyn!_"
"Dear--I _must_."
"_Betray_ me?"
"Karen! Karen! What are you saying?"
"If you take my papers away you betray our friendship!"
"I have told you that there is a higher obligation than friendship. Even
_your_ friendship, Karen."
"You--you mean to take my papers from me?"
"Yes, dear."
"By--by _violence_?"
"Karen! Look at me!"
She gave him a white, breathless glance, wrenched her hand from his,
stooped suddenly, seized the satchel, and, gathering it against her
breast, clasped both arms around it. Then she looked him straight in the
eyes.
"Yes," he said, "that is the only way. You must keep your word to the
last and do your best. Only--remember that what I do now has no bearing
whatever upon our friendship. I--I care for you--at this moment--more
than I ever did. So--forgive me--Karen----"
"I never shall! Kervyn! Kervyn--think what you are doing!----"
He encircled her with his left arm, and with his right hand he gathered
both of her slender wrists in his grasp and held them. The satchel
rolled from her knees to the floor.
"Kervyn!" she cried, "think what you are doing!" She looked up into his
set face where he held her crushed against his shoulder. "I am your
friend. Think what you are doing! I--I care--so much--for you!"
"And I for you, Karen.... Is that the key around your neck on that blue
ribbon?"
"You shall not have it. Oh, Kervyn! Kervyn!" she gasped--"what are you
doing to our friendship! What are you doing!"
[Illustration: "'Kervyn! Kervyn--Think what you are doing!--'"]
The struggle was already over; with his left arm he held both of her
arms pinned tightly to the supple body which lay panting against him,
while with his other hand he untied the narrow blue bow-knot at her
throat and freed the tiny key. Then he released her. They both were
deadly pale. She dropped back among the pillows and lay there staring at
him. There was in the white calm of her face an expression almost
pleasant.
"So--you have done it," she said in a curiously altered voice, but her
lips scarcely moved when she spoke.
He did not answer, but in her level eyes he saw blue lightning glimmer.
"You did your best," he said. "Your conscience is clear. Nobody can
reproach you."
"Do you understand," she said in a low, expressionless voice, "that I am
your enemy?"
"Do you reason that way, Karen?"
"Reason?"
"Yes. Reason it out, Karen, before you come to such a conclusion."
She said, very quietly: "A woman takes a shorter cut to her conclusions
than by reasoning. As I did with you ... when I gave you my friendship
... unasked--" She turned her head swiftly, and sat for a moment while
the starting tears dried in her eyes, unshed. They dried slowly while
the battle raged within her--combat of mind and heart with every
outraged instinct in arms, every emotion, every impulse. Pride, belief,
faith, tenderness--all desperately wounded, fought blindly in the
assault upon her heart, seeming to tear it to a thousand bleeding
fragments.
Perhaps, like the fair body of Osiris, it was immortal--a deathless,
imperishable thing--or that what had come into it had become
indestructible. For, after her heart lay in burning fragments within
her, she turned and looked at him, and in her eyes was all the tragedy
of her sex--and all its never-ending mystery to men.
"I must end what I have begun," he said gently.
"Does it matter, now?"
"I don't know, Karen. I have no choice--even when your hatred threatens
me.... I suppose it will be that, when I unlock your satchel."
He picked it up and fitted the key to the lock. As he opened it, a faint
fresh fragrance came from it, as though he was violating the delicate
intimacy of this young girl herself.
But he set his jaws; she saw the cheek muscles tighten; and he drew from
the satchel two flat envelopes. One contained the forged passports, and
he placed these in his breast pocket, then looked steadily at her.
"Our friendship breaks with those seals," she said unsteadily.
"Karen--I cannot help it."
"Yes, you can help it.... Kervyn!... Wait! I will--will say--that it is
more than friendship that breaks--" She caught her breath and her lip
quivered--"I--I have the courage to say it--if it means anything to
you--if it will help----"
His face reddened, then it grew pallid and expressionless.
"Even that," he said, "must stand aside.... Karen, from the moment I saw
you I have been--in love with you."
And, looking her steadily in the eyes, he broke the seals.
When the last seal broke she gave a little cry, turned and covered her
eyes with both hands.
As for Guild, he stood with a sheet of paper in his hands, staring at
the tracery which covered it and which meant absolutely nothing to him.
Then he looked at the remaining sheets of paper. None had any
significance to him. There were three sheets of thin translucent paper.
These sheets were numbered from one to three.
The first seemed to be a hasty study from some artist's sketch book. It
appeared to be a roughly executed and hasty sketch of several rather
oddly shaped trees--a mere note jotted down to record the impression of
the moment--trees, a foreland, a flight of little hedge birds.
[Illustration]
On it, in English, the artist had written "Sunset." Indeed, the
declining and somewhat archaic sun on the horizon and the obviously
evening flight of the birds seemed to render the label unnecessary.
For a long while Guild stood studying it in the light of the stateroom
ceiling lamp. And what continually arrested his attention and perplexed
him was the unusual shapes of the trees and the un-birdlike flight of
the birds. Also artists don't sketch on such paper.
Now and then he looked across at Karen with an inscrutable expression,
and each time he looked at her his face seemed to grow more rigid and
his set jaws more inflexible.
The girl crouched in the corner of the lounge, her face covered by both
hands and pressed against the pillows.
He did not speak to her. Presently he turned to the next paper. It bore
the rough sketch of a fish, and was numbered 2.
[Illustration]
It was a wretched drawing, intended, evidently, to resemble an old pike
and three young ones. What it meant he had no idea. He passed to the
third and last sheet of paper, and it instantly held his attention.
On it was depicted a figure, which he supposed was the artist's idea of
a Japanese dancing girl. She held a fan in her left hand. Over her
extended right hand a butterfly hovered.
[Illustration]
But what interested and concentrated Guild's attention was not the very
amateurish drawing, but the series of silly decorations on the paper
above her head--a number of quartered circles inclosed in squares and
oblongs.
[Illustration]
As decorations they meant nothing, indicated nothing, except that the
intellect responsible for them must be a meagre one.
But as a cipher message these doubly bisected circles promised anything.
This is what Guild saw and what caused him to seat himself on the sofa
beside the girl who still lay huddled over her pillows, her face hidden
in her hands.
Seated, he drew out the portfolio containing his letters and a notebook.
Then, slipping a lead-pencil from the leather socket and tearing out a
sheet of paper, he started work--using the leather-backed book for a
support--on a cipher which looked to be impossible. Yet, all ciphers are
solved by the same method. And he knew it.
[Illustration]
The first thing he did was to find his "numbers" in the mass of
quartered circles. And, working steadily, swiftly, but intelligently, he
had, in the course of an hour, discovered, separated and jotted down,
nine of the quartered disks which he believed to represent numbers; and
one extra disk which he supposed to be zero. And he numbered each symbol
accordingly: merely eliminating all lines except those bisecting the
smaller circles. This gave him in order
[Illustration]
The next thing to do was to find what letters those numbers, or
combinations of numbers, represented.
For a while he tried English, but arrived at no convincing result. So he
tried German, first making a list of the letters which were likely to
occur most frequently in the written language and then trying them with
the symbols which occurred most frequently in the manuscript before him.
He found that the first symbol represented the figures 21.
[Illustration]
The twenty-first letter of the alphabet is _u_. He wrote it.
The next symbol was
[Illustration]
for which he substituted the figures 14. The fourteenth letter of the
alphabet is _n_. He had, so far, two letters, _u_ and _n_, to experiment
with.
He had sat for several minutes gazing absently at these two letters
when, like a shot, it struck him that the French word for the number,
one, was spelled _un_. Could the key of the cipher be French? He
separated and jotted down the next combination of disks
[Illustration]
which gave him the numbers 19. The nineteenth letter of the alphabet is
_s_. He wrote it.
The next symbol was
[Illustration]
or the figure 9. The ninth letter of the alphabet is _i_.
The next symbol was
[Illustration]
which, translated, gave him 24. The twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet
is _x_.
He now had the letters _s-i-x_. And no sooner had he written them in
order than the word six stared him in the face and he flushed with pure
excitement.
He had now two words, _un_ and _six_. The chances were that he was
somewhere on the right track and he fell to work with a concentration
and ardour which left him oblivious to everything else--to time and
place, and to the silent, motionless little figure huddled over the
pillows beside him.
[Illustration: A Fragment from Guild's Notebook]
At the end of an hour--checked twice--but finally overcoming apparent
defeat, and always following the same method of deduction, he came to an
end of his symbols, and he found the leaf from his notebook was covered
with the following words in order of symbol:
Un, six douze cinq cinq vingt, douze quinz'
vingt-un sept eight, nineteen vingt trois nine douze
douze twenty-five, eight cinq trois eight vingt, six
quinze douze douze quinze vingt-trois, deux nine
eighteen quatre nineteen.
For these numerals spelled out capriciously in either abbreviated French
or English he substituted numbers in the sequence given:
"1--6--12--5--5--20--12--15--21--7--8--19
--23--9--12--12--25--8--5--3--8--20--6--15
--12--12--15--23--2--9--18--4--19."
Then for the figure 1 he wrote the first letter of the alphabet--_A_.
For the number six he wrote the sixth letter of the alphabet _F_. For
the number 12, the twelfth letter of the alphabet _L_.
And when he had written letters for every figure in order given he had
on his sheet of paper
A FLEETLOUGHSWILLYHECHTFOLLOW
BIRDS
After a while he separated the words _A_, _Fleet_, _Follow_, and
_Birds_, leaving the unintelligible sequence of letters
LOUGHSWILLYHECHT.
Out of this, for a long while, he could make nothing, until, by chance,
taking the last five letters together, it suddenly occurred to him that
the German word for pike was HECHT. Then, in a flash, he remembered the
badly drawn picture of a pike and its young. Pike or Hecht, that was one
of the words in all probability. But what _other_ word the word Hecht
represented he could not imagine.
He looked at his notebook again. The letters remaining were LOUGHSWILLY.
They meant absolutely nothing in any language he had even heard of. He
studied what he already had--A Fleet (Blank) Pike Follow Birds. A _pike_
follow _Birds_--_birds_--and swift as lightning a thought struck him
which set him tingling to his finger-tips: somewhere in that rough,
hasty, and apparently innocent sketch in which oddly shaped trees and a
line of little birds figured, lay the key to the whole thing.
He felt it, he _knew_ it. He spread out the drawing on his knees and
studied it with terrible concentration, conscious somehow or other that
something about it, something _in_ it, was vaguely familiar to him.
_What?_ Had he ever before seen another sketch by the same hand? He
could not recollect. It was like millions of rough, hasty sketches
jotted down by painters as notes for their own guidance only and not for
others to see.
What was there about it unusual? The trees? The _shapes_ of the trees.
Ah! he was getting nearer the goal--he realized it, felt it, and,
balked, fell into a mental rage for a moment.
Then his habitual self-command returned; he squared his jaws, gazed
grimly at the trees, and forced himself once more to answer his own
questions.
The shapes of the trees, then, were unusual. He had gotten that far.
What was unusual in their shapes? The trunks and branches? No. The
foliage. No. The outline!
"God!" he whispered. And he had it.
Over the sofa was hanging a map of the British Isles and of the Western
coast of Europe. Dotted lines indicated the course taken by the Holland
Line steamers. He reached up, unhooked it, looked at it, then at the
drawing in his hand.
Then he detached half of the thin sheet of paper on which the sketch was
drawn and laid it over the sketch. Being translucent to the verge of
transparency, he could see the drawing beneath the thin sheet covering
it.
Then, with his pencil, he steadily traced the _outlines_ of the trees.
When he had done this and had removed the sketch from beneath his
tracing-paper he had what he expected--an _outline_ of the British
Isles, the Hebrides, Orkneys, Shetlands; part of the coast of Norway,
the French, Belgian and Dutch coast. Heligoland, and the German coast at
Cuxhaven and Wilhelmshaven.
From the map of the steamship company he carefully filled in boundaries
and a few principal towns, then placing his outline drawing over the
sketch of the trees he drew a dotted line following exactly the flight
of the little birds.
Where that flight terminated he made an arrow, then turned his eyes on
the steamer map to find out where that arrow's point rested.
And there on the Irish coast he saw the name Lough Swilly!
It was the last link!--the last but one.
"A Fleet Lough Swilly. Hecht (Pike) follow birds."
A pike, with little pike following her, was to follow the flight of the
birds--the dotted line on his outline map. The dotted line curved up out
of Cuxhaven, around the Orkneys and Hebrides and into Lough
Swilly--_where there was a fleet_!
[Illustration]
Out of Cuxhaven--_Cuxhaven!_ where lay the German submarines!--A pike,
and young! A parent ship and submarines!
The last link was forged; the chain complete--not quite--not entirely.
The Japanese dancing girl? And under the number of the sketch, 3,--were
three symbols. They were junks with latten sails.
Perhaps there were three Japanese battleships at Lough Swilly. It didn't
matter; the chain was complete enough for him.
CHAPTER XI
STRATEGY
As he rose from the sofa, stretching his arms to ease his cramped
muscles, Guild became conscious that he was very tired.
He had had little sleep the night before and none at all this night. He
glanced at his watch; it was four o'clock in the morning. He went to the
port, unscrewed it, and looked out into pitch darkness. There was not a
light to be seen on the sea, no flare from any headland, no spark which
might indicate a lighthouse, not a star overhead, not a sparkle save for
the splintered reflection of the vessel's own lights running over the
water alongside, through which foaming, curling waves raced and fled
away into the black obscurity astern.
He turned and looked gravely at Karen. The girl still lay unstirring
among the pillows on the sofa. One arm covered her head as though to
shield it from some blow.
He bent beside her, listening to her breathing. It was quiet and
regular, and on her cheek was a flush like the delicate colour of a
sleeping child.
He had no mind to disturb her, yet he could not make her more
comfortable without awaking her.
All he dared do was to unbutton her spats very cautiously, and slip off
the little brown suede shoes.
Over her he laid the blankets from the bed, lightly, then opened wide
the port.
His own toilet for the night was even simpler; he folded together the
batch of damning papers, originals, his own notes, the forged passports,
strapped them with an elastic band, buttoned them inside his breast
pocket, reached over and extinguished the electric globe, and, fully
dressed, lay down on the stripped bed in darkness.
They had been traveling sixteen hours. Allowing for their detention by
the ill-omened _Wyvern_, they should dock at Amsterdam in five or six
hours more.
He tried to sleep; but his nerves were very much alive and his excited
brain refused to subscribe to the body's fatigue.
All that had happened since he first saw Karen Girard he now went
over and over in his mind in spite of himself. He strove to stop
thinking, and could not; and sometimes the lurid horror of the
_Wyvern_ possessed him with all its appalling details made plain to
his imagination--details not visible from the liner's decks, yet perhaps
the more ghastly because hidden by distance and by the infernal glare
that fringed the doomed ship like a very nimbus from hell itself.
This obsessed him, and the villainous information which he had wrested
from the papers which this young girl had been carrying--information
amply sufficient to convict her and to make inevitable the military
execution of the man Grätz and the grinning chauffeur, Bush.
And if the wretched maid, Anna, had been arrested with papers similar to
these on her person, her case, too, was hopeless. Because the very
existence of England depended upon extinguishing forever people who
dealt in secret information like that which lay folded and buttoned
under his belted coat of tweed.
He knew it, knew what his fate must have been had the satchel been
searched on Fresh Wharf--knew what Karen's fate must have been, also,
surely, surely!
And had those papers been taken aboard the _Wyvern_ it had not been very
long before the simplicity of the cipher had been discovered by anybody
trained in code work.
For, in spite of its surface complexity, the cipher was a singularly
simple one, even a stupid code, based on simple principles long known
and understood in all of their hundreds of variations.
And all such ciphers, granted time and patience, could be solved by the
same basic principles. The only function of that kind of code was to so
multiply its intricacies and variations that, with a time limit for
delivery understood, measures could be taken at the other end to
minimize the effect of discovery, the elapsing of the time limit serving
as an automatic warning that message or messenger were under forcible
detention within the enemy's lines.
Yes, it had been a stupid cipher, and an easy one.
A trained man would have solved it in half the time he had required.
Nothing about the message remained really obscure except the Japanese
dancing girl playing with her butterfly and fan, and the lack of
information concerning the "fleet" at anchor or cruising near "Lough
Swilly" on the Irish coast.
As far as the fleet was concerned, Guild was very confident that he
understood. The whereabouts of the British battleship fleet was not
known, had been carefully guarded. Without a doubt Lough Swilly was its
rendezvous; and the German spy system in England had discovered it and
was sending the information to Berlin with a suggestion that submarines
"follow the birds," i. e., take that dotted course around the northern
Scottish coast, slip south into Lough Swilly, and attack the first line
of battle squadron where it had been supposed to lurk in safety,
awaiting its call to action. That was as clear as daylight, but the
Japanese figure he could not understand.
* * * * *
He was utterly unable to sleep. After an hour's staring into the
darkness he rose cautiously, opened the stateroom door and stepped into
the lighted corridor.
Here he lighted a cigarette against regulations and began to pace up and
down.
Presently the sharp nose of a steward detected the aroma of tobacco, and
he came prowling into the corridor.
So Guild nodded and tossed the cigarette out of the open port at the end
of the corridor.
"We ought to dock by nine," he said.
"About nine, sir."
"We're lucky to have run afoul of nothing resembling a mine."
"God, sir! Wasn't it awful about the _Wyvern_! I expect some passenger
steamer will get it yet. Mines by the hundreds are coming ashore on the
coast of Holland."
"Have you had any news by wireless?" asked Guild.
"A little, sir. They've been fighting all night south of Ostend. Also,
we had a wire from London that a German light cruiser, the
_Schmetterling_, is at Valparaiso, and that a Japanese cruiser, the
_Geisha_, and a French one, the _Eventail_, have been ordered after
her."
Guild nodded carelessly, stretched his arms, yawned, and returned to the
stateroom, knowing that now, at last, he was in possession of every item
in the secret document.
For the Japanese dancing girl was the _Geisha_, the fan in her hand was
the French cruiser _Eventail_ and the butterfly fluttering about her was
the German light cruiser _Schmetterling_--which in that agreeable
language means "butterfly," and which no doubt had made an attempt upon
the _Geisha_ and had been repulsed.
And this warning was sent that the _Schmetterling_ had better keep her
distance, because the _Eventail_ had now joined the Japanese ship, and
the two meant mischief.
As for the drawing of the Pike, perhaps on the German naval list there
might have been a vessel named the _Hecht_. He did not know. The symbol
of the most ferocious fresh-water fish in Europe was sufficient to
indicate the nature of the craft even had the flight of the "birds" not
made it unmistakable. There could be no doubt about it that the Hecht
with the three little Hechts following had been explicitly invited to
cruise in the North Sea and have a look-in at Lough Swilly. And that was
quite enough to understand.
* * * * *
He turned on the cabin light, went to Karen's side and looked at her.
She had moved, but only in her sleep apparently. The back of one hand
lay across her forehead; her face was turned upward, and on the flushed
cheeks there were traces of tears.
But she still slept. He arranged her coverings again, stood gazing at
her for a moment more, then he extinguished the light and once more lay
down on the bare mattress, using his arm for a pillow.
But sleep eluded him for all his desperate weariness. He thought of
Grätz and of Bush and of the wretched woman involved by them and now a
prisoner.
The moment he turned over these papers to the British Consul in
Amsterdam the death warrant of Grätz and Bush was signed. He knew that.
He knew also that the papers in his possession were going to be
delivered to British authority. But first he meant to give Grätz and
Bush a sporting chance to clear out.
Not because they had aided him. They cared nothing about him. It was
Karen they had aided, and their help was given to her because of von
Reiter.
No, it was not in him to do the thing that way. Had he been a British
officer on duty it had been hard enough to do such a thing.
As it was he must give them their chance and he knew of only one way to
do it. This point settled he dismissed it from his mind and, with a
slight sigh, permitted his harassed thoughts to lead him where they
seemed always now inclined to lead him when permitted--back to the young
girl he had known only a few hours, but in whose company it seemed to
him that he had already lived a century.
He was not a man given to easy friendships, not a man in whom sensations
were easily stirred. Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, neither the
youthful beauty of this girl, nor her talents and accomplishments had
stirred him to more than an amiably impersonal interest. He had known
many women and had been friends with a few. But on his part the
friendships had not been sentimental.
Women of all sorts and conditions he had known: fashionable idlers,
professional women, domesticated women; women with ideas, women without
them, busy women with leisure for mischief, mischievous women whose
business was leisure, happy women, unhappy ones, calm ones, restless
ones, clever ones, stupid ones and their even more irritating sisters
who promised to amount to something and never did, all these varieties
of the species he had known, but never a woman like this.
Usually he could place a woman after seeing her move and hearing her
speak. He could only place Karen on a social par with any woman he had
ever known, and he was afraid she didn't belong there, because well-born
German Mädchens don't interne themselves in nun-like seclusion far from
Vaterland, Vater, and maternal apron-strings, with intervals of sallying
forth into the world for a few months' diversion as a professional
actress on the stage.
At least Guild had never heard of any girls who did such things. But
there remained the chance, of course, that Karen Girard was a perfectly
new type to him.
One fact was evident; her father was a Prussian officer and belonged to
the Prussian aristocracy. But gentlemen of these castes do not permit
their daughters the freedom that Karen enjoyed.
There was a mystery about the matter, probably not an agreeable one.
Antecedents, conditions and facts did not agree. There was no logic in
her situation.
Guild realized this. And at the same time he realized that he had never
liked any woman as much--had never come to care for any woman as easily,
as naturally, and as quickly as he had come to care for Karen Girard.
It stirred him now to remember that this young girl had responded,
frankly, fearlessly, naturally; had even met him more than half-way with
a sweet sincerity and confidence that touched him again as he thought of
it.
Truly he had never looked into such honest eyes, or into lovelier
ones,--two clear, violet wells of light. And Truth, who abides in wells,
could not have chosen for her dwelling place habitations more suitable.
She seemed to possess all qualities as well as all accomplishments and
graces of mind and body. The quality of courage was hers--a courage
adorable in its femininity. But there was nothing hard about it, only
firmness--like the white firmness of her skin. And her intuitive
generosity was as quick and melting as the exquisite motives which
prompted it.
Never could he forget that in the dreadful peril of the moment, she had
tried to give him a chance to escape the consequences of his
companionship with her,--had tried to send him ashore at the last moment
so that she alone might remain to face whatever there was confronting
her.
It was a brave thing to do, generous, self-forgetful, merciful, and
finely just. For though she had not tried to deceive him she had
gradually realized that she herself might be deceived, and that she was
in honour bound to warn him concerning her suspicions of the satchel's
contents.
And now--in the end--and after danger was practically over, how did they
stand, he and she? How had they emerged from the snarl of circumstances?
Had his gentle violence killed forever a very wonderful beginning of
what they both had spoken of as friendship? And she--he reddened in the
darkness as he remembered--she had begged him in the name of friendship
not to violate it--had spoken of it, in the excitement of emotion, as
_more_ than friendship.
It had been the most difficult thing he ever had had to do.
Was it true that her friendship had turned to hatred?
He wondered, wondered at the dull unhappiness which the thought brought
with it. And, wondering, fell asleep.
* * * * *
In the grey of dawn Karen sat up, wide-eyed, still tremulous from the
dream of death that had awakened her.
Through the open port a grey sky glimmered. She rose to her knees and
gazed out upon a grey waste of water heaving to the horizon.
Then she turned and looked across at the bed where Guild lay, his blond
head cradled on one arm, asleep.
Her eyes rested on him a long while. Then she caught sight of her shoes
and spats on the floor--looked down at the blankets and covers that had
kept her warm. The next moment her eyes fell on her satchel where it
stood open, the key still in the lock, and her silver toilet articles
glimmering dully inside.
The vague tenderness in her blue eyes vanished; _he_ had done _this_,
too!--shamefully, by force, treading mercilessly on the frail bud of
friendship--ignoring everything, sacrificing everything to a dull,
obstinate determination which he had characterized as duty.
She turned and looked at the man who had done all this, her eyes darkly
beautiful, her lips stern.
Duty? He had not considered the duty she owed. He had not respected her
promise to bring back what had been intrusted to her. And when the
discussion had tired him--when her warnings, pleadings--even her appeals
in the name of the first friendship she had ever given--had been
ignored, he had coolly used violence.
Yes, violence, although, perhaps, the violence had not been very
violent. But it was force--and hateful to her who never before had been
obliged to endure the arrogance which her caste only knew how to
dispense.
"So brauch' Ich Gewalt!" kept ringing in her ears like a very obsession
as she knelt there, sitting back on her own supple limbs, and watching
the sleeping man out of beautiful hostile eyes.
_That_ man! That _American_--or Belgian--whatever he was--with his clear
grey eyes and his short yellow hair and that mouth of his which could be
faintly humorous at times and, at times be so ugly and set--what was
there about him that she liked--or rather _had_ liked?
Not his features; they were only passable from an ornamental point of
view--not his lean but powerful figure, which resembled many other
figures she had seen in England--not his manner particularly--at least
she had seen more deferential attitudes, more polish of the courtly and
continental sort, more empressement.
_What_ was it she liked,--had _once_ liked in this man? Nothing!
_Nothing!_--the tears suddenly glimmered in her eyes and she winked them
dry, angrily.
And to think--to remember in years to come that she--_she_ had pleaded
with that man in the name of friendship--and of something _more_ than
friendship!--The hot colour mantled face and throat and she covered her
eyes in a sudden agony of mortification.
For a few moments she remained so, then her hands fell, helplessly
again.
And, as she knelt there looking at him through the increasing daylight,
suddenly her eyes narrowed, and her set face grew still and intent.
Crowding out of the shallow breast pocket of his Norfolk where he lay
were papers. _Her_ papers!
The next instant, lithely, softly, soundlessly on her unshod feet, she
had slipped from the lounge and crossed the stateroom to his side, and
her fingers already touched the edges of the packet.
Her papers! And her hand rested on them. But she did not take them.
There was something about the stealth of the act that checked
her,--something that seemed foreign, repugnant to her nature.
Breathless, her narrow hand poised, she hesitated, trying to remember
that the papers were hers--striving to aid herself with the hot and
shameful memory of the violence he had offered her.
Why couldn't she take them? This man and she were now at war! War has
two phases, violence and strategy. Both are legitimate; he had played
his part, and this part was strategy. Why shouldn't she play that part?
Why?
But her hand wavered, fell away, and she looked down into his sleeping
face and knew that she could not do it.
After a moment his eyes opened and met hers, pleasantly.
She blushed to her hair.
He said: "Why didn't you take them, Karen?"
"You couldn't understand if I told you," she said with youthful
bitterness.
He looked very grave at that. She turned, picked up shoes and spats, and
seated herself on the sofa.
So he got up, opened the door and went up on deck, leaving her the
stateroom to herself.
At the office of the wireless station the operator seemed to have no
objection to sending a message for him to the British Consul in
Amsterdam, and obligingly looked up the address. So Guild sent his
message and prepaid reply.
Then he went into the smoking-room and lit a cigarette.
He was dozing when a steward awoke him with a reply to his wireless
message:
Kervyn Guild
On board S. S. _Feyenoord_
Will call at American Consulate. Many thanks.
CHURCHILL, Consul.
He sat thinking for a few minutes. Then remembering that he did not know
where the American Consul was to be found, he went again to the wireless
office and procured the address.
Turning, as he was leaving, to thank the boyish operator, he found that
youth's shrewd eyes fixed on him intently.
"Look out, sir," said the operator, in perfectly good English. "There's
a lot o' talk about you on board."
"What do you mean?"
"Wasn't it you the _Wyvern_ was wanting?"
"Yes."
"You're friendly to us, I take it?"
"Do you mean to England?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, I am."
"I fancied so. Be very careful aboard this boat, sir. Half the crew and
most of the stewards are German."
"Thanks," said Guild smilingly.
But as he walked slowly away he realized rather uneasily what an object
of interest he had become to the personnel of the ship since the
_Wyvern_ had honoured him by her wireless inquiries concerning him.
CHAPTER XII
IN THE RAIN
He went straight to the writing-room. Only one or two of his
fellow-passengers were up, and he had the place to himself.
He wrote first:
W. A. Churchill, Esquire,
British Consulate,
Plantage Middenlaan 20,
Amsterdam,
Holland
SIR:
The following items of information should be immediately
transmitted to your home Government. The importance of the
matters in question admit of no delay.
1st. It has come to my knowledge that German spies in England
have discovered the whereabouts of a British fleet--presumably
the first line battle fleet--and have attempted to communicate
the intelligence to Berlin. One document in cipher embodying
this intelligence has been intercepted and translated. But other
communications in cipher may get through.
2d. Another document of the same sort advises the Berlin
Government to send from Cuxhaven a cruiser (parent ship) as
convoy to three submarines for the purpose of attacking the
British armoured ships.
The rendezvous of the British ships, as given in the cipher
message, is Lough Swilly, North Irish coast.
The route suggested for the German cruiser and submarines is
around the north coast of Scotland.
3d. Still a third document in cipher informs the German
Government that the light cruiser, _Schmetterling_, at or off
Valparaiso, is being pursued by the Japanese ship _Geisha_ and
the French gunboat _Eventail_.
4th. The fourth and last item of information to be transmitted
to your Government concerns an actuality witnessed by myself and
by the majority of the passengers of this steamer, now docking
at Rotterdam.
Last night, somewhere between eleven o'clock and midnight, and
somewhere off the Belgian coast, H. M. S. _Wyvern_ was blown up,
whether by mine or torpedo or by a bomb from some unseen
air-craft I do not know. She was using her searchlight on the
clouds at the time.
The ship was tilted out of the water at an odd angle when the
red glare that suddenly enveloped her made her visible. It
appears to me as though some submarine convulsion had heaved her
up out of the sea.
There was one of her officers aboard our liner when the
catastrophe occurred--Lieutenant Jamison. A boat's crew lay
alongside of us. With these exceptions it does not seem probable
that anybody aboard the _Wyvern_ could have escaped death,
although other ships were in the vicinity and their searchlights
played upon her, and I saw small boats on the way to her before
she finally blew to pieces.
This is the information which both duty and inclination impel me
to place at the disposal of the British Government.
Permit me to add that I am leaving in the hands of the United
States consul, Henry H. Morgan, Esquire, a separate packet of
papers containing full corroboration of the foregoing details.
The packet is addressed to you in his care, but he will be
instructed to give you this letter, only, and not to deliver the
packet to you until a week from today for reasons which I cannot
explain.
The packet contains--
1st. Three pages of cipher and pictographs employed by the
German spy system in London.
2d. A key to the cipher.
3d. A key to the pictographs.
4th. A full translation of the cipher.
5th. A translation of the pictographs.
6th. A map.
The German personage to whom the packet was originally
addressed, the names and addresses of those who sent it from
London, the circumstances under which it was intercepted, will
be written out with what detail is necessary, and will be
contained in the packet with the original cipher.
In one week from today the American Consul, Mr. Morgan, will
deliver to you this packet, but under no circumstances is it to
be delivered before a week from today.
I have the honour to be, sir, with great respect,
Your obt. serv't,
KERVYN GUILD.
Union square, New York.
This letter he sealed, addressed, and laid aside.
He then wrote to the American Consulate, addressing the note to the
Consul and Vice-Consul, saying that he committed to their care--
1st. A letter to be called for immediately by the
British Consul in person, and so marked.
2d. A packet addressed to the British Consul,
but not to be delivered until a week had expired.
3d. A letter to be sent to the United States
Consul General in London with all speed.
4th. A telegram to be sent to Edmeston Automobile
Agency in London.
5th. A letter to the same agency.
He then wrote out his telegram, wondering whether the United States
Consul could put it through:
Edmeston Agency,
White Hood Lane,
London, E. C.
Business of instant importance requires you all
to leave for Holland immediately. Lose no time.
Signed--RIDER.
Holland Line S. S. _Feyenoord_.
The letter was directed to the Edmeston Agency:
DEAR SIRS:
Grätz and Bush must leave at once if they wish to enjoy the
fishing here. The _pike_ are biting. _Four have been caught. The
shooting, also, is excellent. Eight birds were killed
yesterday._ If Grätz and Bush do not leave within a week
business in London is likely to detain them indefinitely and
they will miss their holiday with little chance for another.
Tell them to take the urgent advice of a sportsman and clear out
while they have the chance.
Yours with good intentions,
D. BROWN SATCHELL.
While Guild was busy writing and consigning what he had written to
separate envelopes, he was aware of considerable movement and noise
outside on deck--the passing to and fro of many people, whistle blasts
from other craft--in fact, all the various species of bustle and noise
which, aboard any steamer, indicate its approach to port.
He raised his head and tried to see, but it was still raining and the
air was dull with fog.
Passengers, stewards, and officers came and went, passing through the
writing-room where he sat in a corner sorting and sealing his letters.
Twice, glancing up over his shoulder, he noticed a steward cleaning up,
dusting and arranging the pens, ink, and writing paper on the several
tables near by--one of those too busy and officious functionaries whose
zeal for tips usually defeats its own ends.
And so it happened this time, for, as Guild, intent on what he was
writing, reached out absently for another envelope, a package of them
was thrust into his hand with a bustling, obsequious--"Paper, sir! Yes,
sir"--Beg pardon, sir! I'm sorry!"--For somehow the inkwell had been
upset and the pile of letters scattered over the floor.
"Damn it!" said Guild savagely, springing back to avoid the streaming
ink.
The steward appeared to be overwhelmed; down he flopped on his knees to
collect the letters, hopping up at intervals to sop the flowing flood of
ink from the desk.
Guild took the letters from him grimly, counted the sealed envelopes,
then without a word went to the neighbouring desk, and, sitting down
there, wrote on the last sealed envelope not yet addressed--the envelope
which contained the cipher code, translation, and the information
concerning the Edmeston Company. When he had written on it: "To be
delivered to the British Consul in a week," he gathered all the letters,
placed them in his breast pocket, buttoned his coat, and went out. For
half an hour he walked to and fro under the shelter of the roofed deck,
glancing absently across the rail where there was nothing to see except
grey mist, grey water, and rain.
After he had enough of this he went below.
Karen was not in the cabin, but her luggage stood there beside his own.
He had plenty of time to make a decent toilet; he bathed, shaved, chose
fresh linen, brushed his wrinkled tweeds as thoroughly as he could,
then, leaving the luggage there he went away in search of Karen with a
view to breakfast.
He found her on the starboard deck very comfortably established. The
idiot deck steward who had upset his ink-well and scattered his letters
was serving her obsequiously with marmalade.
As Guild approached Karen looked up at him coolly enough, though a
bright colour surged into her face. The steward bustled away to find
more coffee and rolls.
"Do you feel rested at all?" asked Guild pleasantly.
"Yes, thank you."
"May I take the next chair and have breakfast with you?"
"Yes, please."
He seated himself. She said nothing, ate nothing. Suddenly it occurred
to him that in her quaint way she was waiting for his breakfast to
appear before beginning her own.
"You are not waiting for me, are you?" he asked. "Don't do that;
everything will be cold."
With an odd air of old-fashioned obedience, which always seemed to make
her more youthful to him, she began her breakfast.
"We'll be docking presently," he remarked, glancing out into the fog and
thinly falling rain.
"Yes."
He lay back in his chair, not caring for her monosyllables, but
good-humouredly receptive in case she encouraged conversation.
Neither the freshness of her clothes nor of her skin seemed to have
suffered from the discomforts of the night; her hair was lustrous and
crisply in order. From her hat-crown to the palms of her gloves rolled
back over her wrists, she seemed to have just left the hands of a clever
maid, so fresh, sweet, fragrant and immaculate she appeared to him, and
he became uncomfortably conscious of his knickerbockers and badly
wrinkled tweeds.
The same fool of a steward brought his coffee. And as Karen
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